The choice to become a writer is not always a deliberate one. Yes, there are those who, through inspiration from other writers, choose to enter the ring and experience what it means to put words together. Others are pushed into it by an obsession with reading; some of the ideas they get from books begin to compel them to write. Yet others become writers by virtue of their profession and/or occupation.
Irrespective of the reason(s) that make someone a writer, it often takes acknowledgment from readers and even encouragement from them for someone to attain the level of a prolific writer. From the moment your writing is acknowledged, critiqued, and people strongly urge you to continue until you become established, you sign up for what you may not have bargained for at all.
On my personal journey, I was deeply inspired and later mentored by Dr. Steve Ogidan when we were both students at the College. He was two years ahead of me, but the rate at which he churned out articles made my spine ache. Then, one day, I summoned the courage to step into his shoes, not minding whether I would be swallowed by it. I started with him on a draft. He read it, guided me, and still guides me to this day.
Each writer most often decides what area of life appeals to them to write about. My initial fortress was mainly social justice, greatly influenced by my father, of blessed memory, and most profoundly by ๐๐๐ญ๐๐ซ ๐๐๐ซ๐๐ก๐๐ฆ๐ฌ’ ๐๐ข๐ง๐ ๐๐จ๐ฒ.
Way back in college, I wrote about issues affecting students, school authorities, the college administration, societal ills, and whatever those represented. It was simply a passion to lend a voice and offer solutions, even if they were not always optimal, at least to engage rational minds in making the environment a much better place to live. It was fun, yet I approached it with a strong sense of responsibility.
๐ ๐ซ๐๐๐๐ข๐ฏ๐๐ ๐ ๐จ๐จ๐ ๐๐จ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐๐ง๐๐๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง๐ฌ, ๐ญ๐ก๐จ๐ฎ๐ ๐ก ๐๐ฏ๐๐ง ๐ฌ๐จ๐ฆ๐ ๐จ๐ ๐ฆ๐ฒ ๐๐ฅ๐จ๐ฌ๐ ๐๐ซ๐ข๐๐ง๐๐ฌ ๐ฅ๐๐ฆ๐๐๐ฌ๐ญ๐๐ ๐ฆ๐. ๐๐ง๐ ๐๐๐๐ฎ๐ฌ๐๐ ๐ฆ๐ ๐จ๐ ๐ฌ๐๐๐ค๐ข๐ง๐ ๐๐ก๐๐๐ฉ ๐ฉ๐จ๐ฉ๐ฎ๐ฅ๐๐ซ๐ข๐ญ๐ฒ. ๐ ๐๐ฌ๐ค๐๐ ๐ก๐ข๐ฆ ๐ญ๐ก๐๐ง: ๐ข๐ ๐ฆ๐ฒ ๐ข๐ง๐ญ๐๐ง๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง ๐ฐ๐๐ฌ ๐ญ๐จ ๐ฌ๐๐๐ค ๐ฉ๐จ๐ฉ๐ฎ๐ฅ๐๐ซ๐ข๐ญ๐ฒ, ๐๐ข๐ญ๐ก๐๐ซ ๐๐ก๐๐๐ฉ ๐จ๐ซ ๐๐ฑ๐ฉ๐๐ง๐ฌ๐ข๐ฏ๐, ๐ฐ๐ก๐ฒ ๐ฐ๐๐ฌ ๐ ๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ ๐ฉ๐๐ง ๐ง๐๐ฆ๐ ๐ฎ๐ง๐ญ๐ข๐ฅ ๐ฌ๐จ๐ฆ๐๐จ๐ง๐ ๐๐ฏ๐๐ง๐ญ๐ฎ๐๐ฅ๐ฅ๐ฒ ๐๐ฅ๐๐ฐ ๐ฆ๐ฒ ๐๐จ๐ฏ๐๐ซ? ๐๐ ๐๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ๐ฌ๐, ๐ก๐ ๐๐จ๐ฎ๐ฅ๐ ๐ง๐จ๐ญ ๐๐ง๐ฌ๐ฐ๐๐ซ ๐ญ๐ก๐๐ญ.
You may think you are just a writer, but others may perceive you as a social crusader.
๐ ๐ก๐๐ ๐๐ง ๐๐๐ซ๐ฅ๐ฒ ๐๐๐ฉ๐ญ๐ข๐ฌ๐ฆ ๐ข๐ง๐ญ๐จ ๐ญ๐ก๐๐ญ ๐ซ๐๐๐ฅ๐ข๐ญ๐ฒ.
Let me share the story briefly.
๐๐๐๐ค ๐ข๐ง ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐๐๐ฒ๐ฌ ๐๐ญ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐ซ๐๐ฅ ๐๐จ๐ฅ๐ฅ๐๐ ๐ ๐จ๐ ๐๐๐ฎ๐๐๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง, ๐ฐ๐ ๐๐ญ๐ ๐๐ซ๐๐ ๐๐จ๐จ๐ ๐ฎ๐ง๐ญ๐ข๐ฅ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐๐ฎ๐ก๐๐ซ๐ข ๐ฆ๐ข๐ฅ๐ข๐ญ๐๐ซ๐ฒ ๐ซ๐๐ ๐ข๐ฆ๐ ๐๐๐๐ข๐๐๐ ๐ญ๐จ ๐ฉ๐ฎ๐ญ ๐ ๐ฌ๐ญ๐จ๐ฉ ๐ญ๐จ ๐ข๐ญ.
On one fateful afternoon, when rice and chicken were served, the queue was extraordinarily long. I had gone somewhere with a friend to prepare stencils for the bi-weekly magazine of the Writers and Reporters Association (WRA), so by the time I got to the cafeteria, it had become almost impossible to endure. As I surveyed the hall, a friend beckoned to me to come over. He was already close to the serving point. Without thinking much about it, I accepted the offer.
Just as I was about to cut in line, someone pulled me back.
๐๐ข๐ญ๐ก ๐๐ง ๐ฎ๐ง๐ฌ๐ฆ๐ข๐ฅ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐๐๐๐, ๐๐ง ๐๐ค๐๐ง๐-๐๐จ๐ซ๐ง ๐ซ๐๐๐ข๐๐๐ฅ ๐ฌ๐ญ๐ฎ๐๐๐ง๐ญ ๐ญ๐จ๐ฅ๐ ๐ฆ๐ ๐๐ฆ๐ฉ๐ก๐๐ญ๐ข๐๐๐ฅ๐ฅ๐ฒ, “๐๐ซ. ๐๐ซ๐ข๐ญ๐๐ซ, ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ ๐๐๐ง๐ง๐จ๐ญ ๐ฃ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฉ ๐ญ๐ก๐ข๐ฌ ๐ช๐ฎ๐๐ฎ๐. ๐๐จ๐ฎ ๐ฐ๐ซ๐ข๐ญ๐ ๐๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ญ๐ข๐ฆ๐ ๐๐๐จ๐ฎ๐ญ ๐ฌ๐จ๐๐ข๐๐ฅ ๐ฃ๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ญ๐ข๐๐. ๐๐ข๐ง๐๐ฅ๐ฒ ๐ ๐จ ๐๐๐๐ค ๐ญ๐จ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐๐ง๐ ๐จ๐ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ช๐ฎ๐๐ฎ๐.”
I was transfixed on the spot. All eyes turned on me, and I quietly went back to the end of the queue. Needless to say, before it got to my turn, the food had been exhausted. No lunch for me, despite having gone to work in the interest of the public, so to speak.
But there was a great lesson for me, and I am grateful to have learned it so early. There is no hiding place for a writer. The onus is on me now to conduct all my affairs with decorum, even if I have to miss some opportunities.
๐ ๐ฆ๐ข๐ฌ๐ฌ๐๐ ๐๐ซ๐๐ ๐ซ๐ข๐๐ ๐๐ง๐ ๐๐ก๐ข๐๐ค๐๐ง.
The question then is this: if writers are held accountable for their actions and inactions, can they really be restrained from minding other people’s business? Are writers not, by their very nature, supposed to be observers of society?
Tell me, should writers mind their business or continue to write whatever they observe, so long as objectivity is not compromised?
What are your thoughts?
ยฉTheVillageBoy.
(๐๐ก๐ ๐๐ข๐ ๐ฎ๐ซ๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ง ๐ฐ๐ก๐จ ๐ฅ๐จ๐ฏ๐๐ฌ ๐๐ฅ๐ฉ๐ก๐๐๐๐ญ๐ฌ)