My
Journey as a Writer: Pick Up Your Pen and Start Writing
By
Nightengale Ben-Onyeukwu
The evening was warm and beautiful as I returned home
from school. Shedding my jacket, I entered my father’s bedroom, where he sat
engrossed in his writing at the study desk. Oblivious to my presence, he
remained deep in thought.
‘Dad, would you like achara
tea?’ I asked, wearing a smile.
Startled, my father scolded me for interrupting him.
‘Can’t you see I’m working?’ His serious demeanour always accompanied his writing
sessions.
‘Mum asked me to bring it to you,’ I explained, walking
over and placing the tea by his mouse. Playfully, I flicked his head with my
fingers. ‘As the younger version of you, I have the right to distract you a
little.’ Glancing at the scattered sheets of paper on the table, I sighed. ‘Are
you hungry?’ I enquired, realising that his focus on his book, “Christian
Behaviour in Politics,” had likely caused him to forget his food, which had now
grown cold. I noticed his computer was shut down, understanding his preference
for pen and paper before typing.
A slight smile curved my father’s lips as he lifted the
mug to his mouth. ‘I can see your mission today is to distract me,’ he
remarked, taking a sip of tea.
Once he finished his tea, I picked up the empty mug, ready
to leave. However, my father’s words halted me before reaching the door.
‘You know how much I dislike being disturbed when I’m
writing,’ he spoke calmly, indicating his desire for a conversation. Eager to
learn from him as both a skilled writer and teacher, I turned to face him.
‘Yes, I understand that whenever you’re writing, you
prefer not to be interrupted,’ I acknowledged.
‘I’d rather have my sleep disrupted than my writing. You
should know that,’ he continued. ‘Good writing requires creativity, and
creativity requires space for deep thinking. I can’t think clearly if I’m
constantly interrupted. If my thoughts are muddled, my writing suffers. Even a
small distraction from you can obliterate the momentum I have in writing this
book. Yes, I often start with a rough draft, but when it’s time to organise my
ideas, I refer back to the outline in that draft. Once the flow is disrupted,
it may never return the same way. The next time I continue writing, the new
ideas may come out differently, for better or worse. That’s why one should
never disturb someone who is working with their mind. They need that
uninterrupted time for brainstorming. Writing a rough draft is indeed crucial
for capturing initial thoughts and ideas on paper, and I wholeheartedly agree
with that sentiment. But when you try to expand upon those ideas and lose your
creative flow due to noise or distraction, it may be challenging to recover...
That’s why I prefer to write in complete silence, whether it’s here at home or anywhere
else.’
My father’s words resonated with me. I recalled a time
when I was writing my first short story in my stuffy room. Thoughts were
flowing, and I felt an immense joy. However, my sister barged in, talking
loudly. The moment I heard her voice, all my writing zeal evaporated. Instead
of persevering, unsure of what to write anymore, I closed my notebook and
sought solace under the guava tree outside. I hoped the gentle breeze would
rejuvenate me and bring back my thoughts, but they never returned the same way.
It took several days for my inspiration to resurface, and even then, it arrived
in a different form.
‘I’m sorry,’ I apologised gently, recognisng the impact
of my actions.
My father shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sometimes, I don’t
mind the noise, as long as it doesn’t distract my thoughts...’ He chuckled.
I chuckled as well, my gaze sweeping the room. Next to
his study desk, there was a table covered with books, files, and papers. In
fact, his bedroom housed numerous books, arranged meticulously in a way that
fascinated me. Anyone attempting to organise a home library would envy the
arrangement of those books. However, I was always hesitant to touch them,
fearing a sudden collapse that would require hours to fix. Thankfully, my
mother was always there to restore order when such mishaps occurred.
My father was an avid reader, always immersing himself in
books when he wasn’t writing. He treated his books with tender care, especially
their spines. He despised seeing them scribbled on, folded in half, or tainted
with dust.
I’m not sure where my father’s love for books and writing
originated, but I know that I inherited mine from him. Just as he treated his
books with reverence, I shared the same sentiment. I disliked breaking the
spine of any book and avoided folding pages while reading.
‘Have you finished the story you told me about?’ my
father asked.
‘No,’ I shook my head. ‘I lost concentration.’ I walked
closer to my father.
He leaned back, chuckling. His well-shaved beard and red
shirt exuded a refined aura, and apart from the sprinkling of white hair, one
could mistake him for someone in their early forties. He noticed my gaze
resting on the newspaper he had bought earlier from a vendor. Handing it to me,
he said, ‘Would you like to read this? I’ve read all that interested me for
now.’
Gratefully, I accepted the newspaper. ‘Thank you, Dad. I
don’t usually buy newspapers because they’re expensive,’ I laughed, scanning
its pages. ‘I want to be a great writer, just like you...’
My father smiled. ‘Writers don’t focus on the cost; they
value the message the story conveys. As a younger version of me, you should
understand that sometimes we lose our way in writing, while other times the
words flow effortlessly,’ he spoke in a soft tone. ‘Our moods can often
influence what we write... Reading will help you become a better writer. I have
plenty of books; you can read them when you have spare time. Pay attention to
the grammar used and apply it to your own writing... Your reading life should
always complement your writing life.’ Pausing for a moment, my father
continued, ‘We write to be heard, to have a voice, to express our thoughts, to
evoke emotions, to give a voice to the voiceless. Writing empowers us to
create. Don’t be afraid or frustrated if your ideas don’t immediately come
together. Just write them down. When you return to them later, you’ll be able
to connect the dots. Sometimes, you may know what to say, but your thoughts
might not translate onto paper. Keep pushing your pen, writing both sense and
nonsense. Eventually, the non will
dissipate, and what remains will be sense, which people will read and enjoy.
Trust the process. Don’t overthink it; take it one step at a time... But keep
writing. Don’t stop, and one day, many will line up to read your stories.’ He
looked up at me. ‘You may go now.’
I returned the paper to my father, grinning, and just as
I reached the door, I turned around and said, ‘Dad, thanks for the writing tips.
Since writing is an infinite journey for me, I will need them to navigate my
writing journey every day. They will serve as a map to lead me...’ Once again,
I turned around to leave.
‘Pick up your pen and start writing. Ideas are
everywhere; you just have to find them with your pen,’ my father said blissfully. He let out a smile, hopeful that I
would become a great writer someday. Then, he immersed himself back into his
work, and I headed to my room. It was hard not to feel good when looking at the
younger version of yourself. I could sense how proud my father was of me, even
though I was naughty sometimes. His talent as a writer had deepened my love for
writing.
As soon as I entered my room, I spotted my sister walking
towards me. She was brimming with enthusiasm. ‘Big sister, I’ve read a few
lines from your story, and I think I like it.’ Just as I was about to brush her
off, she added, ‘You can write about anything. Writing is your talent.’ With
that, she walked away, unwrapping her strawberry lollipop and blissfully
sucking on it.
I stood by the door, watching her disappear into the
distance, a sweet smile gracing my face. I
am a writer, I whispered in my heart. From a young age, I was
well-acquainted with the three major genres of literature: drama, prose, and
poetry. Every day, I would scribble lines in my notebook, whatever came to mind.
As I grew up, with my father’s guidance, I began to grasp the flow of writing.
I learned the distinction between merely harbouring the thought of being a
storyteller and actually sitting at my study desk, penning down my thoughts for
people to read.
English and Literature were my favourite subjects in
school. No matter how tired I was, I never skipped those classes, and I
relished reading books. While I mostly enjoyed choosing my own books to read
rather than assigned ones, I never declined a good book. I was always eager to
learn more and write, a lot.
The next day, as I rode the bus back home from school,
the scenery outside the window caught my attention. I was seated in the second
row, by the window, directly behind the driver. I turned my head and gazed at
the scenery passing by, my eyes drawn to the trees swaying in the gentle wind.
In that moment, I reached into my backpack, retrieved my pen and notebook, and
allowed myself to be captivated. My eyes fixated on the dancing leaves, and my
hand moved effortlessly as my thoughts poured onto the paper. It felt
invigorating. My hand glided smoothly, no need for crossings out.
The elegance of my hand in motion was a beautiful sight.
In fact, at that very moment, I felt the flourishing thrust of youthful
penmanship as I penned my story. Writing allowed me to communicate. It brought
me joy and satisfaction. I owed it all to my beloved father, who paved the way
for me. I simply had to tread the path he had laid before me.
‘I am a writing
addict, if the English language would
allow such words together,’ I mused. I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to. I
cherished the sensation of holding my pen and giving life to my thoughts. Even
my text messages were composed in full sentences. Texting abbreviations bored
me, and I often ignored messages written in such a manner.
As I reached home on that beautiful day, I dashed towards
my father who was sitting on the verandah, engrossed in reading his write-ups.
‘I’ve just finished the story. Would you like to take a
look?’ I asked, my excitement evident as I offered him the story before he even
had a chance to reply.
A sweet smile formed on my father’s face. ‘You’re a great
writer. I might have to learn a thing or two from you,’ he said, looking up at
me. ‘Did you finish the story today?’
I nodded, my smile widening. ‘Do you like it?’ I eagerly
enquired.
He chuckled and replied, ‘I’m sure I will.’ Handing the notebook
back to me, he added, ‘I’ll read it all by tomorrow.’ With several writing
assignments lined up, his work was always embraced by many. As I looked at him,
I couldn’t help but feel proud and grateful to have such a talented writer as
my father.
‘You were right,’ I whispered, glancing around. ‘Ideas
are everywhere. We just have to capture them with our pen.’ I smiled again,
contemplating how my pen could evoke emotions and bring people together. It had the power to heal broken hearts, make
people laugh or cry, and it will connect and unite people together. All it
needed were ideas to bring them to life, I thought as I walked inside.
My writing journey may not have always been smooth
sailing, but every day as I wield my pen, I embark on a new adventure of
discovery and growth. To date, I have completed about nine novels, and I
continue to write more because ideas never cease to flow.
My pen is my sword,
and I store my ammunition in my notebook. I always ensure they are close by
because inspiration can strike at any moment. I must be prepared. My pen is
akin to a doctor’s scalpel or stethoscope, an engineer's hammer drill, and a
soldier’s sword.
I cannot imagine myself without my pen. It has always
been my favourite tool for writing as it enables a profound connection with my brain and thought process. Even though I can now directly type on a computer
without jotting down words in my notebook or rough drafts, I still feel the
irresistible urge to write with my pen and into my notebook. It feels safer,
better, and it truly makes me feel like a writer.
