My blessing: I write really well. I’m not trying to toot my own horn and won’t even do the clichéd “beep” at the end but I do. It’s a given… I like that people like what and when I write. I used to write a lot. But I used to put myself in it. Not necessarily my soul because as a good writer you’re apparently supposed to unleash all the itsy bitsy particles of you but… the parts that counted. In a very ambiguous way.
I’m strange in that I crave anonymity but want my friends to read what I write. Maybe I should just apply for a column in a magazine… write in on occasion about things that strike my fancy. I FANCY that people would grow to love me (the writer) and my column. Like those columns you imagine people poring over during a wintry, rainy Sunday when going to church isn’t envisioned as an option and your heart tells you that you can live with the guilt of not attending. What? I used to go for mass during the week to atone for it.
Granted I live in Kenya now and there is little hope of there being a wintry anything let alone coffee and your paper by the breakfast table after the delivery boy on his bike throws your paper over the cute white picket fence. *sigh* We have to go out and get our own papers. Paper boys? (Why no paper girls?) Unfortunately, this is Africa where we employ askaris with vicious dogs called Simba to guard our property and where the walls loom a good twenty feet too high for even a love struck teenager to heave over a sweet note wrapped over a rock tied up with string. That’s neither here nor there though.
Back to my story about my column, I’d want people to read it and comment and appreciate it. I would especially like for my friends to know I was the genius behind that witty line that had them going for hours after the fact. I want to be that Oyunga Pala that stirs people up but leaves them wanting more. Like Carrie in Sex & the City who despite her short comings is a writer who manages to use her gift to pay the bills. I’d like my friends to know it’s me writing under a pseudonym because they tend to give me feedback. Except sometimes I don’t know if they’re just being nice. So maybe I’ll be forced to just stick to the randoms who read the column. Ask them to write to *insert random email address here* and let me know what they think. Then get irked by the spelling mistakes and grammar but be happy nonetheless that someone’s reading the spawn of my thoughts.
My curse: I’m lazy. It should be a crime. I love to procrastinate when it comes to writing essays or reports. The fact that I write well notwithstanding. I hate deadlines. With a passion. I’ve dallied on writing a report for 3 months a fact that doesn’t sit well with my mkubwa. He was shocked and pleasantly surprised when I handed him the bulk of it. Told me I wrote really well too. Then proceeded to ask if I had any help. At some points I’d have loved some but it would only speak to my inherent laxity. No one else knows this information anyway so it’d be kinda pointless to ask them to help.
Think its time I went for lunch. Enough of my tirade.
I’m really hurt that its lunchtime and my boss doesn’t seem interested in leaving for the rest of the day. More work. *siiiighhh*
LUNCH! Taa b*chiz!
