Perhaps I wasn’t born to write. But writing has become a part of me. I love how it makes me feel. It clears my head and best of all helps me create worlds.
For a few years, I lived away from my hometown while pursuing a degree in English Literature. A few experiences while back in Montego Bay affirmed how much writing and dreaming and becoming are interrelated threads within my life.
I recall rediscovering friends, teachers and acquaintances I hadn’t seen in years. One of the first things they would say is, “Are you still writing?” It seemed the only thing they remembered or the most memorable thing. Memories floated within my mind. How I used to scribble poetry at the back of my notebooks, publish poems in The Sunday Gleaner. How I used to dream up worlds—sometimes hidden worlds—in my quest to understand the world around me.
When they would ask that question, I’d feel guilty somehow. But not only that. There was a mixture of pride and longing— they remembered but a world remained untapped. Dreams were out there to be lived and fulfilled.
Though I could honestly say I was still writing, I knew I wasn’t doing enough. Somehow the intellectual—the fearful critic within me — was sucking at my creative energy.
Before university I would write with a kind of uninhibited glee. But university made me think—perhaps too much. Nothing I wrote seemed to be good enough.
This blog is a platform of documentation. A world of dreams. This blog is my attempt to be the me I want to be. All I ask is that you listen.