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Monthly Archives: November 2011

Denzel mode

Denzel Washington! Now If I have ever had a man crush on anyone it has to be my man …Denzel .So much so that my alter ego the more confident , louder , abrasive & charming version of myself is named after the great man himself .The other night I was thinking to myself If anyone was to play me in a movie it had to be Denzel, no brainer. I will be the first to admit that I havnt done anything in my life that has warranted a multi million dollar blockbuster feature ( just yet )…dare to dream.

If you would let me , please allow me to indulge myself .Why is Denzel my man crush .I think a better question is: “Why isn’t he your man-crush?” Denzel Washington is, simply put, the man. He has a charming everyman quality and every movie he has ever been in has been better because of his presence.Denzel is one of the greatest actors of our time .I don’t recall ever being disappointed by any of his movies .He can do no wrong in my eyes.In fact I have often wondered what it be like to spend a day with Denzel.If it stopped being a man crush and became a fully reciprocated bromance.Would he start it off with the way he introduced himself in Training day to Officer Hoyt ? “Today’s a training day, Officer Hoyt(Replace with Taf). Show you around, give you a taste of the business. I got 38 cases pending trial, 63 in active investigations, another 250 on the log I can’t clear. I supervise five officers. That’s five different personalities. Five sets of problems. You can be number six if you act now. But I ain’t holding no hands, okay? I ain’t baby-sitting. You got today and today only to show me who and what you’re made of.Imagine that.

We would spend the day the way I imagine Denzel spends most of his days. First, we’d volunteer for a few hours at the local soup kitchen. Then we’d rescue a few kittens from trees. Next, we’d drop toys and piles of cash off at the local orphanage.Ward off hordes of clamouring groupies . After a light lunch and quick trip to the blood bank to donate our plasma, Denzel would probably have to go shoot some terrorists or thwart a bank robbery, which, as always, would be exciting to watch.

I could carry on about this , but I digress.Now I can’t really recall when I named my alter ego Denzel. Its been that long .It was in effort to try and track back the history behind that that my mind drifted off on a bit of a tangent. The cold fermented drink I was sipping on in this instance might have been the instigator ( Blame it on the alcohol, why not?)But the point is somehow I found myself musing. Aren’t we all the Denzel’s of our own movies , the movie being our lives.You would hope that in the movie that is your life , you are the star , and not just co star, or worse an extra.

Now me let attempt to expand on this concept ,something I tentatively refer to as Denzel mode i.e being the star of the movie .I think that we all make sense of our world through a fluid narrative that throws us our forgotten lines when we have botched the dialogue or lost the story. Our personal script moves the action around our hero,our main character… our Denzel . The cast of antagonists are identified by their abstract otherness or culpability. Our misfortunes and phobias are relegated to the Company, the Man, or worst of all, the Family. The perceived insult is double sided , it’s nothing personal, or worse, it is.

Interestingly enough though, while we assign our misery to others,( we love to play the blame game)in the movie about our lives we are divas , we seldom acknowledge the vital role co stars , extras etc play in moving the plot along ever closer to our intended destiny.For example, it is the in leaving the ex that we are able to find the right one. But do we ever appreciate the role that these people play. Personally I don’t trust anyone who only has bad things to say about their ex.

Our lives are filled with nameless D list actors who nonetheless present us with our most splendid opportunities but fail to be listed when our credits roll. You see in the real movies even the caterer is acknowledged when the credits roll.I think in a way that is how we should approach real life .We need to understand, appreciate, acknowledge that while we are stars in our own movies, our movies can only be great when others play their part .When we grow our experiences whether negative or positive define us .Just as Denzel needs a villain for him to be the hero of the movie , everyone who walks into our lives plays a part .

While we have little choice but to play the main character of our own movie we can & should understand and empathize with the maddening throng of extras that seem to be acting off-script for they too are movie stars of their own films.

In conclusion I will say one last thing.That is, in the movie that is my life , I hope to emulate my hero Denzel and win the Oscar for best leading actor.When I get get up on stage to accept the Oscar I promise to thank everyone who has played a part in making my life the blockbuster that i am determined to make it.

DISCLAIMER : This blog may have been written under the influence of a cold fermented one.

 
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Posted by on November 30, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Tears of a Clown

A lot’s been up in this clown’s life in the last week or so. Its that time of the year again when we all start finalising our plans for the holidays and try and tie up any loose ends before taking a much needed break.I must admit I have gotten caught up in that whirlwind and have not had as much time as I would have liked to write ,but enough with the excuses. So first things first,some housekeeping.A big thank you  to everyone who’s followed this blog,shared the page via FB/twitter, subscribed to site feeds or checked this blog since my last entry.

It’s funny how life works; I’ve thought we (as humans) usually only need something to believe – true or not. It doesn’t make us cold or emotionless; it’s just the way of things. We are impulsive classifiers; we like to sort everything (heck, everyone) we come across as. This seems to be ‘our thing’; we just never tire. Again, this isn’t breaking news; I’m sure you find the idea familiar. What’s, however, funny is how rigid  and often misleading our classifications can be. I’m sure you know  the world’s deadliest predators are those who might even appear charming and  charismatic  at a glance. It’s almost as if they’ve learn’t to play on our tendency to classify the visually appealing as “good”.But sadly at times the prettiest people do the ugliest things.

I once heard that Rowan Atkinson walked into a bank and just wouldn’t be taken seriously by the teller. He had an absolutely torrid time convincing her that he was there for a genuine transaction. But, why was that so hard? Why was it impossible for the teller to believe that  “Mr Bean” would need cash in real life? Money seems like a pretty basic need; so, what was the problem? Dear old Rowan Atkinson had been ‘classified’  not as “human” but as a “clown”.

We may have to go back to the very beginning to make some sense of all my rambling. I was listening to  Diddy’s “Coming Home” the other day and a particular line caught my ear; he had made some reference to another song: “Tears of a Clown” by Smokey Robinson. The title’s metaphor was gripping, so I listened to the song immediately( which I must admit I had not heard before this reference ).After listening to it , I gained an even better understanding of the metaphor , and my initial assumptions about  it were confirmed. In the song Robinson,  compares himself to the characters in the opera Pagliacci , which it turns out is about  comedians/clowns who hide their hurt and anger behind empty smiles.

This got me thinking.You see , a clown makes people laugh right? What else do we know clowns besides that? Well, here’s one we often forget: they’re also human. That means they’re entitled to their fair share of worry, anxiety, fear, insecurity and emotion. Of course, we scarcely see any of that behind the red nose and the make up. But, what really goes on in the deepest echelons of their hearts, in the silence of their homes , in those sober moments of introspection?What lies behind the mask ? Does the show continue when the curtains come down?

We all have worries; we all nurse certain insecurities. We’re all not sure of what tomorrow will bring with it and sometimes this gets the better of us. It’s particularly pronounced for people like me who’ve been “cursed” with a pretty compelling costume, a face that suggests we’re in charge, that everything is OK, Mr Optimistic ,being that dude, the clown. More often than not, we’re not  but people won’t stop believing we are all those things .We’ve been classified (sadly) as “self-sufficient” and that often makes it extra difficult to walk up to someone and say “I have this problem and I’ve just been dying for someone to talk to”. I mean, think about it, if a dressed clown walked up to you with tears in his eyes, wouldn’t you consider it part of his act?

I dare to believe that if a totally miserable and frustrated clown walked up a stage sobbing, the audience would still laugh. As far as they know, if the “tears” represent value for money, he’s doing a good job. And, who’s to blame the clown for thinking life is mean? Would you fault him for calling the world cold, selfish and self-seeking? I certainly won’t; we all feel that way from time to time  and we wish somebody would walk right up, wipe our tears, listen to our plight and tell us everything would be fine. I really wish I could be that guy right now but I will be totally honest with you; sometimes, it just never happens. So, will you wait forever to get things back on track? Would you hang your life’s purpose on the possibility of hearing a few soothing words? You may hear them from me someday , but today’s not that day. What you’d hear from me today is a simple definition; I hope it suffices.

I’ve heard people define life in all sorts of funny ways ,but one that has stuck with me is something an elderly neighbour once said to me .She said to me young man life is a big fat cake! Huh? That was my initial reaction as I quietly thought to myself that dementia must be finally setting in for this old lady… shame.But boy was I wrong because as she went on to explain. If you’ve ever seen one bake ( a cake that is ), you’d have to appreciate the bitter-sweet balance of the ingredients .It’s often only important that that cake is sweet ,though most of the ingredients scarcely are. Raw eggs taste yucky, the flour tastes bland and the yeast is just well,  foul but overall, the cake is sweet. And, even in those moments when the baker burns the mix, he doesn’t just sit and cry. He gets right back in and makes himself another mix.
The lesson I picked up from that old neighbours baking analogy is this :life can sometimes be a mean, fastidious boss who cares little whether your bread is buttered. Sometimes, we feel misunderstood; at times , results don’t seem to justify our efforts. Still, the job must be done. The world would take no excuse; the clown must perform. Even with tears in his eyes, they’d still laugh heartily. Our pains should never be reason enough to live without purpose. Life will always throw us challenges; the best of us all are those who have learn’t to rise above them.Its not about how u fail.Its about how you get back up after falling.

Its been a crazy year for me where I have gone through a lot of changes and times I have questioned myself a lot about where I am at currently in my life versus where I wanted to be , a classic case of the contender syndrome.Feeling like I am not fulfilling my potential; and not even close to who I thought I’d be.Sometimes it feels like I’m in a strange world ,totally unprepared for the nature and extent of its pressures. But I’m here now, and the show must go on. Tomorrow may be as I’ve dream’t it , but I won’t throw today away. I have to wake up everyday with a conviction to be the very best of me. The tears of a clown are scarcely more than costume to the audience!
So, till  my next blog, my word to you: don’t wait up for the stranger with soothing words. Instead, give yourself a long hard stare in the mirror and tell yourself that, in spite of the flour’s blandness and the eggs’ yuckiness, your cake will be sweet.
 
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Posted by on November 23, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

The nice guy contract

So earlier this week me and a couple of mates went to a comedy night at a local bar.We had agreed that we could do with a bit of laughs and being a Monday there was not much else on the social calendar to do so off we went .(My Monday’s are usually reserved for Monday night football but being the International break my interest levels were low ).We laughed and it’s safe to say our Mondayitis was quickly cured .That cliche laughter is the best medicine rang true .

One thing that has always struck about comedy and in particular comedians is how observant and perceptive they are of the human condition and how they seem to be able to transform some of our misfortunes and manipulate them in their efforts to solicit laughter from the audience with success. Another interesting facet about comedians is their role as social commentators and they manage to tackle social issues and are able to make us as society or as individuals look into the proverbial mirror.This usually puts us in a head on collision with our flaws by working to disarm our defensive instincts . Comedians achieve this by camouflaging their social commentary with humour , there by reducing the sting that we might otherwise feel from such home truths.

One of the jokes that resonated strongly and which I must admit made me laugh rather uncomfortably was about people who like their own Facebook status.The social analysis on which that joke drew its material from was the whole idea of wanting to be liked .This comedian in particular rounded off the joke saying that if Facebook ever shut down , you would see these people who want to be liked running around the streets with a picture asking people if they liked it .I laughed ( you had to be there )

After the show and as the laughter faded away I became reflective .I questioned why I had laughed so hard at that particular joke , whilst my mates who had found the joke funny too hadn’t laughed as hard . It was in this moment that I realised that I was in my own way trying to take the sting out of a joke which I was reluctant to admit had hit a bit too close to home . I must point out that I’m not one to like my own status .But I did relate to the whole idea of wanting to be liked and I will admit that it has got me caught up in a few compromising situations in the past.

This reminded me of something else that I head read about a while ago dealt with the concept of “The nice guy contract “I came across this nice guy contract when I was struggling with letting go of some of the relationships I had been part of and this Nice guy contract was just the epiphany I needed to gain clarity and courage to make some changes. Until that epiphany, I had no idea what a Nice Guy Contract was, much less that it had been the standard contract I consistently signed with almost everyone in my life. But in that startling moment of clarity I understood not only what it was but why I kept signing it: my self esteem, which I’d previously believed to be built on things solely internal, was in fact entirely dependent on something external,the good will of others. Basically the idea behind my particular Nice Guy Contract was simple: I would agree to be nice to you, to advise you, to sacrifice for you, to care about you and in return you would agree to believe that I was wise, compassionate, excellent as a human being in every way, and finally and most importantly, you would LIKE me.To quote one of may favourite TV characters Barney Stinson from How I Met Your Mother , You would think I was “Awesome”.

In order to better understand how the Nice guy contract worked in my case I will refer a break up I had a whole ago . This particular break up was the straw that broke the camel’s back and enabled me to free myself of all the nice guy contracts I had unwittingly signed .Like many break ups,the end came in stutters and sine waves rather than just as an abrupt but mercifully irreversible amputation. What was even more pathetic , and for reasons I didn’t understand at the time is that I quickly began to resent, my ex when she continued to ask favours of me. I grudgingly continued to grant them.Even though I wanted to say no.The reason I remained unable to say no was that I’d established a Nice Guy Contract with her.Something I only figured out in retrospect and only after I had had my epiphany .The only difference in this case being I didn’t just expect to be liked; I expected to be loved. And for a while, I was. Unfortunately, once I’d had a taste of that love, it became my ego’s addiction, and when she took it away from me I became profoundly depressed, not because, as I originally thought, I’d been left by someone I thought was the “love”of my life, but because I genuinely believed without that someone I couldn’t be happy. Sadly some part of me believed if I continued to fulfill my contractual obligations to her, she’d start fulfilling hers again to me. To say I was shocked to discover my self esteem had been built on such shaky ground would be an understatement!

I didn’t realise it at the time, but when I had that epiphany about my propensity to sign Nice Guy Contracts with everyone in my life, I suddenly stopped doing it. This was proven to me months later when a friend confronted me asking why I had become such a douchebag to some of my “friends”. My initial instinct was to go on the defensive and deny it. But then I stopped myself, realising that he was absolutely right. I was a douchebag to some of these so called ” friends”.I then began to wonder why I had in fact become so dismissive of some of my “friends”and realised that I’d somehow stopped needing their approval to sustain my self esteem and had somehow ripped up all the Nice Guy Contracts I’d signed with them (these were people, it turned out, with whom I had little in common to bind us together in genuine friendship). I’d somehow discovered a way to love and value myself without feeding off the love and esteem of anyone else.At that very moment I proposed a mental toast to myself …a toast to the douchebag!

I am not saying that there is anything wrong with wanting to be liked. At the same time I am not claiming that I no longer care if I’m liked or not. What I am saying is that in freeing myself from the NEED to be liked, in learning to derive my self-esteem from internal support systems.I can more easily let go of the dissonance that (still) occurs when I’m disliked. Ridding myself of the need to sign Nice Guy Contracts has been liberating.

I have stopped being obsessed with people liking me .I am now constantly working on establishing more authentic relationships.Relationships based on mutual interest, free of the underlying agenda in which I would use the goodwill of others as a crutch for my self esteem and to feed my ego. The most important side effect and welcome benefit has been that I have been able to tone down the incidents were I have had explosive expressions of pent up resentment. Not being able to say no leads to resentment toward oneself that often gets projected onto others but that is paradoxically rarely expressed (becoming angry at someone would violate the terms of the Nice Guy Contract)until it builds up to the point where it must be expressed and then often is in explosive and damaging ways.

I m not saying I have all of a sudden become perfect but I believe I am learning and growing and can safely say the desire to be liked does not drive me as much.

So with that in mind I would like to propose a toast .A toast to the douchebag ! Have you ever signed a Nice guy contract? This is not just limited to romantic relationships but occurs just as frequently in platonic ones too.If you have hopefully sharing my experience will help give you some clarity.

P.S Feel free to like this blog …I am still a work on progress after all .*winks*

 
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Posted by on November 15, 2011 in HIS-story

 

The Inspiration (Can We Get Much Higher?)

“Can we get much higher?.”

That part of the chorus from Kanye West’s song Dark Fantasy resonated with me in a way it had never done in the thousands of times I had listened to it prior to my much protracted return from the writing wilderness. That line summed up my state of mind in the first few hours after I had completed my first blog. I had  underestimated the euphoria that would soon envelope me. Not only just that, the process of writing again had also proved to be quite therapeutic. For the first time in a long time, my brain was entirely focused on one thing (vs desperately seeking a moment to drift off). I was on a high and it was thrilling and intoxicating. The time that had elapsed since that defining moment of praise from my English teacher had served to numb the memory of the associated high. I reacted physically as well. The sheer joy I felt was such an adrenaline rush. Absolute  bliss. Addicting.

Soon enough anarchy became the order of the day as writing became all I could think about, when to find the time to write again, and every idea I got I jotted  down obsessively. The writer was writing! In every free moment I was writing down story arcs and ideas. It was chaotic, but I was thoroughly enjoying it. I was inspired.

What was even more significant and encouraging than this high was the feedback that I got. It ranged from, “Look what you started …”. Something a close friend said to me a few hours after I had sent them my blog, which had inspired them to start their own. Other reactions included surprise that I was actually capable of writing a coherent sentence, as well as being called out for supposedly wasting my talent. The most ingenious comment was the simple but yet eloquent reference to yours truly as “Mr Incognito”, an allusion  to my coming out of the closet as a writer.

I realised then that in my small way with that single post I had inspired. As if the euphoria I had experienced from writing alone hadn’t been enough motivation. That I had inspired only served to consolidate the conviction I had that writing again was something I needed to do. I must point out that I did get some criticism, most of it constructive which was just the tonic I needed to keep myself grounded. This criticism also had the consequence of being sobering, a necessary evil considering the high that I was on.

As I set about to manipulate the free flow of natural endorphins that my high equipped with my ideas jostled with each other for space on the blank page. I wanted to write about anything and everything. In the few days since I had shared my story I was struck the most by the fact that I had inspired. Sharing the experience of my creative dilemma of being a writer who didn’t write had the unexpected effect of helping some of my readers confront head on whatever demons where shacking their creativity or passions. By looking to my own  metaphorical backyard I had found the subject material the result of which was a story. A story that inspired, resonated and reverberates.

It was with this in mind that I began reflecting on my inspirations. I have always believed in the power of the story. The story matters. This is best exemplified by one of may favourite quotes from Chinua Achebe on the impact of a story “It is only the story…that saves our progeny from blundering like blind beggars into the spikes of the cactus fence. The story is our escort; without it, we are blind. Does the blind man own his escort? No,neither do we the story;rather, it is the story that owns us.”

I believe the story whatever it is and whoever it may belong to is an integral ingredient in that delectable delicacy that can be inspiration.  Inspiration is the story, and it never belongs to the writer but to the inspired. At least that’s how I interpreted that quote .

As a child I was introduced to the worlds that lay within The Famous Five, Secret Seven, The Hardy Boys and others. These books where the early cultivator’s of my imagination and when I began to write, I  too wrote exactly the kinds of stories I was reading. This is something Chimamanda Adichie refers to in her TED talk when she says “… What this demonstrates, I think, is how impressionable and vulnerable we are in the face of a story, particularly as children …” A strong case can then be made that the stories we read in a way are pivotal to how the inspiration we get from them manifests itself. Whether we are inspired by the writers, the doctors or the sports stars story , it drives us closer to whatever our life’s calling is. We become what we read.

Prior to reading the works of Achebe and other African writers, I had become convinced that books by their very nature could only have their setting in far far away places. Something that is the subject of one of my favourite TED talks The Danger of A Single Story by Chimamanda Adichie. 

The whole idea of a stereotype is to simplify. Instead of embracing diversity,that it’s this or maybe that ,you have just one large statement; it is this – Chimamanda Adichie ( The Danger Of A Single Story)

In my case my early reading of books by European  and American writers  had created a singular story which blinkered my world view and narrowed the pool from which I drew my inspiration. This all changed in my teen years were my literature classes were to juxtaposition the works of William Shakespeare and the Chinua Achebe. This enabled me to appreciate the power of different stories by affording me the opportunity to appreciate a writer from a different era in English in Shakespeare and the “Father of African literature” Chinua Achebe. Achebe’s masterpiece  Things Fall Apart  however was more defining. A writer who the great Nelson Mandela himself said this of “He is the writer in whose company the prison walls came down”. Because of Chinua Achebe  and other African writers I went through a mental shift in my perception of writing  and was confronted with a new and more relevant inspiration. In started to write about things I recognised. It was the inspiration I needed to find my own voice and write my own story .

It is important to point out that every journey is not without its setbacks and most stories include failure. As with any story with a happy ending how the characters deal with adversity is key. Based on this I believe that inspiration is the Florence Nightangle of our ambitions. Selflessly nursing our ambition when its been battered by with failure until such a point when we fully recover and finally realise our dreams. So never give up trying to do what you really want to do. Where there is love and inspiration, you cannot go wrong. Above all Inspiration is free but sometimes you just have to go and get it. Let inspiration be the nurse to your ambition.

I hope I have managed to make you think about which story inspires you and whether or not you have a story that will inspire.

 
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Posted by on November 14, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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The curious case of the Writer who doesn’t write…

I have been meaning to get started on blogging seriously for the last six months or so. I have been procrastinating, the reasons for which are varied.Whatever inspiration and ideas I had just remained that.What I have done though during this time is read, compulsively.Which in a way was tantamount to being a voyeur as I have always considered myself a writer first.

I have always had the tendency of drifting and getting lost in my own thoughts.In my head I am always creating or revising a scene of some kind. I am writing or revising dialogue, constantly imagining how to verbalise emotions.I have always sort to deconstruct what I have read and always tried to give it my own voice or more appropriately put it my own words. This is not to be mistaken for being a butcher of sorts of other writers literally works, quite the contrary, I am a great admirer of writers who write in their own distinctive style.

Recently I came across an article by a fellow blogger entitled Black people read.But do they write? This struck a chord , and was to be the catalyst in a chain reaction the result of which was,me finally breaking away from the bondage of that wily old foe procrastination. By appealing to the Pan Africanist in me , it provided the just the push I needed to confront the dilemma I have been battling with for a while.That of being a writer who does not write .

Now in addressing this dilemma I will try and be concise, but somehow feel that is unlikely given its nature .The question I have grappled with is this. What is the degree to which a Writer can write as a hobby and be satisfied, without disrupting all other aspects of their life.?

To gain a better understanding of this I feel the need to give some back story. First, the present. I am a scientist by profession.For all but a dalliance that lasted a couple of years, I am and have always been a Writer who doesn’t write (credit to John Irving, who first articulated that very apt concept). How do I know I am a Writer? I love words .From an early age I have spent almost the entirety of my interstitial moments making up and reading stories.Every time I have read I have always had a quite admiration of the architects behind these stories and always felt inspired to express my own ideas in my own words.As for my stories some of them were terrible, some interesting, but all authentic and amusing to me in some way. It seems to be something my brain needs to do to relax and a platform to put together logically the random ideas that are always causing havoc in the space between my ears.

For a long time, perhaps even until my university years , I romantically viewed myself as an observer of life (versus a participator). In retrospect this was probably a protective mechanism. Still, I observed and I created and I lived vicariously through my own imagination. Oddly, I did have a social life, with friends, girlfriends and a lot of partying, so I was participating to a degree. State of mind, I guess.

I always believed I would eventually find a platform for my ideas and write more frequently but then my talents in math and science compelled me forward into a more stable career path. Very pragmatic of me I know .Interestingly enough though I remember the thrill I would get when I got a good grade in English class or got to be part of the debate team in high school. Something funnily enough that meant so much more to me than similar outcome in Biology or Statistics .

This is further highlighted by two particular incidences that happened just after I had completed high school.The first was my young brother informing me that my former English teacher had referenced some of my essays from my time in his class as an example to his current class.The second and more memorable was a conversation I had with the same English teacher, shortly before I left for university.He expressed surprise when I told him I was going to major in Biotechnology at university , he responded, “I assumed you would be an English major,” and in that brief moment I flirted with that idea.I remember thinking to myself really? me?.Needless to say, the idea of being an English major at the time seemed to terrifying and intimidating.

So I stuck with my original plan and went all the way with it.I must add as a side note that my career advisor telling me Biotechnology was the future and one of the fastest growing areas of science and that lasting image of my Dad nodding approvingly reassured me I was taking the right path.(Though a conversation we had halfway through my uni degree wasn’t as reassuring as he innocently asked me what is I would work as when I graduate)

That said I have turned out to be a decent scientist, its something that gives me joy and I am passionate about .It is the only thing other than writing I could imagine myself doing.But not enough it seems for me to completely neglect that burning desire to write.I must point out that I do “write” a lot in my day job but as you can imagine the creative licence here is very limited to almost non existent.

Recently the advent of the “internets” and in particular social media has served to stoke the dying ambers of my passion for writing again through the provision of simple platforms for all and sundry to express themselves.Mainly in the form of all the currently available microblogging and social networking sites which have the added advantage of an existing audience.It is thus easier to communicate and share ideas with like minded people , but even more significantly and maybe self indulgently for me as writer this has provided a simple platform to share my passion with the world.

To be clear, I do not have delusions of grandeur in this. What I could write might not be great literature. I doubt I m the next great novelist /blogger of our time.I am acutely aware that just because you love to do something with all your heart and soul does not mean you will be any good at it. Life’s cruelest irony. But I am optimistic in that anything born out of passion brings with it a sense of personal gratification when completed, at the very least .I also believe I have a voice and I owe to myself to pursue this and just maybe I could also entertain or inspire in the process.

So given that I have no delusions of gaining fame or money by this endevaour, it must then be a hobby. People paint as a hobby, right? When they retire. They don’t have to be any good, they just enjoy the act of it. So I can do that with writing right?

There is only one way to find out.Let the blogging begin…

 
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Posted by on November 9, 2011 in HIS-story

 

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