I love books. For the 20 something years I have walked this earth, I have loved books. As the neighbourhood children climbed and played in the trees, I sat in the shade, pushing my thick glasses up every few minutes, my nose buried in a John Grisham. I was the child that would sneak into my cousin’s parent’s bedroom because it was where they kept the Readers’ Digests. I was the guy with the Hardy Boys novel on my lap as the teacher droned on; the kid with the comic book wrapped in his sweater as parade proceeded.
I am the guy at the corner of the coffee-shop with his coffee growing cold as I click ‘Next Page’ on my Kindle, turn the page to take in the next twist in the tale. The guy who will leave the club in a rush because he’s remembered a new David Bennun book he bought that’s sitting atop the bedside pile of books.
Books for me, are opium. They are a doorway in to Narnia, a world created by another. Through my books, I have traveled the world, had more lovers than Don Juan, and seen more deaths than the Grim Reaper. I have talked to horses, seen the world through the eyes of one, I have ridden dragons and slain men, and ridden men and slain dragons. I’ve been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a pawn, a pope and a king. I’ve loved, I’ve lived, I’ve cried, I’ve laughed, I’ve lost my mind and found it, found myself and lost my religion.
In short, I love reading.
Over the last 3 years or so, I have toyed with the dream of being a writer. So much so, that when asked why I am entrepreneur, I tell people is so that I can retire young and rich enough to be a full time writer, writing for the passion and the love of the craft, not for the paycheck. I’ve written all my life; daily compositions in primary school, pieces in high school that once got Mr. Muchiri to remark ‘You do some great work when you put your mind to it’ (a compliment as high as none other, in retrospect), but before 2008, I’d actually never wanted to be a writer. Then I discovered that I actually enjoyed it, found it fulfilling, and so, now, I want to be a writer. Rather simple, no?
I want to enthrall your mind with the written word, capture your body with the turns of phrases, seduce your soul. I want to make you my friend, make you my lover, make you my enemy. I want to write, and goddamnit, write well.
My drafts folder is full of little snippets of inspiration that never saw the Publish button; my note book, innumerable pieces awaiting me to put the creator’s touch upon them; turn them into living works. I make excuses on a daily basis; that I am busy, that I have no time, that I have no inspiration, that I need the works to be perfect. A lot of words to simply cover that I am lazy.
In my mind’s eye, I see my writing home. My cabin at the edge of the Mount Kenya forest, with my writing table by the window, overlooking the gently sloping lawn that edged by the dark woods. I sit at my writers desk, a scarf around my neck in a thick woolen sweater with leather patches on its elbows. A fire crackles gently in the fire place, and all around -upon shelves, the mantle, the window sills- books declare their titles and their authors. I look around, and tell myself, that one day I will be amongst them.
Maybe, one day, I will write.
For many years books were my passion. I think by the time I completed class 8 I had gone through the whole Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, James Hardly Chase series and spent many a physics and chemistry lesson reading Sidney Sheldon and the likes. Later I got into heavier stuff but now with a family and work that mostly extends beyond full time (not to mention side consultancies), I am finding it more and more difficult creating time for reading. Maybe I ought to give up on sports viewing or something like that! And I also need to create time to do some writing, something I desperately want to do. As you can see I totally identify with your post. Nice blog
Would it be rude to yell out, WRITE ALREADY! (also, you would have sold one book. – to me if you aren’t quite following)
Hmm..we are talking money now
I am writing. Stay tuned.