What makes a true writer? The kind of writing that could evoke emotion like Shakespeare or Sylvia Plath. I imagine myself to be more of a Ms. Plath (my love for cooking will find me inside an oven one day), what with my drinking habits and preference for melancholy.
I’ve been battling with self imposed depression as of late. I am (surprisingly) morbidly insecure and I think the worst of my partner. I drink so that I put my insecuries at ease. It’s not that he’s a bad guy, it’s just my thoughts of what he could do. I’m not the best boyfriend the world could offer but I come with my benefits, one of which, I think, personally, is my undying loyalty and devotion. Although these may be seen as weaknesses across the dating world, I believe they’re my best qualities. He never has to worry about a support system.
I’m way off point. So, words do not a good writer maketh, I said. So what does? It would be presumptuous for me to tell the world what makes a good writer since I myself do not know. What I do know is that without experience, your writing is just another story told around a table with Black Label and friends with hardly a brain cell (and believe me, I have a lot of those.)
True writing should without a second thought evoke emotion, evoke awe, cause controversy and make one question one’s life. True writing should make one think. Not only about their lives but about what they do for others, no questions asked.
I write this to you right now, drunk as hell and confess that I do not think I am the best writer the world has seen or will ever see. My biggest achievement as a writer is the fact that more often than not, I write what I feel and what people aren’t comfortable saying. I am a shit writer. Ask me to write about two men having hot passionate sex, writhing as one and I will do that. Ask me to write you about reality and I will offer you a half hearted attempt. I am not good at reality. Life hampers me. Life burdens me. Life should not have been offered to me. I go through life intoxicated and when I’m not, I go through life causing unnecessary trouble. I pick fights where I should not. I do things I shouldn’t and I get myself too wrapped up where I shouldn’t. I am trouble personified.
I am trouble personified. I am Tshego The Trouble. I drink my life away. Codeine has recently become my escape. It is human to keep trouble away but ask Tshego and he will tell you a story of how he almost always keeps happiness away from him. And I don’t write to invoke a sense a pity from my reader. I hate that. I write to give you a glimpse of who I really am. My troubled soul. My troubled life. The intelligent boy who can’t even pass Applied English. The Bright Spark who can’t even master French. The Man who’d much rather spend his days eating endless bowls of popcorn (having one now!) than facing his truth.
And what is my truth? My truth is that I am nothing. My truth is that if my boyfriend stops loving me, if my mother left this plane, if my REMAINING (pay attention to this) friends decided to leave me and I had no one, I would probably, no, not probably, definitely go the way of Ms. Plath, go the way of Mrs. Woolf and go the way of every single tragic writer this world has seen.
The truth is, beyond the superficial, the ‘Oh-I’m-So-Happy’ pictures with the partner and the ever so profound musings on Twitter and Facebook, I am lonely. I am dying. I am empty and I do not know what to do with it.
I am going to share this with you and I know that most, if not all of you will cry “Desperate attempt, Tshego.” “Publicity stunt, Tshego.” Think what you will. I am a writer. An emotional one at that. I chose to share what I will with the world. Not for attention. No. But because I am a writer. It is my way. It is my custom, my religion to share what I write with the world, however they take it.