One interesting about writing, for me anyway, is that no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to control it. Sometimes the thoughts come rushing out, bursting forth like water from an overflowing dam, and at other times they just dry up, often for days on end, like the taps at Adenta. I have noticed though that when the thoughts do come, I hesitate to pen them down because i wonder if all that I write is relevant.
See, I feel I have a duty to my readers. To share stories that are important to society’s development or that tackle major issues in today’s society. I am especially proud of the articles which touched on critical thinking in Ghanaian universities, my short but very enlightening conversation with a stranger about some of Ghana’s problems and why I dread the Vice Chancellor’s handshake. I feel these stories tackle problems a large section of the society is dealing with and it behoves of me to share these frustrations.
But I also want to write other stories. Stories about what I think about Suits Season 5 and, why I think the latest Game of Thrones season shows that D.B Weiss and David Benioff don’t hold a candle to George R. R. Martin in terms of story telling.
I want to write about the loneliness that engulfs me like a harmattan fog during my weekends and how I work myself to death so as not to think. Or feel.
I want to write about love, sorrow, my anxieties about the #360WritersChallenge and how I felt when I read Maya Angelou’s “I know why the caged bird sings” because as much as I understand the importance of the “serious” issues and as much as I appreciate everyone of you who’s shown as much interest in those serious issues as I have, I have to be true to one of the reasons I started this blog: to share my soliloquies.