I think my Instagram is seeing all the action my blog should be.
I'm sorry, but when I'm writing in the moment, Instagram is faster. And sometimes, I even get comments *side eyes all of you*.
How are you doing? How have you been? Are you practicing self-care? Are you asking for help when you need it? It's not a crime to ask for help. It doesn't make you weak. It doesn't mean you're failing.
I just read the interview Oprah did with Michelle Obama about her book, Becoming. It really gave me insight into something I've never understood. How fatalistic African-Americans are and how sure they are that everything is NOT going to be alright. Why they only think they can succeed as entertainers or sportsmen. Why the majority of black NFL players do NOT kneel.
It's an insidious thing that American society does.
It's easy for me in my majority black country to judge and say, 'why do you not have the self-worth to fight for yourself?'
But wow, it's complicated.
The American mid-term elections were just carried out and wow, they really took a page from the Kenyan election when it came to rigging. Can I ask politicians a favor? Could you at least try to pretend that you're not totally stealing votes? Like, try to make it less obvious, please. It's insulting to the inelligence of voters. People keep asking why white women keep voting against their interests. The truth is that there are interests and there are INTERESTS. And making sure white supremacy remains the status quo is an INTEREST. Just like Kikuyus do in Kenya. When people have been on the top of the totem pole, they will literally cut off their own feet just to remain there. It's stupid, but apparently, its human nature.
Anyways I'm not going to go and on about it because this post isn't about wallowing in the things we cannot change. It's about figuring shit out.
I've kind of dropped off the face of the planet because thanks to my Upwork score shooting up to almost perfect, I have suddenly become very popular with employers. You'd think it'd make me happy but no, I'm salty because I was this same person when my score was 82% but now, suddenly, I'm a valuable commodity. I'm salty because I'm tired of things that are circumstantial defining who we are; who I am. I use the same samples, I have the same profile, I deliver the same level of service but thanks to a circumstance over whose control I had little, I am now an MVP rather than that chick from Africa who might not even know how to write in English.
So anyway, my scope of job offers has widened, as has the challenge of successful completion. Two weeks ago, I got invited to bid for a regency romance. Now I've never written Regency books before mainly because I've never been shortlisted before. The amount of history you have to study is crazy and the word choices you have to use are a challenge. You have to check that the words you're using were in use at that time and the context was the same.
I prepared by listening to an audiobook while I washed dishes, letting the words permeate my subconscious. I also read a bit but time was an issue; I had seven days to produce twenty thousand words of story.
I thought many times of just throwing in the towel. For the first time in my writing time I thought to myself, "Maybe I can't do this."
Then into day five of my seven day Odyssey, my arms went on strike. They were like, "We are not the ones. You will not do this to us." They do that sometimes when I push them too hard. Nobody tells you how taxing typing is. The pain gets so bad, is unrelieved by painkillers and makes you want to cry because a. I can't work and b. it hurts.
So I couldn't type and I was floundering and I was behind deadline. I've tried to use voice typing before, in genres I'm actually familiar with. It didn't work. The words don't arrange themselves the way they were supposed to. The poetry disappears.
But I was down to the wire and there was no other choice. So I closed my eyes, thought of what I wanted to say, constructed a sentence in my mind and then spoke it aloud. Even that way, it was still faster than typing. My hands were grateful.
It got easier.
I finished behind deadline. By twenty-one minutes. Unfortunately, my client and I are on the same time zone if very many miles apart.
Still.
I did it!
I got the job done.
I figured it out.
Now as I await the verdict; did I succeed in creating a story worth pursuing? did I fail?
I am still changed forever. Because I did something I didn't' think I could. And to be honest, in my humble opinion, I did a good job.
The other thing that resonated with me about Michelle's interview was being a 'box checker'. For sure any African with parents will tell you it's all about the box checking. Go to school, excel, find a job, get married.
Unlike Michelle's, my life didn't follow the script. I was flailing like Barrack. I feel like flailing enables you to really find out who you are if it doesn't destroy you. Basically, I can't wait to read the memoir.
While we're on the topic of reading, have you visited my author page yet?
I'm sorry, but when I'm writing in the moment, Instagram is faster. And sometimes, I even get comments *side eyes all of you*.
How are you doing? How have you been? Are you practicing self-care? Are you asking for help when you need it? It's not a crime to ask for help. It doesn't make you weak. It doesn't mean you're failing.
 |
| but I'm asleep tho... |
It's an insidious thing that American society does.
It's easy for me in my majority black country to judge and say, 'why do you not have the self-worth to fight for yourself?'
But wow, it's complicated.
The American mid-term elections were just carried out and wow, they really took a page from the Kenyan election when it came to rigging. Can I ask politicians a favor? Could you at least try to pretend that you're not totally stealing votes? Like, try to make it less obvious, please. It's insulting to the inelligence of voters. People keep asking why white women keep voting against their interests. The truth is that there are interests and there are INTERESTS. And making sure white supremacy remains the status quo is an INTEREST. Just like Kikuyus do in Kenya. When people have been on the top of the totem pole, they will literally cut off their own feet just to remain there. It's stupid, but apparently, its human nature.
I've kind of dropped off the face of the planet because thanks to my Upwork score shooting up to almost perfect, I have suddenly become very popular with employers. You'd think it'd make me happy but no, I'm salty because I was this same person when my score was 82% but now, suddenly, I'm a valuable commodity. I'm salty because I'm tired of things that are circumstantial defining who we are; who I am. I use the same samples, I have the same profile, I deliver the same level of service but thanks to a circumstance over whose control I had little, I am now an MVP rather than that chick from Africa who might not even know how to write in English.
So anyway, my scope of job offers has widened, as has the challenge of successful completion. Two weeks ago, I got invited to bid for a regency romance. Now I've never written Regency books before mainly because I've never been shortlisted before. The amount of history you have to study is crazy and the word choices you have to use are a challenge. You have to check that the words you're using were in use at that time and the context was the same.
 |
| it was a circle of hell |
I thought many times of just throwing in the towel. For the first time in my writing time I thought to myself, "Maybe I can't do this."
Then into day five of my seven day Odyssey, my arms went on strike. They were like, "We are not the ones. You will not do this to us." They do that sometimes when I push them too hard. Nobody tells you how taxing typing is. The pain gets so bad, is unrelieved by painkillers and makes you want to cry because a. I can't work and b. it hurts.
So I couldn't type and I was floundering and I was behind deadline. I've tried to use voice typing before, in genres I'm actually familiar with. It didn't work. The words don't arrange themselves the way they were supposed to. The poetry disappears.
But I was down to the wire and there was no other choice. So I closed my eyes, thought of what I wanted to say, constructed a sentence in my mind and then spoke it aloud. Even that way, it was still faster than typing. My hands were grateful.
It got easier.
I finished behind deadline. By twenty-one minutes. Unfortunately, my client and I are on the same time zone if very many miles apart.
Still.
I did it!
I got the job done.
I figured it out.
Now as I await the verdict; did I succeed in creating a story worth pursuing? did I fail?
I am still changed forever. Because I did something I didn't' think I could. And to be honest, in my humble opinion, I did a good job.
The other thing that resonated with me about Michelle's interview was being a 'box checker'. For sure any African with parents will tell you it's all about the box checking. Go to school, excel, find a job, get married.
Unlike Michelle's, my life didn't follow the script. I was flailing like Barrack. I feel like flailing enables you to really find out who you are if it doesn't destroy you. Basically, I can't wait to read the memoir.
While we're on the topic of reading, have you visited my author page yet?
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