“When I was excited about life, I didn’t want to write at all. I’ve never written when I was happy. I didn’t want to. But I’ve never had a long period of being happy, Do you think anyone has? I think you can be peaceful for a long time, When I think about it, if I had to choose, I’d rather be happy than write. You see, there’s very little invention in my books. What came first with most of them was the wish to get rid of this awful sadness that weighed me down . I found when I was a child that if I could put the hurt into words, it would go. It leaves a sort of melancholy behind and then it goes.”
I wrote my first essay at four or five years old, it was about a blue mouse.
I’m a writer; i’ve always been a writer. I hadn’t fully accepted this until recently, until some sort of switch was flicked and/or dormancy was rattled awake by the tectonic shift that occurred within me. An occurrence caused by the ultimate rejection; a broken, torn up, fucked up heart. Broken by an insane rockstar no less…you really can’t make this shit up.
Prior to this i was an earth mover and shaker. Seeing sights, learning from the learned, loving loves and doing me.
Then it stopped, like a locomotive run out of steam. My tracks, once continuous came to a halt and i was forcibly sucked back to my origins, my island. Adding insult to my dilemma dashed with some hilarious irony, is that the familiar limbo dance was formed here in my native isle, which brings me to the point. I’m also in figurative limbo, conveniently where it was literally invented. The universe is fucking hilarious.
To preface, I come from an island in the southern Caribbean, just shy of the equator, which is very much like growing up on another planet. Jean Rhys said “it’s strange growing up in a very beautiful place and seeing that it is beautiful.” It’s beautiful once untouched yes, but that’s about it. Take away the adjacent gullies full of rat tat tats and illiterate rabble, then i suppose it’s quite photogenic. Anyone from the developing world can attest to this experience, you first worlders have no clue, do you? But you want to, i’ve heard my fair share of awe and amazement at where i’m from, the person i am; skin, hair and colloquial phraseology. I don’t make sense to many, a walking remnant of the colonial French West Indies with rhetoric as rich and colourful as our history after the fact. Do i enjoy coming from such a place? Yes, it’s always better to be different. Do i like living in such a place? Hell, no; nothing works, the majority of the country are idiots and criminals, plus it’s hot. But it’s made me who I am, so I will write/whinge and tell stories while I’m here. Might as well embrace my roots, or rather wave at them from across a room. Enjoy!