By Stephanie Motz Skinner
We sat by the window contemplating the waves pounding the rocks, Lion’s Head was shrouded in mist and raindrops were gently trickling down the windows. The sky was somber.
After fifteen minutes of typing manically on the computer, I presented James with the first original blog post for the latest project we’ve undertaken, Return to Dignity. I was inspired. I had spent the last week transcribing the preliminary interviews for a new book we are helping write and the environment we were in was setting my creativity alight. Or so I thought, but James was not impressed. It’s just the first draft, I thought. It can’t be that bad.
But really it wasn’t even a draft, not even a skeleton; it was just a pile of bones, my own labyrinth of thoughts.
I thought that because I understood what I was trying to say the blog post was ready to be published. James made me realize I had not even started.
There was a time when in the ninth grade, I sat at my desk in our class of eight students in my hometown of Choluteca and the teacher’s voice was completely nullified by my overpowering imagination. As I stared blankly at the whiteboard in front of me, I dreamt of becoming a writer, a poet. I was convinced that Pablo Neruda would have been overwhelmed with the color and the rhythm of my prose. As he read my words the meaning of his existence was revealed to him and so he wept. I saw him do so with my mind.
In reality, I wasn’t amazing at all, but I believed I could be. I knew I had not reached my full potential, but I was curious and interested. I wanted to learn how Pablo Neruda could address an onion and write for it such graceful lyrics.
My writing was emotional. I was trying. I was searching inside myself for feelings, for words and images to describe what I was thinking. Somewhere in my journey I lost that spark and gradually I became lazy with my writing. I stopped looking beyond the surface. I stopped asking questions that led to more questions. I got comfortable with factuality. Maybe I became too busy, or maybe I was discouraged by the professor in journalism school who told me that my vocabulary was dull and that I needed help formulating my sentences. Suddenly, I dreaded sharing my writing or my ideas in class. I used to glance at the writing of students who proudly left their papers on their desk in front of them and I began to compare myself with them. I thought, If only I could write like them, my papers wouldn’t be hiding inside my bag. And so I began to believe that I would never become the writer that I once believed I would be.
I honestly don’t think anybody in journalism school taught me anything about writing that was as important and impacting as what James mentioned that morning in Cape Town.
Becoming a writer is part of the process of finding one’s own voice and writing in my voice is more important than writing like somebody else. Writing that makes an impact is writing that comes from the heart.
At journalism school we learnt to state the facts, stick to them and discard our emotions. That works great if you’re writing about the implementation of local bylaws but when it comes to the kind of writing I’m interested in it is exactly our emotions, our feelings, and our perspectives that add the color and the substance to our stories that makes our writing unique.
The book that James and I are in the process of writing is a collection of stories about the women of Living Hope.
Living Hope empowers HIV+ vulnerable women in Africa. They help return these ladies to a place of dignity by giving them the opportunity to regain control of their lives. Some of these ladies have suffered terribly and they deserve their stories to be told with sensitivity and skill. It’s a little overwhelming to think that I get to be a part of that process and I am so thankful for the opportunity to learn from these amazing ladies.
So for this project I’m starting a new season in my life. Like Pablo Neruda, I’m slowly peeling off the surface of each story to discover the details that each layer reveals. I want to engage my curiosity and ask more questions. I’m hunting for the right word and imagery. I’m digging deeper into my mind and my emotions and I’m letting my imagination flow freely. I’m in pursuit of my voice.
