Finding My Writing Voice

Stephen King says, ‘If you don't have time to read, you don't have the time (or the tools) to write. He is right. Nothing fires me up to write like reading a good book. 

I reckon writers, seasoned or burgeoning, will do well to read others and to explore all kinds of writing styles and genres. There are authors whose works have inspired me and informed my appreciation of the art of writing over the years. Authors that include Bryce Courtenay with his African tales, Tess Gerritsen, the former surgeon who draws from her medical experience, Christian author Chris Fabry, Maya Angelou, Chinua Achebe, Alice Walker, Naomi Alderman, to name but a few. 

But writers who want to grow and expand their horizon will understand that it is not enough to just read a good book. They should sit down and write, for it is only through the practice of writing that one gets to explore their thoughts and feelings, experiment with the various writing styles, and ultimately establish their own unique writing voice.

My writing has evolved over the years. Finding my writing voice has been and still is. The process can span for years as one seeks to perfect and establish their uniqueness in the writing world.

Even though I cite other authors in some of my writings and find their works intriguing, I relish being able to create original content of my own: a quote, a poem, a blog, an article or indeed a novel. 

I like to depict my own version of life as I draw from my own experiences, choose my own words and expressions. Over the years, I have discovered that writing is not so much about the words or phrases I use, but rather the way I use those words to depict the world around me that give character and authenticity to my writing. 

My kind of writing's exact nature should provoke, in my reader, specific thoughts and feelings. This way, the reader experiences what drives me and explore my heart and soul.

My experiences are my most significant resource from which I draw knowledge, wisdom, and understanding. I am a product of my own interpretation of the world. How I embrace, receive and digest my experiences determines the ‘product’ which is my message to the world. The end-product, which becomes palpable and tangible in all my writings 

My voice is the rhythm, the tone and the vibe the reader gets when they absorb and digest my works. It is that uniqueness in quality that separates me from other writers. It is writing in a way that does not seek to deceive or betray my personality or what I represent. When, in an instant, a reader recognises that vibe and uniqueness the second, they open my book to read. 

As a reader, I tend to gravitate towards certain books. My mood and needs at the time often determine which book I choose.  I also want a voice to appeal to my senses and to speak to my soul. Therefore, developing and establishing a reliable voice as a writer is your gift to the reader. It is your unique voice that gives the reader the motivation to pick your book over another. And the only reason a reader will keep coming back for more is the satisfaction and the established chemistry. In other words, they are getting, from you, something unique that no other writer can provide. When this kind of familiarity begins to happen, a writer can claim to have established their authentic writing voice. 

I am a versatile writer. I weave a blog is not the way I write a poem, an article or a novel. I derive pleasure in exploring different writing styles, offering different perspectives to diverse audiences. I should delve into uncharted territories and continue to evolve and not remain stuck in my comfort zone. I should be able to let loose and allow myself to explore the strange realms of imagination and create works of art. I am a writer, after all. 

But moving from my personal experiences and letting my imagination soar does not, in any way, take away my authority as a writer. If anything, stretching my creativity will take me to new and greater heights and allow me to develop facets of my character that I never knew existed. Not only do I extend my appreciation of the world at large and grow as a human being, but I also discover a new potential within me. This process of expansion, if I allow it to happen organically, believing in my powers and letting my personality shine, could be the unveiling of a ‘new self’. The self I was meant to become all along.  

And perhaps, just perhaps, I get to become the kind of writer the world has been waiting for all along!

Dear Mystery Man,

I don't know how long you have been following my blog, but if you have, then you will know by now that I’ve been in love with love for as long as I can remember. 

You would have learnt that despite the unfortunate things that have happened to me, I remain optimistic, idealistic, almost to the point of being foolish. I suppose you could say, I have the faith of a mustard seed.

But for a while there I wasn’t sure you had read my blog entitled: To the Man Who Will Love Me. I wasn’t sure you had grasped what I had stated in my open letter to you. And for one horrible moment, I doubted you even existed. 

I was wrong. 

You are out there, perhaps wishing upon a star.

In case you're wondering what I am on about, well, let me break it down for you. A few days ago, the dandiest thing happened: I was at work when a colleague came to tell me there was a man outside, looking for me.

Was it a relative? A friend? A bearer of bad news, perhaps?

It turns out, it was just the delivery man. 

I must tell you, Mystery Man, that you fulfilled one of my fantasies. Thank you for the gorgeous flowers, for Mr Teddy who has since become my most treasured companion, the beautiful message on the card and the voucher which I will squander with little guilt.

   

Could this be the beginning of something amazing? 

Clearly, I am over the moon, but let us not get ahead of ourselves. 

I am not naïve, thanks to this thing called life. The path to true love, I've learnt, is never easy. I’ve tried and failed before. But I have learnt from my mistakes.

And this is what I've learnt:

Passion and emotions can swell our hearts for a time, but it is through some seasons in our lives that truly capture the very essence of the kind of love that our hearts long for so much. Seasons when nothing seems to be working. When nothing makes sense. Seasons when we find ourselves uttering the words, 'why won’t he/she hear me?' 'How will we ever get through this?'

So, what do you do when that happens? Do you give up and hope that one day you will once again stumble upon another opportunity at amazing love? Or do you stay and fight?

                

                                 

Sometimes people drift apart. At times, pride gets in the way. But love is a decision. A decision to stay. Life will test you, and there may come a time when you will need to fight for that love.

Speaking of fighting, here is what I believe one needs to win the battle:

Loyalty

-         Isn't it the essence of true love? Being on the same team, fighting for the same result? A good friend can weep with you in times of trouble, but if your tears keep falling, and the sun remains set, it is the one who stays with you to the bitter end that loves you the most.

Compassion

-         Understanding the other person and how our words and actions impact the other’s ability to love and understand us. When we aim for the same resolution, it is easy to stop each other with compassion and understanding when a line is about to be crossed.

Trust/Respect/Communication

-        earned and built through honest communication, resisting the urge to entertain the negative voice which says, ‘do not believe anything they say.’

-          Broaching whatever subject with patience, love, and understanding.

-          Lay your cards on the table. Holding back = willing your partner to fail.

-         Giving clues on how to fill that hole by being honest about your feelings and thoughts. The truth may hurt but being on the same teams makes it easier to ride the tide. 

Reassurance

-          Reassuring each other of our devotion, commitment and love. Things may be hard right now, but if we know love and appreciation is there, then we are assured of their commitment to try no matter what.

Change.

-          Willingness to make amends, doing whatever needs to be done to improve the relationship.

-         Recognising that change does not happen overnight, therefore, giving the other person space and time to process everything.

-         Rewarding positive change; showing gratitude and being genuine in our thank yous. And when we change, remaining consistent.

Forgiveness

-        Genuine forgiveness does not keep dragging up the past when new conflicts arise. It is not that we fight, but it is how we fight.

Love gives you the courage to lay bare your soul and be vulnerable.         

Love is not the loudest voice in the crowd of supporters? It is the voice that is still there after the crowd has gone home. 

You can be diseased, stripped naked by the burdens of life; but it is the one who remains by your side that loves you the most. For how can genuine love only be shown when times are good?

That, Mystery Man, is what I think.

The Unwanted Stranger...Flash Fiction by Bertha Mukodzani

 ‘Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.’

Martin Luther King Jr.

Image From the Internet

The man clenched his jaw. He circled me as he scanned my body, examining my arms, thighs, chest and behind. This unwanted stranger, who had not uttered a single word since he slithered into my bedroom, carried himself like he owned the air I breathed. Something in his eyes and the way his mouth contorted told me I disgusted him. Why was he even here?

     ‘I suppose you will do,’ he finally muttered.

     His voice was soft. Too soft for a man, I thought. His dull green eyes resembled the colour of frogs bundled in the corner of a riverbank. When he leaned closer, I wilted under his gaze.

     ‘Don’t be scared. I don’t bite.’ He grinned, the wrinkles under his eyelids deepening. The scar sliced horizontally across his forehead shifted towards his hairline. 

     Pivoting on my trembling legs in the middle of the room, I gathered my nerves and glared at him. ‘I am not scared, Sir.’

     ‘Then we have nothing to worry about,’ he said with a smile.

     His teeth were flawless. Neat rows of pearly whites. From the look of his clothes, shoes and accessories, he was from a wealthy background. He looked and smelt better than the others. The kind of man who could hand out a big fat cheque without wincing. Not that it mattered or changed anything. I did not know my worth; I was not to know.

     ‘Nice hair,’ the man said.

     I jerked my hand towards my head covered with a triumphant carpet of long, brown weave. ‘Thank you, Sir.’

     Adrenaline coursed through my veins at the thought of what was coming. Even though I had spent the entire morning steeling myself for this man’s arrival, seeing him undress me with his lecherous eyes made me realise just how unprepared I was. This was indeed happening, and no pep talk would quell my anxiety.

     ‘This will be a quick one. I have a meeting with my boss around lunchtime. After that, another briefing with a colleague. Can you imagine? What a drag.’

     It amazed me how the men Derek sent my way expected me to care about their lives. They griped and grumbled, sharing their problems as if it was part of the package. As if my grasping of their world somehow legitimised their presence. But I knew my place, so I put on my usual Oscar-winning performance.

     ‘I wouldn’t know, Sir, but it sounds interesting. You must be a very important man, Sir.’ I forced a smile.

     Derek Thomas insisted on perfection.

     Nausea rose in my stomach when the man unbuckled his belt, dropped his trousers, and laid bare what was underneath. Oh, God, why me? My chest tightened, and I struggled to breathe. 

     Using a blue handkerchief, the man wiped glistening sweat from his forehead and tucked a wisp of ginger hair behind his ears. ‘Don’t worry. I am a simple man. Just take your clothes off and turn around. I will be done in a jiffy, as they say.’ He gave a nervous laugh. 

     There was nothing simple about this man. Or any of the clients I had seen, for that matter. Hesitantly, I turned around as instructed. To my surprise, the man paused. Had he changed his mind and wanted to talk instead? Alas, my hope was in vain; he then ordered me to bend down. With fearful bewilderment rising inside me, I did as I was told and primed myself for what was coming. 

     Grabbing me by the waist, he thrust his manhood into me and rode me like a horse. To avoid wailing, I gritted my teeth and ignored his hot breath and the perspiration dampening the small of my back. I willed my mind to wander. Back to my childhood, living with my parents. Back to the time I used to play skip with my friends in the school playground. I imagined myself inside my mother’s kitchen, sampling her fried, pumpkin leaves and sadza. My happier days, when life was simple. There was nothing I would not give to go back and undo all the things I had said to my parents when they tried to teach me right from wrong. If only I had listened to their ancient stories, which at the time seemed far-fetched. I felt a wrenching inside. A sadness so encompassing I wanted to die. I had brought this upon myself. All of it.

     A jerk and a groan later, it was all over. I came back to reality, watching the wretched man clean himself dry with the handkerchief he had used to wipe his face. Then he quickly got dressed.

     ‘Mind if I smoke?’ he asked, already dipping his hands into his pocket.

     Shivering like a reed, I shook my head.  

     He drew a cigarette from a shiny silver case, inserted it between his lips, and lit up a match. Smoke billowed around the room as he took a drag and released. Despite feeling the comings of a headache, I kept my face choreographed to his taste.

     ‘I’m Patrick, by the way. You are?’ He ejected another puff into the air.

     ‘You already know my name, Sir.’ I dodged his eyes.

     ‘Yeah, yeah, I know your business name. I meant the name your parents gave you.’

     If this was business, then I was Oprah freaking Winfrey, I thought. ‘I am Maka. Short for Makanyara.’

     Patrick dipped a nod. ‘I don’t know what that means, but it sounds nice. I dare say it’s pretty. And, well, enterprising.’ His compliment curdled into mocking.

     I managed to feign another smile, despite the loathing in my heart. According to Derek’s word, I was to conceal my emotions, withhold opinion, and avoid getting personal with my clients. My utterances were restricted to casual pleasantries, unless the men insisted on more. I was a robot.

     Patrick ambled towards the window, opened it, and tossed the burning cigarette on the lawn outside. Then, he walked back to where I sat curled around the contours of my plump, fluffy pillow, unable to move. He glanced down at me, tossed a wad of notes in front of me, and sauntered towards the door. As he reached for the handle, he turned around and beamed. ‘I shall be requesting your services again. I think I like you after all. Something about you.’ 

     With those words, he slammed the door behind him.

    Despite his smile and his voice, Patrick had a hard look about him. He reminded me of the previous client who slapped me across the cheek for refusing to be tied to the bed pole. That nasty man had made a complaint to Derek and removed himself from the register. I welcomed his departure, but he left a yoke around my neck. For a month, I wasn’t allowed to take advantage of my weekly chaperoned shopping. The only time I tasted the sweet smell of freedom, though tense and awkward it was.

     I collapsed on the bed face down. Unable to contain the pressure in my head, the throb between my legs, and the ache in my heart, I sobbed. I sobbed for my sorry little life. For what I had become.

     I was about to take a shower when another intrusive knock struck the door. Patrick must be returning for some item he had forgotten in my room, I thought. I sprang to my feet, shifted my eyes around the room, lifted the pillow, rolled back the rug, scanned under the bed and checked behind the door. There was nothing that belonged to Patrick. As I darted out of my room and towards the front door to allow him back in, something dawned on me. Without making a sound, I peeped through the keyhole and saw two men in black uniform standing on the other side. The men had portable radios stuffed in their pockets. One of them held what appeared to be a notebook. A diary, perhaps. I had heard stories about the men in uniform who patrolled the neighbourhood and made impromptu home visits. At the time, I did not pay close attention. People said a lot of things, especially my fellow immigrants. ‘Don’t do this. Don’t say that. Always carry this.’ It was as if I were a child. Looking at the two men outside, though, something in my stomach churned.

     With my heart pounding, I tip-toed back to my bedroom, slipped under the duvet cover, coiled my body up in a fetal position, and held my breath. The tapping persisted, sending disquieting vibrations into my stomach. It had been years since I ditched my nail-biting habit, but my thumb found its way into my mouth, my teeth tearing at the fingernail. After moments of quietly begging the good Lord to put an end to the incessant knocking, my head went into a spin, and an ache shot across my forehead. I suppose my nerves could only endure the terror for so long before my body went into a violent protest.

     After what seemed an age, the knocking stopped. I crept out of my room, teetered towards the front door, and pressed my ears against it, listening for movement. Any sound to alert me to danger. To satisfy my mind, I peered through the window in the living room and inspected the driveway. I exhaled, and my thrumming heart rested when I saw no car and no shadow of the two men. Sinking into the couch in one corner of the room, I covered my face with both hands and stilled my body, digesting everything. Then I let the tears seep through my fingers. When was this going to end?