The Reclusive Writer

I am quick to admit that I am a very reclusive person. By nature I am painfully private about things in my life. There was a period in my life where I sought to fit in but that was as successful as trying to drown fish in water. I have since come back home to being the recluse that I am. Yet in being reclusive, intoxicated in my own reality, I find the well-spring of creativity. I imagine the lives of other people. Living and breathing the air of the characters that populate the world of my mind. It is a world undisturbed by the harsh reality of this world.

There is nothing bad about being shy about yourself. In looking myself, I realized that I have a lot of acquittances yet only a handful of close friends. People with whom I can be vulnerable with and comfortable to share my thoughts and ideas.

Yet it is in my own quiet retreat, I am able to write and spin the tales that flash within my head. I put on my beenie, wake up my iBook and type away. Some stories go unfinished, some take flight yet others remain empty pages waiting for another visit.

I sometimes shun writer gatherings for the very reason, I prefer to write alone. I am not saying writer groups are bad. No. By all means join one if you feel it would help your craft. All I am saying is, it may not work for me. I enjoy writing alone. In the comfort of my own thoughts and the quietness of my own space. Do what is best to express your craft. Don’t compromise on what makes you a writer.

If you are a reclusive writer like me, don’t worry. You are in good company.


My short depressive state of mind

I’m going through a bout of depression. Just feeling “blue” over some incidences that happened last week. But it has given me cause to read up on the whole matter of Depression and it really is an interesting subject. I can clearly see why so many people with chronic depression choose to commit suicide. It is a really bad state of mind to be in. I realized, I’ve learnt to cope with this trait of mine in my late teens so I am able to function better now as an adult.

I think it was due to the fact I changed my thinking pattern and embarked on a quest for self-discovery at the age of 18. I came across Edward d Bono’s book – Lateral Thinking and it changed the way I thought about things. This coupled with the fact I took up meditating on Bible verses could have been the reason for my ability to cope with depression.

Being depress is not a good thing and no-one can really understand how it is, unless you are also a sufferer. For me things just become very slow and mundane. I do not enjoy doing the things I like and I end up sitting in a chair pondering or sleeping. I have since learnt to slow down my thoughts and to enjoy the simple things in life. To not take everything seriously and to know that life is worth living. Depression robs you of the joy for living and creates an unrealistic world where nothing is right and everything is wrong.

Yet, in this state of gray paint; I have found emotions to write. I find it easy to write about someone down on his luck and about living for hope or someone entertaining the thought of suicide. These emotions and thoughts are real to me and I merely chronicle them down onto paper for an audience to read. It can be said that my depressive state of mind is also the well spring from which my inspiration flows from.

My insanity is the cradle of my creativity.

So folks, our (perceived) weaknesses may in fact be our greatest strength as long as we learn to harness it to its full potential and shape it into the form for which we like. There is nothing wrong in being depressive as long as you can turn it into the reason why you love life with full zest.

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A Lighthouse called Desire

This was never meant to be more than a simple post to vent out frustration but sometimes the words cut through the fog like shards of light from a ship lost out at sea. 


The Word needed safe haven and where else than the blank space of a writer’s mind. Yet sometimes that ship finds no haven, the harbor is not where it is suppose to be so the captain pours over his maps, wondering whether he had taken a wrong turn when passing through the Cape of Inspiration. He mulls over the landmarks called Talent, Ideas, Dialogue and Plot yet find no reference out of place. He should be reaching port but port seems to have shifted place overnight.

Our captain slumps into his shaky wooden chair, that creaks under his weight (got to lay off the food, he thinks) and plucks the pencil resting on his right ear. He draws a line from the last port of call and traces it towards the port called Finished Work. Yes, he should be nearing it, he should be able to smell the scent of fresh grass and soggy dirt yet all he smells is salt and the odor of dead fish. 

He frowns.

This is not where he wanted to be. Lost out at sea where the fog is heavy but fog only hangs around land yet where is the sound of crashing waves against rock or seagulls or the chiming of the church bells? Where is this port? He asks himself a simple questions and get a million more in return. He stands and checks his compass, His bearings are right. His directions are sure yet why has he not found land? 

He turns and exit the room, making his way onto deck. The fog hangs like a lazy curtain. White on white and nothing in sight. Darn, this will be the death of me, the thought stings him. He stares at the stars, his father told him that if you ever get lost out at sea, seek guidance from the stars. They would guide you home. So he looks up at the black sky and traces the line of stars with his finger. The North star is where it should be. Sagittarius lumbers above him, Pieces swims by. 

He is where he is yet he is lost.


The whisper startles him.


The word rings again in his ears. He turns around hoping to see one of the crew standing behind him but there are none. They are all below deck sleeping while he stands alone on deck.


Again the whisper speaks as if the voice is the fog which envelopes the rickety ship. Maybe it is the voice of the fog. Or could it be a mermaid sent forth by Neptune to further mislead his way.

“Show yourself,” the captain demands, his hand heavy on the musket tucked away under his belt.


“Show yourself! Foul creature,” his demand is louder. “Show yourself or bid your way.”


“Foul creature, you are. May the heavens curse you for leading a ship of innocent men to their doom.”

“Doom? I merely point you to what you seek.” The voice is melodic, a whisper carried upon the fog.

“Ney! You seek to kill us all.”

“Kill? No. You seek Desire. Find Desire and you’ll find your way home, my dear Captain.”

“You’ll surely send us aground.”

“No. Would we send the magnificent Word to a watery grave? We dare not, for her tale needs to be written.”

His hand is lighter on the musket and curiosity sets in. This is a strange thing, for he has found himself having a conversation with the Fog that envelopes his ship.

“State thy business and be on your way,” he says sternly, a Captain would always be a captain even when addressing a curtain of mist.

“You have all the skills, the talent and the tools yet you lack desire. The one beacon that can guide you home. It is not on your charts rather it dwells where-ever your heart sets itself to be.”

“You speak in riddles. I am a simple man, tell me where is this Desire?”

The laughter is soft, angelic yet eerie. Mocking our dear Captain.

“Point the ship in the direction you want to go. If that is your desire than you would surely find the safety of the harbor.”

“How would I know, I am going in the right direction?”

“You don’t but look out for the lights of the Lighthouse called Desire. It will point you in the direction you need to go.”

The Captain manages a nod, “Who are you?”


He looks around him, “Who are you?”

He is met with silence save for the sound of the ship creaking as it rolls over waves.

He returns to his cabin and look over his maps again and notices something different. Under the light of his flickering candle he notices a new landmark, crossed over by the line he drew before. It sit halfway between his destination and his last port of call. It is a lighthouse labeled Desire.

“Follow the lights, it will point us home,” the Captain echos the voice of the Fog.