A Smile Is All I Need

At the early age of 7, my father had already claimed the role of a lawyer as a profession for me. I agreed.

At 10, my best friend at the time charmed dancing upon me, even with two left feet and some serious lack of coordination, I agreed.

At 13, Christianity inspired being a prophetess -my young adolescent mind thought it only consisted of seeing other people’s future on sheer will and not a Godly gift- sounded kind of fun nevertheless. So I agreed.

At 15, Sickle Cell Anaemia painfully drove me to want to find an answer for mine and millions of other’s struggle, so the idea of a haemoglobin doctor fitted perfectly. I agreed.

At 16, My mother modulated the idea of owning my very own restaurant in the future, a catering certificate was needed. I agreed.

Social media prototypes distracted me for a brief moment, modelling sounded amazing! That notion vanished as quickly as it came once my stomach rolls reminded me of what a bad idea that was. Nevermind then!

At 17, I saw the fascination of becoming an Actress and all the glory that came with it, “I wasn’t too bad at acting”, I convinced myself. So I agreed.

Then at last, at 18 I had dreams upon dreams, different genres launched into my mind with a good night’s sleep. I began to write them down and revel in the newfound ability. I made up my mind and henceforth agreed.

Writing was the one thing I wasn't coerced into, it flowed out of me naturally. Writing is more than getting carried away in a realm of your choosing, where the only thing that mattered is you, your pen and your paper or you and your laptop -depending on your preference. It's more than escaping the harsh realities of general worldly adversities.

Prior to adjusting my attention to my creative side, I always felt nomadic. Friends knew their passion way before I did, I was told people work at different paces in life so I should just wait, and so I did. Have you ever been surrounded by people who are carelessly chatting about a topic you have absolutely no knowledge of? Kind of like back in school days when you get out of an exam and your friends are intensely arguing about one of two possibilities of what the answer to a specific question can be and you stand there awkwardly knowing your answer wasn't remotely the same as theirs. If not, I envy you! That feeling rested on my shoulders for what felt like an eternity.

The excitement in my father’s voice each time I changed my mind about the career path I have chosen and it wasn't a lawyer, withered, almost disheartened. The expectation of becoming a chef added more weight to my shoulders, choosing hospitality and catering at college to make my mother proud soon revealed as a regretful decision, cooking became the focal point for all things loathed by me. It wasn't until entering university that I realised I have spent my life making others joyous at the expense of my time, energy and happiness. No more, I thought.

After finding my calling, it was a constant battle of the mind, “Am I really cut out to be a writer?” or “What if people don't like my work”, “Is this form of writing accepted”, “No I can do it, my work is fantastic and if people don't like it well then that's on them”, “Actually no, I need people to like it in order to be established as a good enough writer”.The idea of expressing myself to others felt weirdly uncomfortable, so I continued to struggle all by myself. With each work I composed, I criticised it until it felt like garbage on the page. I remember reading my work out loud for the first time ever and to no other than my mother, it was mortifying. Stress and anxiety were all I could feel. Now don't get me wrong, I would gladly let people read my work but without me being there. It's easier that way, you know?

The dream is to become an author, producing well-written stories which will eventually make it to the big screens if deemed worthy. Baby steps first. The idea is to soon publish my first book to get some feedback from people other than my relatives, of course, they would applaud my work and tell me what I want to hear, and that's not what I need. What I need is to step into the criticising hands of the world, the centre stage where the spotlight shines with all types of honest remarks thrown at my book. I can take constructive criticism, I promise. My growth as an author is dependent on the audience’s judgments. In a perfect world, I would be Ernest Hemingway or J.K Rowling or even Shakespeare and would have already claimed victory in dominating the writing community but I'm not, unfortunately. Which is fine because I'm pretty sure those guys had their fair shares of obstacles and hatred from the public. They are, though, inspirations; an image of what success in accomplishing what you truly desire in an opinionated society looks like.

Up until recently, Vocal was not known to me. Once I stumbled upon this Godsent place of sanctuary, It felt genuine. I was no longer forcing myself to be the best writer ever known to mankind, I was just like everyone here, trying to find my feet and go where the wind takes me. Inspiration was everywhere and without realising it, I maintained a permanent residency here. The decaying burden of expectations unkinked out my shoulders, I am able to walk tall with my shoulders hanging proudly in the air. Although I haven't attained a lot of things, and I have no tales to tell about my adventures and no relevant life experience, I can only vow to present satisfactory work for readers hereafter. I have only now realised my niche, a vocation to enlighten the world of what I can offer; a brief moment of escape, a moment of enthusiasm where you want to get up and sing out loud- even with a screeching voice. A period where my work is anticipated by loyal bookworms. A moment where my story can be appreciated and bring forth a smile. A simple smile is all I need.