Reading stories created by others is an absolute joy for me and equally so is writing stories of my own. I spent a great deal of my childhood blissfully living the stories that I created in my mind. The power to create worlds, societies, and people is simply prodigious. To wield the power of the pen or even the keyboard for that matter and create magic saddled with the type of boldness, rhythm, and sweetness that can only come from Caribbean writers and stories. I am simply in awe.

In my state of reverence, I registered for a Creative Writing elective at UWI as part of my degree requirement. In my mind, I am a reader and reviewer, therefore I can discuss at length the mechanics of writing, the character development, and the feelings that a book can invoke. I thought that those strengths qualified me to be able to adapt quickly to writing beautifully. I thought the course would have been easy enough to complete and after which I would be well on my way to articulately putting the stories in my head on paper. At the end of the course, I was humbled with a grade C. I passed by the skin of my teeth.

The thing is that I underestimated what it takes to write. It is not as simple as just putting words on paper and the result is a book that readers are lining up around the block to purchase. Writing is an art. Like many other art forms, it takes precision, style, research, and most importantly, practice. In the words of a dear friend, writers must write! Writers can research, they can observe but they must write in order to hone their art. So when I, predominately a consumer, with many ideas for stories, decided to write, only to realize that I am not quite the writer. 

The art of writing is perfected through a continuous process. I started the course with a considerable supply of enthusiasm and inquisitiveness. I devoured the weekly writing exercises that included both free-flow writing and guided journaling. I toyed with the various story ideas that I had been sitting on for what seemed like decades. I built on ideas, scrapped them, combined several ideas, killed some, and resurrected others. Next up was the time to write. It turns out that writing strips you little by little as you paint words on a page. Word by word, your hidden self comes to the surface. The characters may be fictional but their fears, emotions, and secrets are as real and as much a part of you as your ideas. I submitted the first short story vulnerable and bare. By the second assignment, I was as naked as a newborn emotionally but felt as though the world had been lifted off my shoulders. 

Writing can take a lot from the writer but it also can heal and calm the soul.  Therefore to be able to exist with purpose those who are inclined to write must write. We must write as if our very existence depended on it. We must write as if there is no tomorrow.  Although I am now armed with a grade C, I was given a great set of tools that will help me to be a better writer, once used frequently and consistently.