Slits and Giggles

By Cimone Fulham

Born To Be A Scribe

My love affair with the written word started way before aliens (AKA men) came to exist in my life. As kids, my siblings and I, homework for the day done and over with, would be allowed to play with cousins who lived but a stone’s throw away from us. Like the next person, I love looking back to beautiful childhood memories. But the definitive moments of my youth, the ones I never spoke of, were what I relished the most. One of them was how I would tell our old maid of a caregiver that I was staying in because it was time for my siesta. Yaya would give me a lingering evil eye that translated to daunting words-- “Tread lightly, naughty one…or else!” before proceeding to leave with my siblings in tow. I would then bolt my bedroom door, bring out old Corona notebooks and start writing ‘plays’ concocted out of my childish whimsies. I would review where I had left off from the day before and start again…until I’d hear the doorbell signaling that my siblings were home, spent from an afternoon of cousin-playing. I would quickly hide my ‘works’ underneath my closet of clothes and the budding scribe that I was would retire for the day. It was an atypical hobby for a seven-year old, but I loved it. On and on it went without anybody ever finding out. I kept my craft to myself. I had an inherent devotion for words, and I knew at an early age that because of this, writing would become my passion. Of course, my infantile oeuvres are long gone, but my love for writing remains. Think the Bard knew that early on he was resigned to toil by way of quill and paper? I’m thinking—no. But I did. I always knew: I was meant to be a writer.

To Write or Not to Write

When high school came a-calling, my penchant for writing was appended by another pastime, reading. I found my world of ideas in the reclusive art. I welcomed English reading assignments and essay writing with equal fervor. It was my literary yin and yang. I would lose myself in reading and find a slightly improved version of me emerge in my journals. I was by no means a brilliant writer in my teens, but there was an introverted profundity that lent itself to the activity, and I loved that. So I kept at it. I thought long and hard about my beliefs before I wrote them down. I always feared someone would chance upon my journal, interpret its contents wrongly and that would be my undoing. I may come off a bit of a tattle to a lot of people, but I keep a lot of thoughts to myself. That I took the two-fold task of reading and writing much too seriously was not a known fact. Nobody ever heard me say, “I’m just going to be in my room…writing.” It wasn’t a detail that served many a conversation pool. Everyone always had the notion that I was the happy-go-lucky sort. And happy person that I turned out, I was very good at playing that part.

Putting my thoughts down on paper may have been very liberating, but I was immobilized by the fear of being read by people. So when asked if I would like to try writing for the paper, I would quickly mumble an excuse and be on my way. It always seemed daunting to have people literally “reading my mind.”

And that was that. I tried to write after that, but writer’s block found its way to me, and in the end, writing had become a hapless pursuit. Still and all, I welcomed my inclination for the art, especially when I was feeling particularly elated or angst-ridden. Personally, the cathartic rush of writing down a piece of my mind was better than a listening ear any day.

The Lost Art Found

Almost twenty years and three fun albeit unfulfilling jobs later, quarter-life crisis notwithstanding, my best friend sat me down and told me, “Hey, writer wannabe, notice we’re not getting any younger. You may live for writing, but if you don’t share that with anybody, then it’s a lost cause. You might as well have been a spaceman in this lifetime and people wouldn’t know the difference. Nor would they care. You have too much going for you. You always say that your legacy is to touch as many lives as you can. Well, wake up and smell the damn coffee because nobody leaves a legacy by being afraid!” And that shook me up.

An adage by an E.M. Forster comes to mind. “We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us.”

So I quit work, left a debilitating decade-old relationship and invested in a laptop. I stripped myself of shackling security blankets and already I feel a step closer to my dream.

I know I have a long way to go, but I’m not constrained by my fears anymore. True, I never had any doubts about what I wanted to do, but I always had doubts about myself. It has taken me a really long time to get here, but I am here.

And unlike the fearful seven-year old who repressed her passions, this twenty-seven year old welcomes the urgency to write. Every morning, I wake up and reach out for my laptop, but what rouses me from sleep are the thoughtful messages of a man who loves my writing and me, most of all.

Cimone Fulham likes to read, write, and colour. She is sporty, androgynous & a chronic people-watcher. She can be reached at 7square.pegs@gmail.com