My pen drips liquid pleasure, my writing is like crack cocaine to my brain. I do not enjoy everything I put down but I always get a buzz from the reaction it elicits. It is true that most true artists are interested not in the millions that idolize their work but in the hundreds that claim not to be impressed. I do not feel like an artist, I feel more like a magician, conjuring up words of such exquisite fragility that the fabric from which this intricate tapestry is woven; is at once as shred able as cotton and at the same time as strong as silk. I feel like good writing should go down smooth like Irish cream but with the alcoholic effect of a shot of Irish whiskey. I write because I am bored, and need an escape, a place where my mind is occupied with complex realities and the everyday anomalies of human existence. I write to kill the fiery devil at the center of my heart that wants me to do so much more about the everyday injustices both real and perceived that plague not just me or mine but humanity and man. I write to express a point of view, to get out an opinion, to stretch my arguments over a wider area than the guy siding in the barstool next to me at the pub, to openly state my assumptions to see if others think along the same path. But mostly, I write, because I have an audience, even if it is an audience of one, it is more than my words deserve and for that I say thank you.
Nedu Nnadi
