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I am not a writer,
certainly not in the traditional sense. I endure a professional life
that is far removed from the burden of thinking up something creative
to write every week. My colleagues at work would be shocked to find
that on the Internet and elsewhere I am regarded as a writer. Most of
my days at work are spent making sure that official memos are stripped
of the indiscipline of creative flourishes. I do write nonstop, it is a
disability. I have to write, whether it makes sense or not. It is a
good thing because I am required by some contract to come up with a
certain number of words each week. To date, I have not had a problem
with meeting that quota. I have had the opposite problem; staying
within the allotted number of words. I am quite garrulous, I must admit.

Where and how do I
write? Many times, I actually write longhand on notepads. Lately most
of my work is done on Amebo, my blackberry. I type as fast as the ideas
come, any and everywhere. Ideas choose inappropriate times to birth and
so my blackberry helps since she is always with me. Sometimes when
Amebo is not feeling too well, my iPhone Kokolette does the job just
fine. My laptop Cecelia helps me to polish the final draft. Cecelia
goes with me most places but she can be spotted at her favourite spot
at my bedside, or somewhere on the bathroom floor.

I write
everywhere: in bed, in the bathroom, on the dining table, at events,
chaperoning our kids, anywhere I have a few minutes. I tend to write
about any and everything. I live vicariously through our children and
there does not seem to be a shortage of inspiration when I am around
them. Life in America offers creative opportunities also. Fading
memories of a life in Nigeria are also still rich in inspiration. I
also read nonstop and offer my strong views in the form of book
reviews. Folks tend to think of me as a book critic. I don’t like that
label much because I also write creative non-fiction, poetry and
freewheeling essays.

Yes, I read
nonstop, a habit I acquired from my dad. Catholic boarding school was
hell for little boys but I have fond memories of our library at
Annunciation Catholic College, Irrua. I grew up reading books because
at the time, reading was actually a form of entertainment. I travelled
the world in books and I exaggerate slightly if I tell you that I have
probably read most of what was offered by Heinemann’s African Writer’s
Series. My favorite author of all times is Chinua Achebe. I am
unashamedly an Achebe groupie. I half joke to young aspiring writers
that they need to change their names to Chinua Achebe if they want me
to read their stuff. I read blogs nonstop. I dream of that day when an
enterprising publisher would convince Achebe to start a daily blog,
featuring random musings on anything. Every morning, he would look out
a window and start pecking away at his iPad. That would be something. I
would give my paycheck for that. Every paycheck.

My views tend to
be strong, some say sometimes too strong. These views come out mostly
in my book reviews. I also tend to buy my own books because I actually
am eager to patronise our African writers. It is an expensive habit but
I am addicted to our stories. The reviews come as a side product of my
obsessive need to read. I simply compile the notes on the pages,
package them and send them out to my editor. She patiently puts the ‘u’
back in ‘color’ and publishes it. If I like a book, I gush over it, if
I hate it, I get really irritated and I let the author know it. My time
is over-priced and I don’t take kindly to wasting it reading a book
that is well, a waste of my time. Especially since I pay for most of
the books I review. A bad book is usually the price of a good bottle of
Chilean Malbec. Lost opportunities to meet a good bottle of red agitate
me.

I have a cult following of critics. I know now why offering
criticism is hard. Because taking it hurts, I must say that on balance,
I have been treated well. I get a walloping whenever I write
unfavourable reviews of books written by popular authors. They tend to
be young, extremely popular young writers with a hugely devoted
following, blessed with a circle of fiercely devoted friends. I envy
them, really. I probably won’t stop offering my personal opinions, as
long as I read. I actually love hearing from folks, regardless of the
tone. I occasionally get some pretty abusive pieces sent to me
privately, someone actually called me a conceited ignoramus the other
day, but I try hard to figure out what someone is trying to communicate
to me. I am not a conceited ignoramus.