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Now that I’ve written one book that you’ve probably never heard of, I’m going to tell you how to become a writer:

1. You must read.
Read widely, read voraciously, read intelligently. And before you say
“Aha, I already read!” . . . I mean books. Not the Arts and Culture
pages of Next newspaper, not the gossip column in Encomium, not the
latest post on MrNaijaTomTom.blogspot.com—I mean real, dog-ear-able,
paper books.

2. Read fiction.
Romance, historical, spy, fantasy, mystery, literary, Hints
magazine—all are fiction. Read nonfiction. “Breaking the Yoke of
Ancestral Curses” by Apostle Malachi Paul and “Why We Struck” by
Adewale Ademoyega are both works of non-fiction, but I recommend the
latter. Read drama. However, if you find plays hard to get into, which,
let’s face it, you probably do, don’t worry, there’s always
Theatre@Terra. As for poetry: only read it if you truly, genuinely love
your mother.

3. A final word on
reading: read books by African writers, too. Reading Stephen King is
fine, or Toni Morrison if you like that highfalutin stuff, but these
two writers are American, and one is white and the other black, one is
male and the other female, one has soft straight hair and the other
rocks natty dreads. My point is: how can you be a Gabonese writer if
you don’t read Gabonese writers? How you can be ordained the next great
African writer—by the New York Times, of course—if you don’t read
African writers?

4. I lied: this is
the final word on reading. To earn the right to be called a Nigerian
writer, one must have read Olaudah Equiano, Zulu Sofola, or Helen
Ovbiagele. If you haven’t read any of these writers, refer to the title
of this piece.

5. You still want
to be a writer? Ok. But first, some essentials. Grow dreadlocks, or at
least an afro. Move into Ajegunle, or Nembe Waterside, or any
shantytown where you can still find affordable housing. Get rid of your
car and commute by danfo, or better still, walk. Renounce religion,
give up your job, take up alcohol and cigarettes, and wear batik
shirts. Steal from family, lie like an honest politician, choose your
friends based on the criterion that they come from wealthy families,
and hob-nob with the literati, or cognoscenti, or whatever they call
themselves these days. I promise you, you cannot write a book unless
you first get a life.

6. Alternatively .
. . bag a PhD in Classics, or Anthropology, or Wildlife and Fisheries.
Then get a job as a university lecturer, publish your manuscripts with
roadside printers, foist your books on your students, beg or bully your
colleagues into writing longwinded dissertations on the significance of
your contribution to sub-Saharan literature, get a professorship, and
retire to the oh so happy life of ANA conventions.

7. Now, to the
craft of writing. My advice: go online. Wikipedia has gigabytes more
information on that hocus-pocus than one thousand and one clones of
Chinua Achebe can ever teach you. Since we’re on the subject of craft,
here’s something to remember after you’ve written your book: never,
ever, ever read what the newspaper reviewers write about your work. The
dearth of critical insight and the utter lack of writing ability
exhibited by this claque of shysters might blind you to your own
shortcomings.

8. Self-promotion.
An essential skill for any self-appointed writer. Possession of this
knack is an Abuja road to success. Self-promotion is more important
than number 1, more important than number 7, and most certainly more
important than numbers 5 or 6. As a writer who has any intention of
grabbing her share of attention in these clamorous days of
every-blogger-is-a-writer, you must first and foremost promote
yourself. There are ninety-nine ways to achieve this goal, but here’s
one that’s sure-fire: have your girlfriend take a photo of you, a
headshot preferably, with your chin resting in your hand and a faraway
look in your eyes; then create a Facebook fan page and set this photo
as your profile image; then “friend” any Tom, Dick or Harry who has
4999 friends and beg him, beseech him, implore him to invite all his
friends to “like” your page. Voila, bwana—instant celebrity.

9. Now that you’ve
rediscovered reading, and increased your chances of dying from cancer,
and acquired some knowledge of the awfulness of those pesky –ly
adverbs, and claimed your spot on Google Search; now, fellow writer,
now you must write that book. And you will, we know you will, because
everybody and their little sisters expect you to.

10. A final word on
everything: if after applying these tips you still find that you’re
unable to produce a book, then forget it, get a job, or kill yourself:
you’re not a writer.

A. Igoni Barrett is the author of ‘From Caves of Rotten Teeth’.