Saturday, June 21, 2014


Call me pretentious or exiguous or both but i like to think of myself as a writer, as an artist. In addition, i see myself as experimental. I eschew conventional forms because i find them inadequate. This doesn't necessarily imply my disenchantment with them or lack of belief in their efficacy. I articulate clearly my own predilections for the unusual, the maverick, the anomalous.

When i began conceptualizing writing what i forthwith will i ran through the gamut of options available to me. There were forms i could deploy artfully, utilizing the potentiality of narrative thrust they offered with great skill. And i know i have it in me to use these forms successfully or ,at the very least, competently. But, as i mentioned, it is not the abilities of these forms but the possibilities of hitherto untapped ones that are propulsive for me.

The narrative that is forthcoming has a certain inevitability about it because i have imbued it with a finality, a self imposed finality that has ,nonetheless, the capriciousness of  fate about it. The circumstances are invested with retrospective insights but i want to retain, despite these retroactive constructions, an elemental sense of lived experience, its immediacy, freshness and unsullied purity. Can a flashback capture the rawness of events as and when they happened. Perhaps it is always a blend, an amalgam because memory is both deceptive and  traversable. Besides past, present and future are not inviolably differentiated. They intersect fortuitously. Besides there is something evanescent about compartmentalizing existence because though lived experience is reconfigured it is uncapturable. The emotions attendant on it retain their indubitability, however.

Rather self effacingly, though not without a measure of pride i set forth the eventful account of what happened. I will avoid embellishments and be austerely factual but will, despite the factuality render my account factitious. I do not intend a chronological, linear unraveling of what will henceforward be. Verisimilitude turns on its head when the conventions of realism, contravened by physics and indeterminacy, become constructed narratives, neither veracious nor apocryphal but fictional. So my account will be in the interstices between fiction and fact, in short like life. 

No comments:

Post a Comment