To Hell with Creative Writing; or, Politics: an Alternative Amusement
- By Uche Peter Umez
- Published June 29, 2009
- Features
-
Rating:
Uche Peter Umez
Uche Peter Umez has won awards in poetry, short story and children novel. He is the author of Dark through the Delta (poems), Tears in her Eyes (short stories) and Aridity of Feelings (poems).
View all Entries by Uche Peter Umez
There’s more to living than writing, you observed. Life has to be lived till it brimmed over like the bubbles of fresh palm-wine. Life has to be redeemed from all encumbrances. Go and dominate, the first man was instructed. Let your seeds run wild, you added for fun. Writing is a grind, no doubt. How tedious it is, you sighed, to burn precious time caught up in surreal landscapes, conjuring up a facsimile of creation, aiming for some cathartic and redemptive goals, when eventually humanity dismisses you as just one more result for Wikipedia.
You couldn’t think up how you would go about living life, how to afford the luxury. Tried to come up with a means, but your mind was just too-dazed, because the sense of it all now blew mist in your face. You soon realized that literature is a quixotic ego-trip, feeble attempt to impact community, both local and global. Change the worldview, probably. Creative writing obliterates identity, pulverizes the soul. It becomes inevitable to accept the writer’s vision as the quintessential farce; the grand artifice.
Huddled up in bed watching Biden and Palin try to outshine the other that night, it flashed before your eyes. Politicians seldom get disheartened. No matter the density of defeat, the smack of shame, they never lose a wink. No politician, as it were, would consider jumping into the river even when disgraced in a fraud. He knows that even scandal can be manipulated. Fury and fisticuffs, the politician may yield to, but never puts a bullet in his own head.
Now it’s clear enough that the greatest contribution to civilization is not through literature, but through embracing the sun-dried excreta that is politics. The politician is the change-inspirer, the revolutionary, the iconoclast, the legend, all you have dreamed of and toiled for.
That same night you still tried to discredit him as you’ve done all these years, because for the past decade or more, you found politics as shallow as it is stomach-turning. And when you tried to name some politicians who had shortened their lives, what came to memory was Hemmingway. Rabearivelo, Plath, Nortje, Gumocia, Lindegren, Urmuz and Jonker. Then the world almost tumbled over when Wallace took the road most travelled.
Back to the beach where the epiphany started. The sands still sponge your back, while the cherry petals of the sun brush over your ecstatic face. To evade the dénouement that awaits the writer, you conclude that politicians don’t cogitate, or dwell on the mysteries of things. They don’t let ideas and circumstances disturb them. They respond as instinctively as possible, quick and smart. That’s why someone as international and fatherly as McCain would say, “That one.” That’s why your former president exploded at journalists who tried to feel his response about the Ikeja bomb blast because they had disrupted his libidinous salad.
Ordinarily you hate politics. But it’s a pastime that is so arresting you’d have no moment to nurse manic thoughts. Very occupying indeed. So forget the hate. Forget the stench and wallow in it like a swine. There are pearls beneath the rot.
The problem with writers, though, is that idealism tends to skew judgment into nebulous dogma. They romanticize and don’t politicize, so much interested in being heard and read as if the world was simply a two-act pantomime. Ha, a writer! – as though the mere mention of that could incite orgasm.
The writers who had encouraged you all these years will call you a deserter; regard you worse than a pedophile. Down with the turncoat! Luckily, you wouldn’t suffer cast-the-first-stone scenario that woman whose husband couldn’t satisfy her went through, when she had to scratch the incurable itch against another’s man groin.
Let them know that there is no greater misery than writing. And you just cannot go on treading uphill. You’ve decided to caress your crumpled bitter self. Therefore, farewell to the careworn cavern of bookworms. Don’t give a hoot about effeminate reactions, because he who hits gold the world adores.
They’d support your resignation and hail it as timely, an auspicious omen, if they are wise. Whatever you amassed from the national house would service the aspirations of nascent writers and the entire coterie; that would certainly be an immense contribution to the old constituency.
Obstinacy is one of the things you should eschew when you finally register with a political party. Obstinacy, the classic Mephistopheles. It mars and never makes. Politics is about making not distancing alliances. Although it is in the nature of writers to be assertive, because, for goodness’ sakes, not only do they spend most part of the day evoking how best to give voice to expressions and project impressions, but also because the creator is also the fiddler of fates.
Now everyone has accepted the reality that the national house cannot be cleansed complete of its cherished soot and stink. Most of the “aliens and usurpers,” (whom you’re more qualified than) who do not possess the basic qualifications, would continue to parade outlandish degrees such as Yoruba genomics, Igbo empiricism, Hausa pyrotechnics, Niger Delta toxicology, and other gobbledygook degrees in the sacred chambers!
So wipe the wrinkles off your brow. In due course, friends would again rally round you. After all, yours is a nation where crooks become celebrated, charlatans become commemorated, pastors become politicians, and politicians become pastors.
And the tagline?
The more riches you stockpile in Switzerland and other open lands, the more protégées you attract. Not to mention the august fame. The media-hype as well.
On a final note, always remember that politics demands extreme creativity too – and the more imaginative you become the closer you get to appearing on Forbes list of enterprising young black politicians.
You couldn’t think up how you would go about living life, how to afford the luxury. Tried to come up with a means, but your mind was just too-dazed, because the sense of it all now blew mist in your face. You soon realized that literature is a quixotic ego-trip, feeble attempt to impact community, both local and global. Change the worldview, probably. Creative writing obliterates identity, pulverizes the soul. It becomes inevitable to accept the writer’s vision as the quintessential farce; the grand artifice.
Huddled up in bed watching Biden and Palin try to outshine the other that night, it flashed before your eyes. Politicians seldom get disheartened. No matter the density of defeat, the smack of shame, they never lose a wink. No politician, as it were, would consider jumping into the river even when disgraced in a fraud. He knows that even scandal can be manipulated. Fury and fisticuffs, the politician may yield to, but never puts a bullet in his own head.
Now it’s clear enough that the greatest contribution to civilization is not through literature, but through embracing the sun-dried excreta that is politics. The politician is the change-inspirer, the revolutionary, the iconoclast, the legend, all you have dreamed of and toiled for.
That same night you still tried to discredit him as you’ve done all these years, because for the past decade or more, you found politics as shallow as it is stomach-turning. And when you tried to name some politicians who had shortened their lives, what came to memory was Hemmingway. Rabearivelo, Plath, Nortje, Gumocia, Lindegren, Urmuz and Jonker. Then the world almost tumbled over when Wallace took the road most travelled.
Back to the beach where the epiphany started. The sands still sponge your back, while the cherry petals of the sun brush over your ecstatic face. To evade the dénouement that awaits the writer, you conclude that politicians don’t cogitate, or dwell on the mysteries of things. They don’t let ideas and circumstances disturb them. They respond as instinctively as possible, quick and smart. That’s why someone as international and fatherly as McCain would say, “That one.” That’s why your former president exploded at journalists who tried to feel his response about the Ikeja bomb blast because they had disrupted his libidinous salad.
Ordinarily you hate politics. But it’s a pastime that is so arresting you’d have no moment to nurse manic thoughts. Very occupying indeed. So forget the hate. Forget the stench and wallow in it like a swine. There are pearls beneath the rot.
The problem with writers, though, is that idealism tends to skew judgment into nebulous dogma. They romanticize and don’t politicize, so much interested in being heard and read as if the world was simply a two-act pantomime. Ha, a writer! – as though the mere mention of that could incite orgasm.
The writers who had encouraged you all these years will call you a deserter; regard you worse than a pedophile. Down with the turncoat! Luckily, you wouldn’t suffer cast-the-first-stone scenario that woman whose husband couldn’t satisfy her went through, when she had to scratch the incurable itch against another’s man groin.
Let them know that there is no greater misery than writing. And you just cannot go on treading uphill. You’ve decided to caress your crumpled bitter self. Therefore, farewell to the careworn cavern of bookworms. Don’t give a hoot about effeminate reactions, because he who hits gold the world adores.
They’d support your resignation and hail it as timely, an auspicious omen, if they are wise. Whatever you amassed from the national house would service the aspirations of nascent writers and the entire coterie; that would certainly be an immense contribution to the old constituency.
Obstinacy is one of the things you should eschew when you finally register with a political party. Obstinacy, the classic Mephistopheles. It mars and never makes. Politics is about making not distancing alliances. Although it is in the nature of writers to be assertive, because, for goodness’ sakes, not only do they spend most part of the day evoking how best to give voice to expressions and project impressions, but also because the creator is also the fiddler of fates.
Now everyone has accepted the reality that the national house cannot be cleansed complete of its cherished soot and stink. Most of the “aliens and usurpers,” (whom you’re more qualified than) who do not possess the basic qualifications, would continue to parade outlandish degrees such as Yoruba genomics, Igbo empiricism, Hausa pyrotechnics, Niger Delta toxicology, and other gobbledygook degrees in the sacred chambers!
So wipe the wrinkles off your brow. In due course, friends would again rally round you. After all, yours is a nation where crooks become celebrated, charlatans become commemorated, pastors become politicians, and politicians become pastors.
And the tagline?
The more riches you stockpile in Switzerland and other open lands, the more protégées you attract. Not to mention the august fame. The media-hype as well.
On a final note, always remember that politics demands extreme creativity too – and the more imaginative you become the closer you get to appearing on Forbes list of enterprising young black politicians.