I see things, hear things, try to make sense of them, and writing helps me understand it all; what I think I witnessed, what emotions coursed through me, my response, and how (if) that reaction changed the situation. Or what the experience just taught me about the world. I love writing. I didn’t know that before I started movingblack – it was more of a challenge I set myself – but I found I proper love using words to express the myriad of thoughts that I have about the world and my adventures in it.
If you’ve followed this blog for more than a week, you’ll have realised I’m kind of a fraud. (Though I secretly prefer the term renegade) I’m not a blogger. At least, not a good one. I don’t blog frequently anymore, nor with anything resembling a rhythm. I get off topic easily and most posts exceed 1000 words. I am slow at replying to comments, and my blog doesn’t seem to be a community of its own. I am not a good blogger. (So, if you’ve left a comment I’ve taken ‘a while’ to reply to, it’s nothing personal at all. I only struggle with internet etiquette, I’m really polite in reality.) I figure, I’m not a surgeon, nobody’s life depends on being able to read a new blog post from me, so I don’t beat myself up about it too often. Plus I have a day job and plenty of real-world commitments and I’ve had one hell of a writer’s block for months now. But then I read this piece by Radical Faggot and it all made sense again.
I need to write. Not for you dear reader, nor even for me, but because as Chimamanda once argued, there really is a danger in a single story. By writing, I contribute to the existence of multiple narratives. Of every thing, person and place I write about. To me, this is crucial because multiple narratives sharpen the mind. When multiple narratives present themselves simultaneously, a choice is necessary because questions arise; who said what? When? In what context? Why? What are their interests? Are they reliable? Consistent? Revolutionary? Do I agree with their standpoint? What does that change? Are the available narratives the only narratives? The most important? What is missing? Who is missing? Where multiple contradictory narratives exist, critical thinking happens. No statement can be taken at face value; by virtue of a second, third, fourteenth version of the same story, holes appear, through which the truth starts to poke. Sometimes.
So I guess this is a statement of intent to blog*, inspired by a blog post entitled ‘the political significance of being inconvenienced.’ The politics of rad fag are just On Point. As committed an armchair activist as I claim to be, the one action I can take relatively frequently is to simply state my Afro-Caribbean/British/Migrant/French-Speaking/Girl truth.
I’m currently processing a fabulous Haitian adventure, so watch this space. And follow Radical Faggot for powerful political commentary of the radical variety. Plus, they post frequently.
* Disclaimer: in my haphazard, wordy, unrecommended-by-wordpress way