Today, I reconciled with my receding hairline.
All efforts to resist have failed. From a “no carving” rule to the front of my head, to brushing my hair from back to front, and even trying to keep an afro, nothing has worked.
There are other more drastic steps to restore lost hair, but it is not that serious. “I am not my hair.” I can now relate to that song by India Arie.
I am thankful for the peace that comes with accepting what I cannot change.
My first book was a compilation. An aggregation of my blog posts. I edited it countless times. Paid an editor to do same. Sent it to family and friends to edit and make their input. I put it out for publishing, and immediately after receiving the first printed copies, I hated it. It has stayed in my drafts since. The book was called “Evening Odds”.
I wondered why I flipped, considering it was my most exciting project of 2020. I wondered for a long time why something that brought so much joy and energy to my days, now seemed meaningless.
Then I figured it out. I did not want my first book to be a compilation of blog posts. I want my first book to be a story.
Stories were my first pull towards reading. To pay back the great writers that planted my eyes to pages, and opened my mind to possibilities, I needed to write a story that would honor them.
So I started this year with writing at least 5 pages of a story every weekend. The project is code-named “37.” I am now on page 115. It is the story of a middle-aged conflicted working class man.
I have let in a few friends and family to read early drafts. Many say it reads like an autobiography. It is anything but an autobiography. However, I can understand why many think so. There are parts of me within.
I still have a copy of “Evening Odds” on my table. It is a constant reminder that no matter how passionate I am about a project, it might one day mean nothing to me.
Best to always have fun along the way. I am having fun with “37”.
– Osasu Oviawe
