A writer will derive a metaphor from a pattern on a dress, a lurking demonstration, or a gesture, and eyes movement because sunsets have been done before. A writer understands the capacity for words to embolden, to eviscerate, to cut a man in half and arrange him again and embrace his wetness and calmness. That is the person you should train your self to be, that is one you should know better than. Chimamanda Adichie may be better in her own way but that does not mean that her style will also favour you as a writer. Your own awaesomeness is your ability to discover what works for you. A writer’s words have texture and an aesthetic – they mean one thing on paper and another in your mouth when you chew them and vomit them back like a cud. A writer knows the word “perfume” has a scent, and “savory,” a flavor. He also knows that the technical way for making you taste his words is synesthesia, but he’d rather show you through his lines than tell you how it is through his words.
A writer believes in truth but understands the utility of a lie. Someone who writes will think about a lie in terms of its anatomy: he’ll see it as something with dead legs, flayed on a cold steel table, reeking of that stuff we use now instead of formaldehyde, because formaldehyde will kill you, too. But a writer believes in a lie’s biology and knows it is still alive, animated by some preternatural aspiration, an amorphous mass of amorphous cells, dividing and multiplying and taking on some new architecture every time you look at it. A writer knows a lie doesn’t want to die but to live again through your mind and spirit. Try to be you and not them. Art is freedom. There are many African Tales waitingfor you to tell them.