For as long as I remember, my writing instructors (and friends who have edited my work), have told me I have to "show not tell.” Rather than capture the details, like Anton Chekhov, who remarked, "Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass," I often live in the world of abstraction. Admittedly, I get lost in my research, obsessed with the number of chickens that live in Miami or the origins of asparagus festival in Eastern Germany. I play with (or rather misuse) words, hoping that the English language can bend as much as Haitian Creole. When I have time, I obsess over an essay's hook: Do I begin with myself, shall I try to make a joke, or do I start with something spectacular? There are several hurdles that arise, such as finding a person who will answer my questions in one of the languages that I speak. When my mind is stuck, and I want to clear my thoughts from an upcoming deadline, I amble from my studio or my flat, and hope that something or someone in Berlin can inspire me. Usually nothing does. But the walk leaves room for me to enjoy freshly squeezed orange juice, chilled by a few ice cubes, or a cinnamon covered vegan donut that slowly melts in my mouth.
The moment I can step away from the inferno of imminent deadlines, I am crossed into a place where I can build a literary world. When I can make an essay jump from the page, I am emotionally fulfilled, so I reward myself by lurking on social media. But soon, a less dramatic and more humbling task emerges—I edit. Showing the facets of a story is a balancing act, but editing is the only way to guarantee its grip. But revision isn't only on the page, nor does it stop with one draft. I have to tear through the tear and find myself working more slowly than I expected. Recently, in The Paris Review, Namwali Serpell interviewed the Kenyan writer Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o who opined, "I wanted to finish the whole thing [Wizard of the Crow], but it dragged on and on and there was nothing I could do about it. I was writing constantly. It was an obsession, more so than any other novel I had ever written." With editing, I am besieged by my discernment, which allows me to let go of junk, the redundant phrases, the clichés, the puns that are incapable of enduring through time. But I’ve learned to be humble. Now, when I receive comments, suggestions, and remarks from editors, I no longer take it personally, rather, I surrender.
As I work through some book edits for A History of the World in Six Plagues, I am finding beauty in solitude, but more than anything, I am working beyond the page and finding integrity in my craft. In my quest for a fresher and more pristine text, I hope I can show others why I write.
A Word
Earlier this month, I reviewed Haitian-born artist Jean-Ulrick's Désert's exhibition, Conspicuous Invisibility, at SAVVY Contemporary, for Frieze Magazine.
Do you want to hear some thoughts about what the dating scene is like in Berlin? If so, listen to Abby, NaN and I as we discuss the scene in "As We See It", which is hosted by Refuge Worldwide, a Berlin-based (Neukölln for those who know the city) radio show.
If you're interested in an anthology about reproductive freedom, remember to pre-order After Sex (Silver Press)
For those who love narrative driven accounts about science, disease, and captivity, stay tuned about A History of the World in Six Plagues which has three publishers: Simon & Schuster (US), Dialogue Books (UK), and Ullstein Verlag (Germany)
A Read
I have nothing to say about Barbeheimer, but I highly recommend the following texts. Varagur’s article in Harper’s Magazine was especially illuminating for those who are thinking about the ways that genetics has featured into modern romantic coupling and how people view whether they parent, and with whom. What is especially illuminating is that the focus is on Nigerian people who work through sickle cell disease and trait.
Hélène Cixous, Angst
Susan Sontag, On Women
Krithika Varagur, Love in the Time of Sickle Cell Disease
With Radical Love,