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Well, here it is, my blog.
In short, they discussed the themes of mankind. Welcome to Agora. Welcome to my blog. And really, the two are the same. And all these resolutions tie to one thing: my writing. For a writer, writing is the exploration of himself. It ventures to all the corners of his mind and heart—his knowledge, loves, and fears—and challenges them…to be interesting, to be malleable or to be solid, and to be influential.
And everything he does, says, or thinks in life affects his writing. Where did that come from??
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Well, my mother always wanted to be an exotic veterinarian and she loves Kenya. Somehow, all of this converged into one beautiful novella. I see bits of myself and people I love sprinkled in all of the characters.
I am what I write. How and in what way is a diagnosis best left to myself, my loved ones, and maybe psychologists, as is the case for all of us—but it reveals this important idea: I do not distinguish between my work and my life—between my writing and my life. They serve each other. I quit my job the beginning of this year to focus on school and writing. In fact, as I write this, my last day of work was yesterday, Jan. This is a big jump, a leap of faith faith in myself , and an upset to the existing order. And all of my resolutions tie to writing.
Full-time, in fact. So stay tuned.
Read smarter now.
Writing is a solo act. Reading is a solo act. Yet they are probably the most revolutionary acts anyone has ever taken. Time for revolution! Connect with me on Facebook and Twitter. When I was a young man in 7th grade, in , my middle school sponsored an essay contest for Martin Luther King, Jr. I participated. I was in science class the morning the essay was due. Go write. So I sat down at the computer and opened a blank document. I stared at the screen a few minutes, composing my thoughts.
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Then I wrote. It might have been two pages. I hit print and submitted it to my teacher next class…. I won. My dad got me a suit.
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He showed me how to tie a double-windsor. I remember adults smiling at me, many of whom were African American. They shook my hand. I was told that a chaperone would lead me to the stage when it was time for me to read my essay. A tall, beautiful black woman introduced herself to me. She was my chaperone. She had her hair up. She wore a form-fitting blue dress with diamond sparkles flecked throughout.
The sparkles caught all the light. The other two speakers were girls, so their chaperones were men.
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I spoke last, and the black woman in blue took my arm in hers—or maybe put her arm in mine—and led me to the stage. I felt too much, too honored.
I was too young. The woman guided me to the podium. She may have kissed my cheek. I saw expectant smiles, men and women leaning forward waiting for me to speak. I placed the clean papers of my essay on the podium and began to read. When it was over, the audience applauded long and happily. The beautiful woman returned to the stage, took my arm again, and walked me down the steps and out to the hall.
I still salute the memory of Dr. King and his Civil Rights Movement. Tomorrow they might see things anew—they might change their minds. Change is not immediate; influence is not immediately apparent. King has taught me: trust yourself, certainly; and trust other people. Be willing to give them the time needed to make that change. It might mean trouble for you. It might mean very hard times. Keep talking anyway.
Keep trusting. Change will come through. That was his dream. Thanks for reading. Connect with me on Facebook and Twitter! I see myself doing it…and I see YOU doing it…and you know what? Time to be smarter. My grandmother, Flor Chinchilla, died yesterday. She immigrated from Costa Rica decades ago with my dad who was then about 5 years old.
She was a small woman who barely learned English and could never operate a laptop or cellphone, barely a DVD player.