I want to be a Woman Writer. I want to smoke long, elegant cigarettes, drink too much wine before noon and sometimes have a gin and tonic at the close of the day. I want to have torrid, heartbreaking affairs and write long, elegiac prose that makes you want to crawl inside my brain and lick my insides.
I want to sit at a loom and weave worlds into being like Octavia Butler and Nalo Hopkinson. I want to hold up a mirror to your deepest self and shake up your insides like Erna Brodber. I want to write like Lucille Clifton and Audre Lorde and make you say FUCK when you read it. I want to make you weep inconsolably and feel as big as the sky like Arundati Roy. I want to write like Lorna Goodison and make you feel every ancestor that birthed you. I want to make you feel so powerful that you forget your awful, stupid life. I want to wrap you up in a story like Laura Esquivel, make you quiver and hold your heart like Warsan Shire and disturb the hell out of you like Mary Mac Lane. I want to make you feel like I just punched you in the jaw. I want to make you rage.
But I’m just this lady from an island with no real stories to tell. My tragedies are everyday ones; my heartbreaks are prosaic. There’s nothing elegant about my cigarettes (they’re just the plain cancer-causing ones) and I’m the sturdy, serious sort, not made for adoration or flowers. But if you feel like you’ve been misplaced in the world; if you’ve been told you think too much; if you feel at home looking at the stars and are enraptured by every new experience; if you have loved harder than you should; if you’ve cheated death and fallen in love with life again; if you’ve peeked behind the curtain and feel history like a weight behind your eyes then maybe, just maybe I might have a story for you.