Ding! My phone jumps, or at least I do. The review is in. I rush to my computer and open The Writers Review. The first chapter of my novel has been reviewed by a note-worthy writer, Abigail Adesola.
The excitement my body contained when I opened the email quickly disappears and becomes anxiety. My fingers shake and I can hear my heart in my head, in my ear. Everywhere. I can’t do this.
“Ma” I called out. “Please check the review for me”
My mum saunters in and I’m reminded of who I started writing this book for. She opens the laptop and I hide behind my arms.
The room goes silent. I can hear my mom’s breath stop, she’s holding it.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” she doesn’t reply instead she turns the laptop around to face me.
three stars
All over the place
The screen stares at me and confirms the fear that I had while I wrote every word. My inner critic comes out.
I told you. You are no good.
I force my eyes to continue reading.
The writer is sure of the message she wants to pass on but the execution is immature. Her sentence structure is excellent but she could improve in her use of grammar. The author also shows a lack of understanding of Yoruba culture or rather a lack of understanding how to properly represent the culture through writing. A lot of work is needed but she is heading in the correct direction.
My heart feels like it was removed from my chest and thrown into a blender. The words repeat in my head like a sweet rhythm with cruel words. All over the place, immature, lack of understanding of Yoruba culture.
“Lola, it is not the end of the world.” my mum is saying to me “you are going to fail sometimes. I have always taught you that, but….”
I can’t hear her or rather I can’t listen to her. The only thing I can hear is the noise of my heart breaking. I have never been heartbroken before but it feels like that now. The only thing I was sure of in my life has turned out to be a hack. I’m a failure. There are no two ways to go about it. I have failed.
“Lola, are you listening to me? ‘’ my mothers voice snaps me out of my head temporarily.
“I’m fine mom, it’s just a review” I assure her while slamming the laptop close. I head to my bedroom.
______________
My mother snores gently next to me. I stare up at the roof, wishing for a sign or a miracle. I get none. Not even a glimpse of light slipping in through my slightly open curtain
Failure. failure . failure.
My head sings. My heart sings the same. My biggest fear has occurred. Failure. When I began writing, I did it as a way to escape my thoughts and my anxiety. I was good at it. I was told this multiple times. Be it through my mum, The comments on my writing platform or the insanely high grades I get for any type of writing in English.
Were all these lies. Was I told this out of pity because everyone knew what happened. I never thought I could hide it, I simply ignored it. It wasn’t something I actively thought about but it appeared in my writing. Writing was my cloud nine and the review a gale wind that scattered the cloud and sent me plummeting to the ground.
I get out of my bed and head to my writing desk. I empty the drawers of all my writing and I read through each and everyone. I see nothing but mistakes. I wonder how I got a 98% for multiple papers.
I need to get rid of these. I change into a coat and boots and slip out the door with all my writing in a backpack on my back. I head to the library that is just a few blocks away.
When I reach the library, I head straight to the paper shredder. One by one, I insert the pages into the paper shredder.
I deserve this. This is my punishment from the universe for being selfish.
About 2 hours and a soaked face later, only my novel is left to shred. Without hesitation I put every page into the shredder at once and watch a year’s work turn into confetti.
I turn to head back home but I’m stopped by my mum.
“I’m too late, aren’t I?” She looks so hurt that I almost regret what I’ve just done, but I’m too heartbroken to be able to feel anything besides hurt.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I'm sorry”
Once again the floodgates open and my face is drenched once more. It’s during these times that I wish it was raining. That way nature would be weeping with me but alas, it’s not raining.
“You aren’t giving up, are you?” my mom pleads with me
And then it hits me. I’m not giving up. Putting those pages through the paper shredder was not me giving up. It was me restarting.
Those pages were written while I was drowning in grief. While I was going through my healing process. They were written when I would look into the mirror and loathe what I saw. Those pages were my past and the review just motivated me to finally get rid of them. I’m in the best parts of healing and I’m ready to accept that and let go of my reality of 5 years. I am ready.
“No mum, I'm not giving up”, I smile at her through tears, “I am healing and I am restarting”
This is somewhat inspired by Jane The Virgin as I wrote it while watching Jane The Virgin.
