to writers

I doff my hat to Dostoevsky for the many scripts and epistles he left us, some of which turned out to be a creed of sorts for some of us.
I admire Vincent Van Gogh, his letters to Theo, and his delicate art, and for enduring much ‘madness’ and the lack of recognition. I feel sorely for him, that he had to sever an ear because of a state of mind he could hardly bear.
I don’t endorse but it makes sense that you’d lose an ear if no one else hears or understands.
I wish he were alive or conscious now somehow somewhere to see how far his name could go– beyond generations and ages, his genius has remained evident.
I admire the honesty of Kafzka, his bravery even, insisting on writing rather than finding a job which society found reasonable and fitting. Pushing past the friction and tension; the struggle between him and his father and how he managed to litter hints within his precious writings in the midst of spiraling into existential dread.
Kiekergaard, o, Kiekergaard, your poetry and writings on faith and the mind, you remind us of the significant role of writers in the faith.
Roald Dahl, a man of many experiences, the one who said his candle burnt at both ends but wouldn’t last the night, but oh his friends and foes were witnesses to the fact that it did give a lovely light.
Jeff Kinney, making my childhood feel better understood, inspiring me in his own way to pick up a pen and hold to writing, to hold on to MY writings.
Ama Ata Aidoo, the one who wrote “the girl who can” and inspired many women and reminded them that they too Could do it.
Chimamanda Ngozi one of the women who proved they could, persisting and penetrating culture, provoking thought and spurring other women to follow suit. A leader by all standards, her writings have raised people.

The pen of the fine minds of ages past, CS Lewis and Tolkien, who brought faith into the world of novels, creating a bridge for faith to walk on into fantasy with much meaning …

All these went ahead and laid a foundation so others after them could thrive too, it might not be easy sailing, it might not be a drive-through but it’s possible.
Many writers went ahead of those to come, some having lived miserable lives, having many stripes and many strikes. Some having lived under strict guardian’s and under unfavourable conditions, most of them mostly misunderstood often without a real raison d’être.
But these who have gone ahead of us have left us proof that writing isn’t a mere hobby, but rather a divine call(ing), something to inspire and spur us on, to give us the gift of hope, to gently fetch us out of despair even if only temporarily.

They have left us writings that have made us feel understood, and that our experiences are shared with some similarity and yet such nuance.

They left us an exercise to organise our minds, a place to find solace momentarily, a canvas, a vehicle through which God reaches wanderers. Somewhere we can find shelter rather than being bothered by the misgivings of our minds .

Giving honour and respect where it’s due, writers will forever be dignified persons, for even though many vile thoughts plague men, they (men) find a resting place in writings– novel and ancient, room to reflect, reasons to repent, they remind us and call us back to virtue, to belief .
Shove us to attempt to be better men, and prove to us that the forging our better selves is the first step towards finding everybody else’s betterment.
Because of artists and writers the earth spins and we see beauty daily, though life is full of labour. every inspired memoir, biography, creed, poem, and script written will forever be relevant.