I cannot tell you why I decided to write. Perhaps circumstance nudged me or perhaps curiosity or perhaps a desire to find the words to process the world, the human condition. Perhaps I wanted to find out how I feel or how my eyes see the world. Perhaps it is a combination of these reasons or perhaps none of them at all. I used to think it was important to understand why I am drawn to writing, to sentences, to words. I used to think this would help clarify why I write about certain themes and topics. With time, the why became less important, even insignificant. The fact is, I write.
My mind constantly seeks words to describe what I see, where I am, how I feel. Sometimes a singular word captures the essence, and that word becomes more gratifying than anything I achieved that day. More frequently, the perfect word, phrase, clause, paragraph hides and I am tormented by the disconnect between what I want to say and what emerges on the page.
A decade ago, in the darkness of a night where all words escaped me and the white computer screen perched on my lap created shadows, hues of whites, blacks and greys on my bedroom wall and ceiling, I wondered if other writers had this curse - words hiding in the nearby shadows, far from reach. Perhaps I do not know how to write, I thought. And since I believe that learning unlocks the world, my fingers whacked the words “writers” and “courses” onto my keyboard. Google produced a list. A long list.
My eyes scanned the results and landed on “Writers’ Village University.” Three words I had not expected to read next to each other. Intrigued, I clicked on the link and searched for images that conformed with my understanding of the words “writer”, “village” and “university.” I expected to see the cliches. A combination of pen-gripping students curled over notebooks, a veld landscape framing clay huts clustered in the middle, students racing across uneven terrain – my image of “university” and “village” blended into a painting, a snapshot of my Africa, fused with a university. Not too imaginative, but sometimes the truth is that the mind is less imaginative than we would like it to be. I wondered how these images would merge into one picture in reality, or rather, the reality of an internet website. When the home page opened, no images appeared. The words “writers educational community. Writers helping writers since 1995” shone back at me. I spent the rest of that night clicking on tabs into the website. I returned to the website the next night and the next and have returned to it on and off over the past ten years. Why?
Initially, curiosity. The website provided a window into a world where writers were at work. I remember the day I joined, heart a-race, fingers hovering on the word “submit," wondering what would happen. That day seems so long ago. A different time. A different me. A kind of pre-author, pre-narrator, pre-writer time.
After becoming a member one night in my bedroom’s darkness, I froze. My first foray into an internet community left me unnerved. Overwhelmed, I stalked posts and classes. I followed some members because I liked their avatar, others because of the images they created on the page, others because of their strong voice. I signed up for nothing, did not join any discussion, did not dare. How could I, someone who knew nothing about writing, have anything to contribute? There is nothing stronger than the feeling of being an outsider, to keep you there, outside, looking through windows and cracks, marveling at those inside, wondering how they got there. The “me” versus “them” continued for months, my eyes eating other writers’ profiles and sentences and stories and essays and poems, in awe of them doing what I longed to do – write.
Over time, I became selective. I learned that I preferred some classes more than others. I did not know why. I did not need to know. I had new conclusions and these conclusions helped refine my searches. I spent less time wandering aimlessly from post to random post and began to open messages from other members who had similar interests. I found special rooms, like Sweethearts of the Rodeo and stalked talented authors like HelenR, marveled at how she wrote. After a long day at work in the real world, I would open Writers’ Village University and my heart would skip a beat to see a new post by HelenR. Her brain, her words, her thoughts - it always fertilized me. If only, I’d dream, if only I could do one sentence like her. I did not know where she was from or what she did, I only knew that I was in a relationship with her and wondered if she knew. How could she? For months, she was the reason I kept logging on. I watched other new members take tentative or brave steps into their first posts in Writers’ Village University. I felt defeated by my lack of courage. Determined to conquer the fear, I started posting. A sentence here, a paragraph there - nowhere near HelenR. Each post an excruciating pulling at my sinews, burning of my nerve-endings, a self-imposed hazing. An unnecessary hazing since I had written many stories for my children.
Those years are in the past. I am here still. I write when I can. I post when I can. I feel no fear of being judged inadequate. I feel no fear of being ousted into the dark, where I will once again be looking into the light through a window, watching others do the thing I think about all the time - writing. I do not fear that lengthy absences will be a bar to entry. Sometimes a year goes by, sometimes two. I try my log in; it always works.
When I talk about Writers’ Village University now, I call it WVU. I remember the ease of signing up. It did not ask for my nationality, my age, my race, my job, my gender, my financial statement. One email and a day later, I was a member. I remember my surprise. Really? I thought, just like that. Yes, just like that I took my first step from “out” to “in,” from “me” to “us,” from “dark” to “light.” Just like that I found myself enveloped in a group of writers and courses and forums, huddling with other learners in a bubble of encouragement. My stalking months seem funny now.
I still sometimes look at the avatars and pen names and marvel at the village university created on an internet platform. It does not matter if you have fiber or high speed or dial-up or if you connect from a dongle or you are going down to the local internet shop and logging on amidst rows of other headphone-wearing customers buying internet by the hour, or even by the half hour. On occasion, I have logged in from those settings, but no one knows that part of you. It does not matter if you come from Africa, Asia, Europe, or the Americas. Your age does not matter, your race does not matter, your gender and sex do not matter. Which school you went to does not matter. At WVU, writing matters, learning matters, growing as a writer matters.
My 14-year-old son once asked, “What is Writers’ Village University?” He had found it in my browser history.
“It’s a place where writers congregate,” I said. “We post our writing and comment on other authors’ writing. We can also take courses on writing craft.”
“Sounds boring,” he said.
I smiled. His idea of learning is a school structure, desks organized in a shape set by a teacher or a subject, the uncomfortable space of being forced to sit and listen, even when you do not want to. A petri dish of teenagers with raging hormones taking wobbly steps toward finding identity and storming against the boundaries of undeveloped prefrontal cortexes. I used to be that child too. Fun and play key drivers in my day, those drivers at odds with school and tests.
“Let me try again,” I said. “It’s a place where writers and aspiring writers congregate. Not all of us write the same thing. Not all of us are from the same place. Not all of us have the same experiences. Not all of us have written for a long time. It’s like going to the market and seeing people who like tomatoes gravitate toward the one stand that sells tomatoes. Everyone stands around talking about the varieties of tomatoes - ripeness, sweetness, there’s an exchange of recipes. To me, that is Writers’ Village University. A group of people talking about tomatoes, some trying to plant their own, others considering which patch of land to plant on, others planted and waiting for their harvest, others harvested and already worrying about their next crop. Is their land still fertile? Should they try a new variety? Should they blend tomatoes with other cash crops?”
I saw him losing interest but wanted to hold on.
“Whether you’re old or new at planting tomatoes, we all start somewhere, finish somewhere, try new things and new rooms and new classes. Who knows if we will eventually have a successful harvest, but isn’t it nice that all the farmers work together, sharing news about impending storms or new seed strains or cheering successful harvests? And sometimes, when there is a freak storm and some people suffer losses, but others don’t, isn’t it heart-warming for the successful ones to commiserate with those who did not harvest and cheer them on to try again because, after all, tomatoes can grow in a short time span?”
He rolled his eyes. I had committed a basic parental sin – I went on and on and on, spoke too much.
“No, wait,” I said, protective of WVU, eager to make him understand. “Though the tomatoes are important, Writers’ Village University is really about the stuff around the tomatoes that fertilizes everything. Writers’ Village University is about the sense of community, the desire to learn, the willingness to give time to other peoples’ writing and for them to give time to your writing, the words of encouragement when you do not find any words to encourage yourself to write anything, the shared experience at conquering the world of words and images and stories.”
He laughed and walked away. After this conversation I realized that the name Writers’ Village University is correct. It is a university because we are learning, and it is a village because we struggle together in a symbiotic process that enriches and supports in the good times and the bad times. This is why I am still here and why I continue to log on (or at least long to log on even when I am busy with other life matters). It is where I was accepted as a writer, long before I realized or accepted that I was. And, of course, it is where I found my friend HelenR.
BIO: Zurina Saban, born in Cape Town, writes short stories, essays, poetry and children’s books. Her writing is inspired by her experiences growing up in South Africa, her passion for life and her love of Africa. She has also lived in Egypt, England, Turkey and Washington DC. She currently lives with her family in Casablanca. She has published a couple of pieces included in Write Yourself out of a Corner by Alice LaPlante; “Promises” in 50-Word Stories; “The Hunt” in Bunbury Issue 18; and “Kirstenbosch” in Akashic Books.
