Finding the best time to write can be the difference between feeling inspired and staring at a blank page. Every writer has their own rhythm, and discovering whether you are a morning lark, an afternoon delight, or a night owl can enhance your productivity and creativity. In this article, we’ll explore the nuances of writing at different times of the day and provide tips to help you discover your optimal writing time.
The Science Behind Writing Times
Human beings operate on circadian rhythms. These are biological processes that follow a roughly 24-hour cycle. These rhythms affect everything from energy levels to cognitive function and can directly impact your writing.
Morning Writers: The Fresh Start
Many writers write best in the early morning hours. Why?
Cognitive Clarity: After a good night’s sleep, your mind is typically clear and fresh, making it easier to generate ideas and articulate thoughts.
Fewer Distractions: Early mornings tend to be quieter, with fewer interruptions from emails, phone calls, or social media.
Sense of Accomplishment: Starting your day with writing can provide a sense of achievement that sets a positive tone for the rest of the day.
Tip: If you’re a morning writer, establish a consistent wake-up time and create a calming morning routine to transition into your writing session smoothly.
Afternoon Writers: The Productive Peak
For some, the afternoon proves to be the most productive time for writing. Here’s why:
Energy Levels: After a few hours of waking, your body has had time to fully energise, leading to increased focus and productivity.
Mental Warm-Up: The morning may be spent on other tasks. This allows your brain to warm up for deeper thinking and creativity in the afternoon.
Collaboration Opportunities: If you’re part of a team, afternoons often provide opportunities for brainstorming and collaboration, sparking new ideas.
Tip: If you thrive in the afternoon, consider scheduling your writing sessions after lunch, when you feel most alert and creative.
Night Writers: The Creative Hour
Many writers find their muse comes alive at night. Here are some advantages of writing in the evening:
Uninterrupted Time: With the day winding down, there are often fewer distractions, allowing for deep focus on writing.
Freedom and Creativity: The night can evoke a sense of freedom, leading to a more relaxed writing style and creativity.
Reflection: After a day of experiences, evening writing can provide an opportunity for reflection, helping you incorporate those insights into your work.
Tip: If you’re a night writer, create a cozy environment with soft lighting and soothing sounds to inspire creativity.
Experimenting with Writing Times
To find your optimal writing time, consider conducting a personal experiment:
Track Your Energy Levels: For one week, note how you feel at different times of the day. Pay attention to when you feel most alert and creative.
Set Writing Sessions: Dedicate specific times for writing at various intervals (morning, afternoon, and night) to assess which feels the most natural.
Reflect: After a few weeks, review your notes to identify patterns and decide which time aligns best with your creative flow.
Creating Your Writing Ritual
Regardless of when you choose to write, establishing a writing ritual can enhance your productivity:
Prepare Your Space: Create a dedicated writing environment that inspires creativity and minimizes distractions.
Set Goals: Before each session, outline what you aim to accomplish, whether it’s a word count, a scene, or an entire chapter.
Limit Distractions: Turn off notifications and create a focused atmosphere to immerse yourself in your writing.
Write When You Shine
The best time to write is when you feel most inspired and productive. Whether you thrive in the early morning, the bustling afternoon, or the tranquil night, embrace your unique writing rhythm. By understanding your natural inclinations and creating a supportive writing environment, you can unlock your creative potential and elevate your writing practice.
Now, take a moment to reflect on your own writing habits. When do you feel the most alive with ideas? Trust that instinct, and let it guide you toward your optimal writing time. Your best work is waiting to be written!
A lone figure sits at a desk in the silent hours before dawn, ready to put thoughts into words as the world sleeps and the first rays of daylight peek over the horizon.
Many writers have this vision of concentrated productivity in the perfect setting. For the majority, however, this tranquil picture is not the reality. Rather, the writing process can become an overwhelming task due to the difficulty of finding time in the chaos of daily obligations and the elusive search for inspiration.
Finding a writing routine that truly works amidst our daily activities can be really difficult. There is no one-size-fits-all approach to it. You just have to understand your lifestyle and what you want to accomplish through writing.
You also need to understand that writing is not merely a task to be squeezed into an overbooked schedule. It is a vital practice that deserves its own space and time in your life.
The secret to writing successfully in today’s world, where the demands of modern life seem never-ending, is to make the most of the time you have by turning it into something productive and fulfilling.
You can do this by creating a writing routine that works with your schedule. Here’s how to develop a writing routine that will make you hit those target word counts again!
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Understand Your Writing Aspirations
Before you create a writing routine, you need to understand your aspirations. It is the nature of your writing goals that shape the structure and intensity of your routine. Are you an aspiring novelist with dreams of a bestselling book, or a journalist looking to churn out impactful stories on tight deadlines? Your objectives will significantly influence how you structure your writing time.
Neil Gaiman, an author renowned for his fantasy and science fiction works, famously writes in long, uninterrupted stretches, often starting early in the morning. If you’re writing a long novel, longer, uninterrupted writing blocks might be necessary. On the other hand, if you’re focused on blog posts or articles, shorter, more frequent sessions might be more effective.
Take a week to track your creative energy levels. Note when you feel most inspired and when you’re at your most focused. Use this data to schedule your writing sessions during these optimal times.
Create a Dedicated Writing Space
A dedicated writing space can profoundly impact your productivity. It gives you a place where you can focus and your creativity can flow freely. This doesn’t have to be a grand home office; even a small corner with minimal distractions can serve as a powerful writing environment.
J.K. Rowling wrote the Harry Potter series in various locations, including a small café in Edinburgh. What was important to her was not the grandeur of the space but its conducive environment. Your writing space should be personal and conducive to focus, whether it’s a cozy nook in your living room or a secluded room dedicated to writing.
Establish a Consistent Routine
Consistency is the bedrock of any successful writing routine. Just as athletes train regularly to hone their skills, writers need to write regularly to get better. Setting aside specific times each day for writing helps build a habit and a sense of discipline.
Similarly, start with manageable writing goals and gradually increase them as you build confidence and discipline.
If you’re new to writing regularly, begin with 30 minutes a day. As you become more comfortable, extend this time or increase your writing output. This will help you create a routine that feels natural and attainable, helping you maintain momentum.
Setting Realistic Goals and Deadlines
Setting clear, realistic goals and deadlines is important for maintaining focus and motivation. Breaking down larger projects into smaller, manageable tasks can make them feel less overwhelming and more achievable.
Stephen King states in “On Writing” that he sets a daily goal of 2,000 words, which he diligently meets. This clear goal helps him maintain momentum and ensure steady progress on his projects.
Set specific, measurable goals for your writing sessions. This could be a daily word count target, completing a chapter by a certain date, or finishing a draft of an article. Establish deadlines for these goals and hold yourself accountable. Celebrate your achievements, no matter how small, to stay motivated and reinforce your commitment.
Use Writing Prompts and Exercises
Writing prompts and exercises offer a structured way to explore new ideas and perspectives.
Explore different prompts and exercises to find what resonates with you. Whether it’s freewriting, character sketches, or thematic explorations, these tools can help maintain your creative flow and enhance your writing practice.
Minimizing Distractions
In our digital age, distractions are a significant barrier to productivity. Social media notifications, emails, and other interruptions can derail your writing sessions and diminish your focus.
Create strategies to minimize these distractions. Use apps like Freedom or Cold Turkey to block distracting websites during writing sessions. Turn off notifications on your devices or designate specific times to check emails and social media.
Establishing boundaries with family and friends can also help. Let them know your writing schedule and ask for uninterrupted time during these periods.
Staying Accountable
Accountability can be a powerful motivator in maintaining a writing routine. Sharing your goals with others and seeking feedback can provide the encouragement and support you need to stay on track.
Join writing groups or workshops where you can exchange ideas, receive constructive feedback, and stay motivated. Online communities and local writing clubs offer opportunities for networking and accountability.
Adapting and Evolving Your Routine
Life is dynamic, and so should be your writing routine. For a routine to be sustainable, it has to be flexible. As your personal and professional circumstances change, be prepared to adjust your routine accordingly.
If you face new time constraints due to a job change or personal commitments, reassess your schedule and adapt your writing goals.
Regularly review your routine and make adjustments as needed. Reflect on what’s working and what isn’t, and be open to experimenting with new strategies. This adaptability will help you sustain a productive writing practice over the long term.
Prioritising Self-Care
Writing can be mentally and emotionally taxing. To maintain a healthy balance, prioritize self-care as part of your routine. Regular breaks, exercise, and adequate rest are will help you to remain productive.
Engage in activities that will rejuvenate you. This includes taking a walk, practicing mindfulness, or engaging in hobbies.
Conclusion
Starting a writing routine that works for you is a journey of discovery and adaptation. By understanding your goals, assessing your schedule, and creating a dedicated space, you lay the foundation for a productive writing practice. Establishing a consistent routine, setting realistic goals, and minimizing distractions will help you maintain momentum and stay focused.
For years, writing was second nature to me. It was my companion in my highs and lows. But when life began to demand more from me, this companionship slipped away.
I had final year project, assignments, field-works, and coming exams that took my attention away from my writing routine. Days turned into weeks, then months, and before I knew it, my once-daily writing habit felt as distant as a forgotten dream. And returning to the craft wasn’t as simple as picking up where I left off; it felt like starting over.
I suppose that’s the way it is with anything we step away from for too long. The desire to return might linger in the background, but the act itself becomes daunting. Where do you begin again when the rhythm that once defined you has grown quiet?
The Silence
The first thing I noticed after taking that long break was an internal silence that made it difficult to hear the familiar rush of inspiration. It was as if the part of my mind that once effortlessly generated ideas had gone into hibernation, and waking it required more effort than I anticipated.
I’d open a blank document and stare at it, expecting the words to flow, only to find they had no urgency behind them. I wanted to write, but the impulse had grown cold, rusted from disuse. It took me a while to accept that inspiration doesn’t return on command.
Rediscovering the Process
Like restarting an old machine, I had to gently nudge my writing back into motion, oiling the gears by simply showing up. I would sit down at my desk each day, knowing full well that what I was about to write might not be groundbreaking, or even good, but it was a start.
Sometimes, all I could muster was a sentence, other times a few paragraphs. But the goal wasn’t to produce something spectacular; it was to retrain myself in the act of creating. After a long break, it’s easy to expect a grand return, but the truth is, creativity often creeps back slowly, bit by bit. And that’s okay.
There’s a certain grace in allowing yourself to begin again without the weight of expectation. The break happened, and it left its mark, but that doesn’t mean you have to wait for perfection before you start again. Sometimes, the routine is the cure.
Leaning Into the Middle
The middle, as I’ve learnt, is where life and creativity really live. The messy, uncertain period between knowing and unknowing, between what you once were and what you’re becoming. After a break, the beginning feels exciting, the potential for a fresh start all but glimmers. But the middle—that’s where the real work happens. It’s also the hardest part.
I found myself frustrated by how slowly my rhythm returned. I hated how halting and awkward my sentences felt. It was easy to romanticise the idea of writing after such a long pause, but the reality was far less poetic. My writing muscles had weakened, and I needed to build them up again, one small exercise at a time. A micro poem here, a journal entry there.
What helped me most during this phase was choosing consistency over perfection. I learned to lower my expectations, to embrace the discomfort of the middle, and to write even when the words didn’t feel right. Because in writing, as in life, the magic is rarely in the perfect execution. It’s in the attempt, in the effort, in the showing up.
Breaking Through the Fear of Mistakes
I realized something while rebooting my routine: the fear of making mistakes is far worse than the mistakes themselves. After a long break, there’s a pressure to prove to yourself that you still have it. But this need for validation is often what keeps you stuck.
I’ve written countless drafts that have gone nowhere since I started writing again. But that doesn’t bother me. It took me time to unlearn the idea that every piece of writing had to carry meaning. The truth is, mistakes are part of the process, and they carry their own lessons.
Once I let go of the fear of producing something “wrong,” I began to see writing not as a final product but as a living, breathing process. Some days I’d write only to delete every word the next day. Some pieces would start out as one thing, only to morph into something entirely different. That’s the beauty of coming back after a break. It gives you the freedom to evolve.
The Slow Return
It’s tempting to want your writing routine to return to what it once was, but I’ve learned that after a long break, the best thing you can do is embrace a slower pace. Writing, like any craft, requires patience—patience with the process, patience with yourself.
There are days now when the words come easier, and days when they don’t. But I no longer view those off days as a failure; they’re simply part of the rhythm. And in that slow return, I’ve rediscovered why I loved writing in the first place: not for the product, but for the process, for the feeling of being present with the page, even when it feels unfamiliar.
A New Beginning
In many ways, rebooting your writing routine after a long break is a new beginning. You’re not the same person you were before, and your writing reflects that. There’s a depth that comes from stepping away and coming back.
The beauty of this return lies in its imperfection. It’s messy, slow, and uncertain, but it’s real. And in that realness, you find yourself again, one word at a time.
Far and beyond the horizon of comfort Into a jungle of huddle, puzzles and struggles. A place where the sun refuses to shine its golden ray upon the eyes of the foresighted. A place where souls are painted with stains of pain. Goals are ornamented with bitter sweet bane. Darkness hover like ravens in midnight hour Hoary smell of plight looms the tense atmosphere. A tomb engulfed with vision predator. With pride and shame, Like fire and its flame. They keep burning through every mind. Stormy days of fervent gloom Souls vehemently striving to bloom Like thorns and roses, We strive and imposes, Artistry to make history. Even though we’ve tattooed scars, We wish to see the stars.
Ogbebute Emmanuel Eneche is a prolific poet from Benue state, Nigeria, who was raised in Lagos.
Every writer, at some point, has stared at their freshly polished manuscript and hesitated—finger hovering over the “Submit” button like it’s a detonator. The excitement of seeing your name in print, tempered by the fear of rejection, often creates an impasse. For emerging writers, this moment can feel like a leap into the unknown, a wild gamble with one’s self-worth at stake.
It’s easy to rationalize inaction. “I’m not ready yet.”“The competition is too fierce.”“What if no one cares about my story?” Then there’s the unavoidable truth that many literary magazines don’t pay their contributors. “Why submit if I’m not getting anything in return?”
These are the whispers that stop many would-be literary stars from ever taking their first step toward publication. In an age where instant validation comes through likes and retweets, the seemingly impenetrable gates of the literary magazine world can feel too daunting to approach.
But what if submitting your work isn’t just about getting published? What if it’s about growing as a writer, finding your voice, and staking a claim in a world that’s constantly shifting beneath your feet? Submitting to literary magazines as an emerging writer is a vital plunge into the current of the writing life.
In this article, we’ll explore 9 compelling reasons why you should hit that “Submit” button—despite the doubts, despite the competition, despite the fact that some magazines won’t pay. After all, isn’t that what writing is all about; risking vulnerability in the pursuit of connection?
Table of Contents
What Are Literary Magazines?
Literary magazines (or journals) publish creative poetry, fiction, essays, and, sometimes, artwork. They provide a platform for both established and emerging writers to showcase their work. They first appeared in the early 1800s to promote new ideas, and served as a forum for literary conversations.
Literary journals have evolved into an indispensable part of the literary world over time. They are now available in a variety of formats, including digital and traditional print. In addition, there are general-topical magazines that accept contributions from a wide range of writers, as well as niche journals that focus on specific genres or groups. Literary magazines, whether in print or digital media, provide a forum for writers to engage with people who are particularly interested in creative work.
Why you should submit to a literary Magazine as an Emerging Writer
1. Building a Writing Portfolio
If you are an emerging writer hoping to get attention in the literary world, you need a good writing portfolio. Getting your writing published in literary magazines is one of the finest methods to accomplish this. Your publication history shows how proficient and committed you are to the art. It shows agents, publishers, and readers that it is professional and deserving of recognition.
A writing portfolio also shows that you are capable of experimenting with many genres, ideas, and techniques. Writers are free to try out various writing styles in literary publications. It’s permitted to write poetry, short stories, flash fiction, personal essays, and even hybrid genres. This diversity indicates both your versatility as a writer and your capacity to write in a range of styles. This can make you more appealing to collaborators and publishers.
The long-term exposure that comes with publishing in literary publications is another advantage. Even though digital publications have long been accessible online, many paper magazines are still preserved. This guarantees that your writing will be accessible at all times, which facilitates finding you by editors, publishers, and new readers. With every publication, your portfolio expands and becomes a complete chronicle of your writing career.
2. Gaining Exposure and Reaching a Wider Audience
Submitting your work to literary magazines opens the door to a larger audience of readers eager to explore new viewpoints. Readers of these journals are often individuals who actively seek out new and creative content.
A well-placed story in a literary magazine can also put your name in front of people who matter in the industry. Agents, publishers, and book reviewers often scout literary publications to find fresh voices. Being published in reputable magazines like Granta, The Paris Review, or Prairie Schooner makes it more likely that these industry professionals will notice your work.
For many African writers, literary magazines such asBrittle Paper,Akpata Magazine, and Agbowohave been instrumental in boosting their profiles. Having your work published in such magazines adds credibility to your name and opens up new doors, including potential book deals, fellowships, and MFA programs.
Literary magazines also provide excellent opportunities for cross-platform interaction. Many literary journals are active on social media, with authors frequently uploading their work on Twitter, Instagram, and other platforms. This allows you to reach a far bigger audience than just magazine subscribers. Some of these magazines also allow you to talk about your writing in greater depth in their podcasts and interviews. These multimedia strategies can broaden your audience.
3. Building Confidence and Motivation
One of the most difficult challenges budding authors face is overcoming their fear of failure. Regularly submitting to magazines makes you get used to rejection, which reduces the fear of failure. The more you submit, the more you realise that rejection is a natural part of the process, not a reflection on your abilities. With time, this can help you overcome your perfectionism and focus on progress rather than perfection.
Additionally, submitting to magazines creates a constructive loop. When you have a deadline to meet, you will be motivated to write, edit, and submit. This cadence prevents stagnation by making writing feel like a practice rather than a chore. Deadlines, whether internal or external, motivate you to accomplish tasks and publish your work.
Also, seeing your name in print or online boosts your confidence significantly. A publication conveys to others that your work is important to them. Every acceptance builds confidence and motivates you to keep going. It validates your work on both an internal and external level.
4. Leads to Larger Publishing Opportunities
Smaller literary magazines are often stepping stones to larger publications. Many writers begin by having their work accepted in small, niche publications: this leads to opportunities in larger magazines. These smaller publications are needed for gaining experience and establishing a track record that demonstrates your ability to consistently produce quality work.
Agents and publishers frequently seek out writers who have previously been published. A strong portfolio in literary magazines shows that you’ve been vetted by editors and can write professionally. Chukwuebuka Ibeh’s work in smaller magazines led an editor to notice his potential. This is how a track record of publication can help you catch the attention of industry professionals.
5. Increases Your Chances of Winning Awards
Literary magazines are often entry points for literary awards. Also, many competitions or fellowships require you to have some form of publication record. Your chances of being considered for these kinds of awards are increased when you submit to magazines, and this can have a big impact on your career.
Authors who began their careers in literary magazines have gone on to win important literary awards. A prime example of this is Bryan Washington. His early works appeared in magazines such as Hazlitt and The Paris Review. This contributed to his rise to prominence as a contemporary fiction writer. Another example is Chimamanda Adichie whowon the O. Henry Prize in 2003 for her short story “The American Embassy,” which was originally published in Zoetrope: All-Story. Also, Tope Folarin won the Caine Prize for “Miracle,” first published in Transition magazine and Namwali Serpell Won the Caine Prize for her short story “The Sack,” published in Granta.
6. Financial and Personal Rewards
While not all literary magazines pay contributors, many do offer compensation for accepted work. Receiving compensation for your work as a writer offers additional validation in addition to financial support. Even small compensation can encourage you to keep working towards your goals.
The sense of personal fulfilment that arises from knowing your work has found an audience is unparalleled. It gives you great satisfaction to know that someone else can relate to your poem or story. Long-term career growth also heavily depends on publishing your work consistently. Your professional portfolio grows with each published work, as does your standing in the literary community. You might start to receive more opportunities as your name becomes more well-known, such as speaking engagements, workshops, and fellowships.
7. Improving Your Craft Through Rejection and Acceptance
Rejection can be tough, but it’s a common part of every writer’s journey.
Learning to handle rejection builds resilience. Each “no” pushes you to review your work more critically, refine your style, and find new ways to express your ideas. Over time, this leads to growth.
One of the key advantages of submitting to literary magazines is the potential for feedback. Editors at some magazines, like Akpata Magazine, often provide personalized notes and constructive criticism, even for pieces they don’t accept.
This feedback is invaluable as it shows you areas you should work on. It helps you to edit your writing in ways you might not have considered before.
8. Creating a Community of Fellow Writers
One of the most valuable, yet often overlooked, benefits of submitting to literary magazines is the opportunity to connect with other writers. While writing is often viewed as a solitary activity, getting published can open doors to a supportive community of like-minded individuals. Literary magazines, whether in print or digital form, often have vibrant networks of contributors, editors, and readers. When your work appears in these publications, you become part of a collective voice that reflects a larger literary culture.
Literary magazines can be an excellent resource for meeting other beginning writers and developing essential support networks. Fellow contributors may contact you to discuss your work, provide feedback, or even collaborate on future projects. Friendships and professional partnerships can develop from these connections. A network like this is really beneficial, if you are a young writer who does not have access to formal writing communities or mentorship programs.
Literary magazines also encourage writers to discuss their work with one another. When you publish, you participate in a discourse about skill, theme, and storytelling. Reading your peers’ work allows you to discover new styles that can both inspire and challenge you in your own writing. Many magazines also host events, courses, or discussion forums where writers can engage with one another’s work and views.
9. Leveraging Your Published Work for Fellowships and Grants
For emerging writers, getting published in literary magazines can strengthen applications for fellowships, residencies, and grants. These opportunities provide the space and financial support for writers to further harness their craft.
Using published work to apply for funding demonstrates to selection committees that your writing has been vetted and recognized by professional editors. It shows that you are able to produce work of a high standard. Most fellowship and grant committees seek applicants who have shown promise, and publication history is often one of the clearest indicators of potential.
Additionally, published work gives you solid examples to use in your applications. Many fellowships and residencies ask for writing samples, and having pieces that have been published in reputable magazines adds weight to your submission.
A magazine publication record also increases the credibility of your grant proposals. Before asking for money, organizations want to know that their investment will yield positive results. Publishing your work helps in convincing them that you can craft writing that others will want to read.
Advice on Submitting to Literary Magazines
1. Find the Right Fit
Before submitting to a literary magazine, it is important that you make sure it is the right fit for your work. Each magazine has its own voice, style, and focus. Many magazines focus on specific genres, while others seek particular themes or experimental styles.
2. Understand The Magazine
Read a few issues of the magazine before submitting to understand what they publish and how your work fits in. If you write speculative fiction, submitting to a journal that primarily publishes literary realism would likely result in rejection.
3, Organise your Submissions
Staying organized is also important when submitting to multiple magazines. You can use spreadsheets or tools like Submittable to help you track where you’ve submitted, the response status, and important deadlines. Also, keep a record of your submissions to avoid sending the same piece to the same magazine twice or missing deadlines.
Mọ́renikeji, God is dead, and I’ve been binge-watching videos on YouTube. I swear, I am not trying to be a woke babe. The world is made of blood, and we are all gut-deep lacerations, asymmetrical axes, Linea nigras, butchering ourselves like every other jolly old meat seller—swipe the knife and hackhackhack. We all eat ourselves—I ate my brother’s index; don’t blame me. What’s the difference if it’s brewing in bitter leaf broth? It’s alright Mo, like rain, you can taste the world on my lips. I do not know what killed my grandmother, but it must have been me in some way. Yes, I use her yellow wrapper to sleep at night, and it’s really no problem; she was a murderer too. Yes, I have killed more than a million men for being free. I saw a little girl yesterday; she was bent over a gutter and brushing her teeth. I told her it was alright because everybody drank blood around here. Then I told her to swallow her spit next time, or we would kill her. I forgot to tell her there was no use running because she was us and she would kill herself. I don’t understand why people think dying is such a difficult thing to do—a dog died this evening, and all it had to do was cross the road. I don’t really care, but my mother killed that dog. His name was Bruno, but that’s my name as well. Yes, the rain drowned my sister, and all she had to do was look up. The boy we shot—all he had to do was blink twice. So it’s weird to see you spending your whole life trying to die when the world is specifically made to kill you. That’s blatant insolence, but it’s effective as well—it killed my cousin last month. Not like I know anything more than you do—as you can see, I bagged a bachelor’s degree for being depressed for four years. I might stick it in the toilet or rule the world. Don’t get any wild ideas; there’s no difference between the world and a toilet. Or, I am just an educated illiterate. I don’t even know the difference between blood in the body and blood on the floor. No, you can’t say spillage because we wouldn’t have so many holes if spillage were a sin. I am not going to argue with you, Mo, because I don’t see the difference between the body and the floor. I don’t even know the difference between Bruno, Bruno, and Bruno. So, maybe we died on hot coal tar while a truck was driving a man. That is no new thing. Hey, Mo. Don’t you think ‘lived’ is such a weird word?
Going Mad in Nsukka II: Ophelia on a Walk.
It is 6 a.m., and all the stray dogs are minding their business. I’m not implying that the old women around here are bitches, but they don’t respond when I greet. They must think I’m mad and harmless; I bet they don’t know that I killed a cockroach last night while my roommates went yellow from screeching. Well, that’s that. I’ve got a clump of chicken shit beneath one leg of my favorite bathroom slippers, and it stinks like life. I don’t like the chickens here because they’re too lithe to be caught. I mean, on camera, I’m not a thief, you jackass. I had to run. When you hang around people for too long, they get all of their business in your nose until there’s no space for yours and you can’t breathe. I guess that means a lot of people are not stray dogs. They have hands they don’t use for walking, yet they don’t think it’s enough for them. I hate it that I’m too sane to get lost. It is fear that makes me put my pocket in my phone when a smoking, bald man passes. If I were mad enough, I would have tossed it in this puddle. Yes, the sky is too small to be a pocket; that’s why all hell is let loose. Yes, I spent last night holding back my tears because there was no evidence of my pain. I don’t think God put in all his care; I’ve been leaking all my life. This school girl’s skirt is too tight, her hair is too low, and her teeth are too dirty. She greets me, and I don’t respond. I guess that makes me the same as the old women I didn’t say were bitches. This damned phone is ringing again. Home haunts me, and I’m too sane to set the whole thing on fire. This coal-black dog scratches its right ear with its right hind paw. I wish I had a superpower like that. I bet all of these buildings are sore and miserable from not dying. Yes, death is the kindest gift I’ll be getting, but I think the delivery man made off with it. Ill luck. I mean, look at this perfectly crushed chick on this death road. Blood vaporizing. Everything is messed up because I am not it. Everything is messed up because I am not Odysseus. I don’t care about Ithaca; I just want some quiet. Yes, I am innocent; my feet are the sane ones. My concerned would be mother if she saw this, but we can keep it between us. I wish I was a stray dog. I wish I was a stray dog. I wish I was a stray dog. They can’t go home, even if they want to.
Going Mad in Nsukka III: The Year the Poet Died
He wrote something like, I don’t cook for my mother, but I’d cook for you. He was so good at writing bad poetry, and I loved him. Anyway, this strawberry-flavored ice cream is so sweet and cheap. I think thin slippers are for people who don’t give a fuck anymore, so I plan to get another pair of flip-flops. I called him, and he didn’t answer. I’ve been calling him for days now. I don’t want him dead, but if he isn’t, I’d be offended. Now these people want me off this lovers’ bench because I’m alone. I don’t care if they’re kissing or fondling; I just want to sit down. Byung-Chul Han said something about touch being the only way to live this life. Heck. My ass is not so fat, and if you read the last poem, then you should know that I’ve been walking. I see the moon nuzzling against the neck of this tall building, and I remember his hair on my neck. He always came with warm light. I see the moon nestled between the parted legs of this twin birch; it’s such a beautiful metaphor for sex. No, I don’t like to think of sex because all of the phrases are so violent and cannibalistic. I mean, I’m a girl, not a batch of doughnuts. I don’t know how a person can smell like cake all the time, but he did. I bet if I let him kiss me, he would have tasted like cake too. Now, I’m thinking of eating him. I’m not different from the rest of the world after all. These ornamental trees look hunched with sadness. I take a photo of them and send it to my friend, who knows a lot about trees. She says it’s a Masquerade tree, but I’m not so sure about that. I like to watch the pretty girls walking, but if they talk to me, I’ll get pissed. It’s important to watch all the pretty things from a distance; get close, and the magic will be besmirched. Everybody is in love around here; it kind of makes me not want love. I call him again, and he doesn’t answer. Maybe we’re doing test runs for the future. I really want to sit bare-assed on the sculpture of a hand holding a lamp. It says something about light and showing people the way; all I want is some air up my asshole without people calling me mad. I know I am, but the least you can do is be polite about it. I’m a simple person, really. Maybe that’s why nothing special ever happens to me. I think that’s cool because if the world has given me nothing, then I owe it nothing. Then he said something like, I want to run through meadows in Japan with you. I lied; that’s from a song I wish he sang. Well, I think he’s dead now. You know, poets like to die just to see if they really can. He did. And I can still smell cake on my fingers. I still do not know what love is, but giving him my hands was a cool reflex. I guess I should be grateful because if the poet hadn’t died, then nothing special would have happened to me this year. It’s just that I miss him, and I’ve been eating so much cake.
A wanderer at heart, James-Ibe Chinaza spends her time walking, thinking, and thinking about thinking. She is a writer, a poet dying, music eater, and hobbyist photographer. She currently serves as the Assistant Editor of the Muse Journal, UNN. She goes by Umami_kun on X, and yellowin_teeth on Instagram.
Huddled, in the freezing pre-dawn around a battery-powered altar listening for what our cold but eager ears wanted to hear
We sat, a worshipful group of teenage Christian companions on camp in the heart of winter straining to make out what was happening
in a rugby match on the other side of the world, in Christchurch, where barbed wire encircled the ground, along with angry anti-apartheid protesters
We knew a limited amount about that; far less than I would 40 years hence, as a resident of Christchurch. We knew rugby, but were oblivious to the fact
that in townships in any direction people were struggling to keep the cold out of draughty shacks in the bitterest hour of a Highveld dawn. Oblivious to the
injustice on the doorstep of our comfortable white middle-class lives And no camp leader would raise it with us as frigid pre-dawn unfolded
into frosty day. None would question the injustice, mention the marginalised majority’s plight, alongside the white team we reverently congregated to honour
Grant Shimmin is a poet born in South Africa in 1967 and resident in New Zealand since 2001. Humanity is his most important poetic subject and many poems about South Africa reflect, personally, on the injustices of apartheid. Work at Roi Faineant Press, Does it Have Pockets, The Hooghly Review, Remington Review, Querencia Press and elsewhere.
I am on the shore, pretending to listen to the water’s music with my lover. there’s no harm in knitting thoughts to comfort
one’s self from the chill of loneliness. the body can only acco- mmodate absence so long before it collapses, pillars succumbing
to a windstorm. I wish to understand how a body dissolves into another at the wand of love. how another’s arm becomes a safe
house one can run into, away from the insanity of living. before the day began, a friend texted, saying God must have mistaken
quicksand for rock when he set my feet upon the ground. him & I are both photographs on the wall in a room
dead dark, yet I say everything lost will come alive with the sun & he embraces it as a prayer. what hasn’t eluded any of us?
ask the hen what it dreams of, and it will tell you winging the sky, like a bird. this is how we carry on as everything becomes sour
& half-dead, even us. still on the shore, I fall backward onto the sand & caress my shoulders, a plain attempt at relief.
I pretend I’m not a hollow in the well, a music box without a song, a tulip blooming in the meadow of longing.
Praise Osawaru (he/him) is a writer of Bini descent. A Best of the Net, Pushcart Prize, and Nina Riggs Poetry Award nominee; his work appears in Agbowó, FIYAH, Frontier Poetry, Down River Road, The Maine Review, 20.35 Africa, and Uncanny Magazine, among others. He’s the first-place winner of the 2021 Valiant Scribe Poetry Prize. He’s a Contributing Poetry Editor for Barren Magazine and an Associate Prose Editor for Chestnut Review. Find him on Instagram & X @wordsmithpraise.
running water from the shower becomes hands & crawl my skin like cover crops over soil, planting a million pimples on my body—a land fertile with want. I slide into the tunnel of my left palm’s index and thumb, slippery like okra’s draw made from soap and water. this is how I tell my body I love you, a fellowship with eyes closed, desire popped up like opened picture on phone’s gallery, and breath caught with body trembling —a flesh quake, the world dead. then an exodus of self —a coming out. and surrendering into guilt’s arms feeling all filthy and sinful remembering what the pastor says about my love and a fire that never sleeps and will never turn my body to black powder but offer an everlasting pain, the water from the shower washes it all away along skin, semen and soap lather.
Tension should not be the umbrella word for that jolt that reverberates through your bones and skin when you brush a live wire on a day IKEDC forgets to flick the switch off in your zone because it does more than reverberate; it constricts, twists, flings, kills if there’s no one around with a plank to whack you free of the copper.
Countless other tensions—unseen but ever-present—coil around our necks like floats as we struggle to float. The worry lines stretching on Mum’s brows, each furrow a map to a different concern; scraping together school fees, putting food on the table, beating Iju Road’s daily traffic, balancing this tilted scale.
For Brother Mark, it’s the pressure he feels to succeed in a fiercely competitive job market; forcing him to change the 0 in his 1990 YOB to 8 and swear affidavits outside the High Court in Ikeja. Sister Franca doesn’t talk about hers, but I know it. She feels it in the questioning eyes that gaze at every educated but unmarried Nigerian young lady.
These tensions, unlike the electric shock—if you survive—that fades with time, become a chronic state of being, like the refrigerator hum that persists even when the power goes out. It’s something I know kall too well, but, perhaps, not well enough. It’s like feeling both overdressed and underdressed at the same time.
Sometimes, it surfaces as a nagging voice that questions if this path—this career—that I have envisioned, along with the thousand other lawyers that are called to the Nigerian bar each year, is what I truly want. The problem is, this tension—this nagging voice—stays tucked away in a quiet corner of my mind until moments that truly matter.
Moments like when I’m about to stand before a sea of black-and-white-wearing gents and have my five minutes of fame. Or shame. But my mind fixates on the latter. Suddenly, I start to think of who is smiling at me, who isn’t, and why. Then, the thoughts drift to whether they are staring at my figure and judging whether it fills out my tight black skirt, wondering why my figure is the number 5 rather than the number 8. I’m cursing myself for choosing to wear the skirt today of all days, instead of the loose, pleated one that earns me a warm “Sister Amaka” from Sanisa whenever I walk into the faculty.
I manage to regain a semblance of control and wrestle my attention back to the present. The next thought that pops up is which one of the stern-faced men in black suits—the panel—will throw a question at me—a question that will throw me off the balance I’m managing to cling to, out the window, with the burglary proof flying out with me.
The absurdity of wondering why I’m the second person called when my surname starts with O makes a bitter laugh rise in my throat. My shaky legs carry me to the front of the hall, a silent plea escaping my lips for my worn-out soles to hold strong, to not give, to not have the last laugh. Not right now. At least.
Every thought except the one I should be focusing on—my internship defence, which I spent all night rehearsing in front of the mirror, the wall, and even the mirror with my bedspread draped over it—floods my mind. But here I am, my mouth already blurting out where I interned and the fact that the experience was “more observational than participatory.” I see some heads nodding in agreement, but their faces remain a blur. Still, this tiny acknowledgement fuels a surge of confidence, and my feet feel a little more grounded on the linoleum.
But a new anxiety creeps in: the fear of my tongue twisting and betraying me with a grammatical blunder. This time, not before a handful of classmates, but the entire faculty, junior colleagues included. Relief washes over me as the words start flowing effortlessly, like a waterfall. I even manage to sprinkle in a few jokes, and, to my surprise, they laugh.
As I conclude, I’m met with thunderous applause. I bow, attempting a discreet exit. But the Dean calls me back and asks a few more questions like, “Who was your assistant in the crowd that prompted you at some point when you forgot a word to use?”, and everyone is laughing because no one comes forward when he says he has a prize for the person. I start to wonder why he has a prize for the person, but not me. Then he asks everyone to give me another round of applause and I return to my seat, amid cheers.
The weight is finally off my chest, the nagging voice silenced. But in its place is something more sinister: a rewind-and-replay voice that compartmentalises every bit of my performance, though this one runs in the background like those data-draining apps on my phone.
I sit back and watch the others go out one by one, oozing every bit of tension I and the predecessor must have manifested, and I’m smiling, grateful for how quickly the cup passed from me to them. Then, I realise it’s the word I’ve been searching for: the cup. The phrase, rather. It’s a bigger umbrella term than tension. Tension is the wine bottle umbrella I carry around in my tote bag, but ‘the cup’ is the bigger umbrella; the type those POS operators you meet at every five-minute walking distance sit under, come rain or shine.
Blessing Obiahu is a literary enthusiast and law student at Alex Ekwueme Federal University in Ebonyi State, Nigeria. Her work has been featured in the 2021 Nigerian Students’ Poetry Prize anthology, Black but Famous (now Kaassa), Loana Press, Challenging the Writers, and forthcoming in Anarchist Fictions Journal. She is also the founder of D’LitReview, a literary website, and works as an SEO content writer.
