Inspired?
BY NICK MARSHALL, GILBERT, USA- I remember when we were just about to leave, we went to the cafe one more time & I sat on those metal stools & I wrote my last blog in Zambia. I wrote about our hardships, the friendships & experience gained & how even with all the difficulties we experienced, individually and as a whole, at that moment, I wanted to stay there. I wanted to stay & write a book. I mentioned it sparingly but it was constantly in my head, staying afloat. It geared itself up in my brain, all the things I saw, felt & did while in Zambia, the people of Zambia & the people I went with. My excitement might ocassionally be tripped up by; How do I structure this thing? and What if I write something about someone & they're offended by it?, or What do I really want to say? and Can I even write this?, but I would try to keep focused & think of writing & read through my notes again.
When we got back I tried to start, but we started into the editing immediately. Even though I was happy to help, I wanted to help, but I wanted to write while the flame still burned. Wanted to get the ideas down while they were still fresh. I found it easy to get into that place again & I knew that if too much time passed, it would be harder to see it as it was instead of how I remember it. Almost everyday, clockwork, I'd show up at the hotel, the "Kraalette" & we'd work. And laugh & talk & eat & some of us; sleep. Robby would bring his tooth brush and enthusiasm. I'd bring the wake up call for Alec & Hacobo. A flick of a light switch can be a loud wake up call sometimes, sometimes not. MK would bring her smile & peppy self & usually the arrival of a break & lunch. Carlos would bring the sinking sun, blinding through shades & an ajar door. Sometimes I'd wait for a long segment to render & we'd talk. About movies, politics, just the world. Jeniece would bring the street lights & neon & the idea for dinner. Mike would show up either in the morning or afternoon & stay depending on if he had to go to work or not. Mike would bring his laugh & laptop & jump in the editing seat when one of us got tired. Cyndi lived there, sometimes rising to a knock and falling to the hum of the computers or Jeniece's breathing in the other bed. Pam sometimes there in the morning as I pushed open the door; talking with Cyndi , always the conversation between them. They'd argue like sisters; their threats and disagreements always only on the end of their sleeves & then there'd be laughter & the conversation would start up again. I would sit & listen.
We spent more time in that hotel room than in Zambia. It's funny, but in Zambia I got to meet these people, but in that tiny hotel room I got to know these people. In Zambia we were colleagues. In the "Kraalette" we were friends.
I had mentioned to Cyndi my book idea & even though apprehensive about being recorded, by me none the less, she encouraged me to write it. Now that I'm not at the hotel anymore & I'm looking for an editing job, trying everyday to inspire myself & write something, I finally had time to translate all my notes from Zambia that I jotted down to my computer. Reading those notes over again got a spark ah flickerin'. So, at this moment, this very moment, do I want to write this book?
Yes.
Do I think I can write this book?
I don't know. I really don't know.
But I can try.
Nothing significant is worth doing if there is no risk, right? If nothing else it's a goal.