Tag Archives: creative writing

What I’ve been up to lately…



Since my last post (haven’t bothered to check when) some good and bad things have happened to me. And there they are, in no particular order of importance.

1. I got a new haircut ( Didn’t take pictures of my last haircut) and trimmed my beard

I hate being bored or be left doing the same over and over again. So every so often I like to change things up in my life and includes growing a beard after getting tired of my babby-bottom-smooth look or shaving it all off and going for a quazi Buddhist monk look.

Off topic: Some studies have shown that growing a beard shields your face, at least some part of it, from UV rays (I’m assuming these UV rays are bad for men alone).

And the reason I don’t take many photos of me looking scruffy is because most of the time I know I don’t look good but I do it all the same just for the fun of it. It’s different from what I’m used to and that’s all that matters. But by limiting the amount of photographic evidence of my grooming misfires, I also limit the number of  what-the-fuck-where-you-thinking moments when I’m going through my photos as an old man.

2. Got a new crush…Well not exactly a crush but read on

First of I don’t know if calling my feelings for her a crush is appropriate. I’m too old for one , I think. At 28 I know what I want and what I don’t want. Yes, I do 🙂

Crushes are for pre-pubescent and pubescent kids (with their accompanying scent) who don’t know what to call what they’re feeling for this girl or boy in particular. Why her, why does she make my stomach grumble even though I just ate? Why does my heartbeat go funny anytime I see him?

Some people say that at thirty you’re decided on which course to take in life. You become set in your ways, until you make a cozy bed for yourself with the earthworms and bugs in your casket. I feel this at 28 so I know exactly what I’m feeling for her.

I told her that I liked her when I should have told her I am in love. But I think I made the right decision of revealing dial number six on the scale of feelings since I told her this over the phone.

I hate talking about weighty issues that should be talked about in person, on the phone. And my friends it doesn’t get any weightier than this believe me.

But the good thing is the ice is broken. Part of the chill of starting up conversations has dissipated. And this I like a lot so we’ll see how things progress.

3. Tackling my stutter head on

I have spent so much of my life shackled and paralyzed by my stutter. And so for the past couple of weeks I have decided to finally face it head on like a fearless bull fighter or a drunk Liverpudlian facing this same bull.

Stuttering has shaped my life for better or worse.

For better because, it’s  shaped and molded me into one hell of a tough bastard. At least inside. Outside I’m still a wimp. But don’t test me 😉

For worse because it’s retarded, or more accurately I’ve allowed it to retard my growth from boyhood to manhood. Proper manhood.

So what I’ve been doing is paying closer attention to my speech and not neglect it like I’ve always done and only kick myself for failing to work on my fluency when I start stuttering badly in some tense situation or other.


PS: I apologize if you were expecting me to have climbed Everest, gotten married, had a son , speed-read my way through 300 books, cycled around Ghana or learned tap dancing or Alkayida or accomplished some other great feat.

I live a boring life.

But it’s mine 😉


– Steve.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Brother Triple K – A poem

When I look at you I don’t see white
When I look at me I don’t see black
Not because I’m colour blind…Well sort of
I see another human being that I share my fears
Frustrations, anger and excitement with
I see you

Whereas you want to bash in my head
With the nearest biggest rock you can find
Or watch me hang
Whereas you want to see the inside of my head
The whites of my brain, red of my blood,
Veins intertwined with skull bone and scalp hair
Or watch me wriggling then turn limp with eyes
Bulging, and my tongue sticking out as my last “Fuck You”

I just want to hug you
My brother
My Triple K brother.

-Stephen Nelson.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , ,

On Mortality


There are a couple of things I fear in my life. I fear losing a loved one, I fear ridicule for ridicule sake especially one without justification, I fear not being as good as I think I am and I fear growing up a failure and poor. All of these though pale in comparison to my fear of death.

The reaper must be rubbing his hands together with glee if he can read English.

I think I read somewhere that most men think more about sex within the course of the day, than anything else. Thoughts of my mortality come a close second for. Third is how I’m going to die. Would I have any last words and if I did who would hear them and what impact would it make on their lives or on that of my family. Would I say anything worthwhile other than “FUCK!” ? Would I die slowly, alone, or in the company of incompetent surgeons? List goes on and on

The whole notion of leaving this plane of existence, that’s if there is another plane, and having all bodily remains of yourself eviscerated with time bothers me. I matter. Goddammit I matter. I didn’t come into this world after nine months of conception, which was a product of some months of courtship  then marital consummation, to then vanish from it like vapour.  Even if my contributions to the world at age 27 might not be as solid as that of my peers, I do matter.

I suspect my fear of dying is a product of my fear of dying unfulfilled. Dying without accomplishing even half of the things I have planned for myself and the world. I mean I live in a country with a shit movie industry and I have plans to change that. I grew up with some money, big house and a car, then lost it all when dad died. So I want to taste the good life all over again. That’s not too much to ask is it?

I want to see the eyes of my unborn children swimming around in my ball sack. See if they inherit my nasty smoking habit, hair colour, nose, size and shape of head, intelligence without the depression, see if they turn out to be mostly girls or boys, gay or straight or transgender.

This kind of shit matters goddamit and the thought not seeing them because I could have a fatal heart attack, or stroke, or get stabbed or shot dead without warning, really pains me.

Don’t you all wish the universe in its infinite mysterious ways tattooed our foreheads, or somewhere most obscure, with our expiry dates the moment we’re pushed from vagina or cut out from womb? For example, at birth this would be my tag/stamp/tattoo on my butt cheek

Name: Stephen Nelson

Expiry date: so and so

Side Note: Better get a move on son, clock’s ticking

Yeah so what if something like this would take out mystery from life? So what, who cares? Some of us need surety to make us function.

May be the whole idea of mortality should never have been discovered or identified by human beings. It should just have been one of those things that just happen and we let it. Without any lengthy philosophical questions or discourse. We just accept it and move on with our lives.

Animals die all the time. I’ve never seen any kind of them gather round each other to mourn their dead.

Who has ever heard of funeral rites being held for a rat, by fellow rats?

Anyway… In the words of AL Kennedy, Onwards!

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , ,

The Power Of Doubt

What would you do if you suspected a man of being a pedophile? Would you confront him about it or would you go to the police? Or if you happened to be in an establishment like the church or the army perhaps, would you report him to his superiors and let justice take it’s course?

Is doubt enough? Shouldn’t one wait for evidence, strong proof of the deed or misdeed as the case may be? Because after all one could end up being wrong about the said person -not just in relation to pedophilia, but also murder, theft, or some other crimes- but then his/her image would be destroyed for life. A person accused of pedophilia or murder or theft  is tainted forever. Even when this person has been found innocent of this crime. Not only would he have to deal with the suspicions of just one person now he’d have to deal with that of the whole world. Questions that refuse to go away, like a recurrent migraine, then arise in the minds of these people; why suspect him in the first place if he didn’t do anything? I mean of all the men walking the earth why did the accuser accuse this particular man or woman and no one else? What did this person see that we as jurors are failing to see?

But yes one could also end up being right about some suspicions. A series of events could lead one to pass a judgement on somebody because the “evidence” is just too strong to ignore. Things this or that person said about the accused and what he himself does or says within a certain context could give credence to one’s suspicions. But even then the right course of action should be to investigate to get  to the core of the truth. Because in the end that’s all one is interested in; the truth. Suspicions should be the path to arrive at the truth and should not be taken as truths in and of themselves.

Evidence should rule our actions. One’s over-active imagination or lack thereof could play out different possible situations just so our suspicions stick. One’s love or hatred for a person can also play a part so whatever this person does one would still keep one’s convictions regardless of the absence of proof.

This post was inspired by the movie “Doubt”.


_Steve ( follow me on twitter @song_1985)



Tagged , , , , , , , , , ,

Alone But not Lonely



I don’t have a girlfriend. I don’t have many friends. But do you see me moping around acting like a homesick boarding school teenager? No!

For some strange reason I enjoy being alone and by myself most of the time. Strange because man has evolved into a social being with all the responsibilities and rights that come with such an evolution. This involves among other things making friends, keeping the good ones, cutting off the bad ones etc. Alas this evolution left me behind.

By myself I feel less fidgety and nervous. I don’t get that feeling that a thousand pairs of eyes are on me scrutinizing my every move – from nose picking to sneezing. I get to think better when I’m alone too. I doubt any kind of productive thinking can occur with the whole world watching, and God forbid reading your thoughts as they form in that little coconut of yours.

Most of the things I think about are about efficiency in my day-to-day dealings with the world. When to wake up, what to do right out of bed and more importantly what time I allocate to these things, until I hit the bed late at night. Thinking is one thing, doing is quite another. So then I ask myself why think at all if I don’t get any of these things done, and done right? Well, I can’t help myself. I don’t see myself doing any other important thing in my leisure time other than think. I’m  no Gandhi or Einstein but I’m a thinker, of sorts. Give me an isolated room atop a mountain anywhere in the world, that’s not too cold and I might end up coming up with a solution to the Israel-Palestine conflict, global hunger and poverty, AIDS and understanding those aliens we call women. Hell, I’ll even cool the planet if you throw in twelve dozen chilled six-pack beers.

Back to the girlfriend issue. The last one I had dumped me (I never get to do the dumping) in 2008 because she wants more out of life than I could give her, money-wise. That’s it. She didn’t leave because I was a lousy lover in and out of bed, or because I did really bad things like chewing with my mouth open.

That whole experience left me really fucked up. Should I have just manned up and forget the bitch and move on? If I could I would have. I happen to be the sensitive kind so matters of the heart do matter to me.

But lately I’ve found that I’ve become more interested again. I’ve started looking around but I still haven’t found any suitable mates ( Jezzus I sound like David Attenborough talking about Orangutan breeding habits). So in the mean time it’s just me and my thinking sessions and my lubricants 😉

_Steve (@song_1985)


Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Writing My First Short Film



I’ve been trying to write my first short screenplay as long as I’ve been wanting to shoot my first short film. I have  210, yes exactly that figure – ideas, premises, situations, “what if… ” scenarios, music that’ll be perfect for a particular scene, beginnings and endings, middles, and the like but not one whole.

Personally I don’t feel that constant urge to read or write or watch movies to develop the right material to work with. Even though I should feel it or force myself to feel it, I don’t most times. And that’s the truth.

Inspiration is for amateurs

I doubt that even the most successful writers in Hollywood get that burning desire every single day. Most write everyday because they have to meet deadlines. Or there’s no paycheck. And that’s understandable. But in saying that they have something I would buy with one of my testicles.

Bum adhesive.

Getting up and writing at a designated time, no matter what and not when I get inspired. Or waking up at 1am, best hour to catch witches and armed robbers, and get to writing. My day tends to be packed full with activity. If I’m not at work for the most part of the day, I’m at home watching TV and surfing the net for inspiration. Making time isn’t as easy as cutting out TV time because as a media person that’s how I stay abreast with the competition. And I sleep at 11pm everyday and that’s incredible rare, since most times my back hits the bed at around 1

I love reading but I’m not an avid reader

I have an 800 page ish book, Underworld by Don DeLillo , that I borrowed from the library about two months ago and I’m still stuck on page 2.  It’s not that the story isn’t interesting, well so far the first two pages have proved to be mellow, but if I wanted to be titillated  I would be reading hustler magazine or one of Dan Brown’s novels if I was feeling conspiratorial . I’m a fan of literary fiction even though I must confess that I don’t understand every single message or idea some writers try to communicate. Read Possession by AS Byatt and get back to me. But even with this book I was left with a profound appreciation for the English language and an even greater appreciation for the people who master it. Even though the language was elusive, confusing (even with a dictionary) and sleep inducing it left an impression on me afterwards.

And this segues very nicely into my struggles with my scripts. They say good writing comes from good reading. And since I haven’t been doing much of the latter, writing has slowly turned into a chore. I swear that sometimes I can hear the screams of my aborted script fetuses in my dreams and that disturbs me a lot.

Light at the end of the tunnel

I have been getting visions, and I don’t mean the ones induced by kush, and they’re good visions. I have an idea in mind that I see going through a beginning, middle and end in terms of structure without it or me falling apart.

I’m really hoping this confidence isn’t misplaced and I can finally see one script to term. (Forgive the broody metaphors btw lol)

_Steve  (@song_1985)

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , ,

On Wants , Needs and Wishes



Most times I find myself thinking of living a better life. I mean who doesn’t? 

I think of living in a bigger house, sleeping on a softer bed, waking up beside a super model who only breaths in oxygen for her nourishment. In this house would also be a pool, even though I can’t swim, two Alsatians and an Egyptian cat to keep my two dogs entertained. I’m all for animal cruelty within the lower ranks of the animal kingdom. No flames please 🙂

But what I want most of all is not to think about how long it would take me to satisfy these wants. The perfect situation. 

My needs are simpler in nature however, as are all needs come to think of it, and cheaper to buy. But sometimes one doesn’t need any currency for the purchase. Needs tend to be of a basic nature. Something that you can’t live without or should be living with. Like water and food and clean air.

But in saying that I also see things like patience, mental fortitude, tolerance, sexual charisma (to quote the late Christopher Hitchens), and a general lack of negativity, as needs mainly because of their immediacy and accessibility. You just have to redirect electrical signals to their right addresses somewhere in that cranial dome of yours to unlock the door to personal growth.

Am I talking nonsense or are these qualities too trivial in nature to be called needs? No.

Does any one quality qualify as a need? Yes. Without the qualities I’ve just mentioned, which are in no way exhaustive, one’s quality of life becomes stunted. Running around with the impatience of a toddler for example would not get you very far. There is a great amount of truth to that old saying that good things come to those who wait. 

Self improvement is a need. No two ways about it. Learning has made me a better person. More importantly learning from my mistakes has made me a smarter better person who would probably not be alive were it not for my refusal to accept myself, but rather improve on me.

But how does one then make strides in trying to change your general outlook on one’s life and that of others? How does one learn to be more patient with one’s self and others? How do you develop that sexual charm that most of us are not born with and find out the hard way with rejection after rejection? Does one go on and listen to that inner defeatist and just wish these things into one’s life but do nothing at all to get them because they might prove hard to master or do the complete opposite and take action.

Make that mountain come to you, minus the catastrophic earthquakes and destruction it would leave its wake.

But the hardest question of them all I find is how do I weave my wants, needs and wishes into this grand drive to self actualization without tripping over? What do I do in the attainment of my wants?

Aside the usual bloody-mindedness and hard work.

At least one thing I’ve managed to do is to not let my lack of imagination or cowardice affect the nature or scale of my wants. So if I want that $2 million mansion with the German guard dogs and an incessantly petrified pussy, I’ll want away. What I’ll do to get it and how ever long it will take is a secondary matter.


_Steve (@song_1985)

Tagged , , , , , , , ,



Not my couch


The sitting arrangement in the living room is made up of four sofas. The one that I am seating on is of the love seat variety. This name I assume is to describe how close you can be to another person whiles sitting on the same sofa without actually sitting on them or unduly invading their privacy. Or it could also be for more obvious reasons than I am ready to admit. But making love in a three-seat sofa should be more comfortable so I guess I might be right after all. But then again, since when did lovemaking rely on predominantly comfortable surroundings. If that were the case then we wouldn’t have sex on the kitchen counter, on the bare tile-covered-and-cold-as ice floor, in the backseat of a car or whiles standing.

The material used for the covers of the couch feels rough to touch when one strokes it in one direction and very smooth when stroked in the other direction. It also catches light in a peculiar manner. The surface of this material can look dull and shiny in parts at the same time. Reminds me of how my freshly trimmed head feels and looks like after a visit to the local barber.

One thing which made sitting on this couch enjoyable for me was the firmness of the cushion used as padding. The foam used was firm but not so hard as to jag you when you sat down with full force. With time and use or abuse, in the case of the one I am sitting on, the density of the foam has degraded. No longer does it feel firm to touch when sat on, rather it feels like I am sitting on day old bread these days.

The rest of the love seat that wasn’t meant to be sat on is made of wood that is polished and spray-painted to silvery shine on all of its visible surface but rough and coarse in its under parts. Very sensible carpentry, I think. But even with the coat of polish one can still see the grain of the wood which runs in tiny gray slits parallel to the length of the arm rest. An interesting feature of the wooden arm rest is of a slightly depressed region, carefully carved to accommodate the natural resting position of the arms whiles in a sitting position. The arm rest is also sandwiched between two panels of plywood covered in material.

After years of use however, dirt left to accumulate has formed a light crust of filth on the top ridges of the panel just to the right of the wooden arm rest. This was caused in part by the laziness of my sisters in performing their house chores and in part by my failure to supervise them.


Tagged , , , ,