Ten Years of Not Knowing What I’m Doing

Ten years. That’s how long I’ve been writing this blog/column/whatever-the-heck-you-call-it.

It started as a blog. Sort of. Back when we still had blogs. Remember those? Blogs existed during a primitive technological era when we still had DVDs, landlines, 4-1-1 directory assistance, and older people in your family still did not understand Facebook.

Namely, because before social media, we did not “share” photos with loved ones. It wasn’t possible.

To recreate the social media experience back then by, say, posting a photo, we would have had to (a) take a picture with a Kodak camera, (b) develop the film at Walgreens, (c) physically mail envelopes containing hundreds of photos to loved ones and random friends, then (d) wait weeks for people to reply with comments, such as: “Why did you send me a photo of your dinner?”

Also, 10 years ago we still had taxis. Today, taxis are extinct. On my last trip to New York, my Uber driver, a former taxicab driver, said that 10 years ago there were 11,000 cabs in New York.

“Now there are less than 800,” he said.

But getting back to blogs. As a wannabe writer with no credentials, no training, and no pedigree, frankly, I always found a blog to be a magical notion.

You could write something, send it into the universe, and interact with real humans! Your writing didn’t even have to be good, or contane propper punctuashin

People would actually read your stuff, and if you were lucky, the next morning, you would receive hundreds of heartfelt emails from Nigerian princes.

We had a lot of Nigerian-prince emails back in the day. I personally received many of these emails. These were messages sent by members of the Nigerian royal family, telling me how much they enjoyed my blog, how they hoped someday we might meet, hug each other’s necks, and—God willing—exchange intimate financial information.

So anyway, I remember the morning I started my blog. I was so nervous. What was I thinking? Did I have anything to say? Would anyone care?

I obsessed over each article. I painstakingly wrote 500 words each morning. Then, like all writers, I painstakingly edited those words, thousands of times, polishing and rephrasing and respelling, until at last, my 500 words had blossomed into true crap.

Then I would share my work.

At first, the main replies I got were:

“Hey! Nice blog!” And: “Very cool! Keep it up!” And—this is an actual reply—“My name is John Madeuke Chimizie, Nigerian Minister of Petroleum, I have an exciting opportunity for you…!”

But something else happened, too. People actually read my work. And some people actually seemed to care about it. This totally changed my view of myself.

This writer who failed fifth grade. This writer who dropped out of the seventh grade, who got his high-school equivalency as a grown man. Who used to be called “white trash” as a kid. Who was rejected by a university, who has lived in three trailers, who uses the word “ain’t” in social settings.

Somehow, this blog/column/whatever-the-actual-freaking-term-is led me to you. Whoever you are.

And I can honestly say that after 10 years you have altered my entire life. Yes, you.

You might not know it. You might not believe it. But every person reading this, every interview I’ve ever conducted, every story I’ve written, has all helped me realize important lessons.

Firstly, I’ve learned there is no such thing as white trash. I’ve also learned that angels are real. I’ve learned that this nation is not as bad as people say.

I’ve learned that people get cured from cancer every day. I’ve learned that blind children are not blind. I’ve learned that, if you are a fledgling writer, no matter how badly you think your writing stinks, there are people out there who will tell you sincerely that your work stinks.

I have learned that God has a terrific sense of humor. I’ve learned that He cares an awful lot about what happens to His kids. I’ve learned that I am one. And so are you.

But most of all, I’ve learned that Nigeria has a boatload of dignitaries.