Imagination is like a muscle. I found out that the more I wrote, the bigger it got. Philip José Farmer

Inside me, when I write, I stand tall. I feel a certain clench and release that I don’t experience from anything else. That’s what writing does to me. I feel an expansion of my spirit, my soul, and my mind.

As is commonly said, the art of practice brings about a perfection and though there are times that I question myself, my sanity and conviction, personal experience with scriggling and drabbling has shown me how true it is.

I find that my vivid imagination keeps getting sharper as each day goes by and it’s veering towards seeing things in 3D perspectives from the mundane details and beauty in the ordinary to the complex structure and questions that pop up inside my head. It only means that it can get better as the muscle gets fine-tuned.

Writing is certainly not an easy exercise even when we think that we have the gift of the garb and have all the structures well put together. As a matter of opinion, I find that writers are most times less assured of their writing than those who don’t write, but the passion and the loud voices that nags in one’s head won’t let you be until you’ve had your say.

Like the quote has said, and I reiterate, keep pushing the boundaries of your imaginative muscles. Explore by pushing the strictures of your boundaries and comfort. I am trying to venture outside my zone of cruise control, to a bumpy side. I bet the knowledge gained from trying new reading material and writing aspect won’t be a wasted venture.

I would rather keep pushing it, writing and shooting crabs than stopping. In the midst of the written rubbish, there’s bound to be a couple of useful material and by the time I am done with my muscle development, I might actually stand a chance of knocking Mayweather flat on his hard backside in a boxing ring with the feathered tip of my pen.

© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha

Image credit: Pixabay