### <center>A Perplexity, but first, A Party</center>
***
It differs all over the world, of course, but for most people around here eighteen is that age where you start to really wonder what the hell you're going to do with your life. For me the anxiety came three years early.

I had just gained admission into the University; the same university wherein my sister was in her final year--which made it easier for me, of course, because I didn't have to worry about accommodation or finding my way around or whatnot--well after about a month in the College, we had this party in our hostel. Some guy had just gotten some money and he wanted to do it big, so he rented some chairs, bought some alcohol and at night everything was set.

First thing I noticed at the party was how strange it all was to me. I mean don't get me wrong I *had* attended parties before, but those were either birthday parties for five-year-olds or our church anniversary and Easter picnics. This *was* the first party I attended that had people drinking alcohol freely, people smoking with cigarettes, cannabis and all sorts; that had girls dancing--no, *grinding* their big buttocks on a guy's trousers. It was all novel and strange to me, but in spite of the strangeness, it was all still completely understandable. This was college. I had prepped myself before I ever got in, and once again at that party, I recouped myself. Until the conundrum began.

It didn't come in the form of an epic fight or bottle smash, mind you. The conundrum was more of an internal one. And it was all caused by *Freestyle Time*, the segment of the party where the emcee allows anyone with a *talent* to come over to the floor to *show* their talent.

I remember a guy came out to rap, and it wasn't an exceptional rap, but of course he got his applause. Another guy came out to dance, and while he was dancing a girl came out and danced with him. There was no choreographed synchronicity or anything, but it was quite impressive to the fifteen year old me. The conundrum began, however, when a girl I liked, Jumoke, stepped out onto the floor.

***
<center>**May I Have This Dance?**</center>
***
You know that feeling you get, not quite of shame, but fear anxiety and sudden shyness, when somebody you know is about to do something big  in front of an audience? Yeah well I felt just that when Jumoke went on stage. My heart thumped and worms crawled in my stomach. Jumoke stood there in the center of the party, suave and beautiful, and after a brief moment of looking absolutely gorgeous, she signaled to the DJ.

And thus it begun--one of the most beautiful scenes I ever witnessed in my life; movements, simple, plain, heavenly movements. Jumoke danced, you see, and God what a dance it was! She moved with so much grace; so much eclat. So much so that I came to the conclusion that of all art forms, Dance is the most truthful; the most genuine; the truest to what it expresses. And if it is true what Keats said, that Beauty is Truth and Truth Beauty, then I suppose Dance is the most beautiful of all art forms. No symbols, like in painting writing or singing, just movements, and not just move movements, bodily movements; celestial movements. Pardon my digress.

Watching Jumoke dance, the conundrum began. And it came to a head when, after she was done, everyone looked to me offer a presentation of my own and I couldn't give any. After a few banter they got off me, and a few more people performed, dancing singing raping somersaulting, beat-boxing name it. And it was then that I realized there was actually a possibility that I was absolutely *talentless*. What the hell was I supposed to do with my life? Have I been doomed to walk the earth, a talentless wraith, feeding off the crumbs of better, more talented people? The quandary made my stomach tighten. And for a long time I believed it was true--just like Jumoke's dance.

***
### <center>The Epipahany</center>
***

First a disclaimer: This is not a heart-wrenching epiphany, the kind written about in the Bible and the romanticists. This is not *La Belle Dame sans Merci* or Saul of Tarsus on his way to Damascus. This is a nineteen year old boy, done with his final exams, on his way back to his hostel. The boy is too heavy- hearted to go home just yet, though. 

See, although he is nineteen and done with college, he has no idea what to do with his life. He was not unlike a man who had been in a boat, sitted comfortably, not rowing, but being rowed, until the boat capsized, and who is now drowning in a dark sea, unable to discern what lies ahead of him.

Okay enough of talking about myself in third-person. But yeah I was done with college with absolutely no idea what to do with my life. So I did what any rational human would--I entered a library.

My college library had two floors and a basement. I was a science student, so basically my place was in the basement, because that was where all the science texts were. 

And it was after I had made the trip to the shelves to retrieve any suitable Industrial Chemistry textbook, that something awesome happened. If I was just a bit more metaphysically inclined, I'd call it fate, or destiny, or whatever. 

See I found, in the midst of a shitload of Chemistry textbook, nothing less than *The Great Gatsby* by F. Scott Fitzgerald. The Great fucking Gatsby! Now, admittedly I had no idea what sweet awesomeness awaited me in the pages of that book, but I *had* heard that title mentioned in a movie once, so without hesitation I headed for the nearest chair and sat to read.

***
### <center>The Style</center>
***
The plan was to read for about an hour and leave, to avoid the late evening rush at the bus-stops. Its amazing how clueless I was. Three full hours later I was still at it, getting bathed in the splendor of a prose so sublime I didn't know what color the day was.

This is not a book review, but I would never do justice to myself as a writer if I didnt talk about the influence Scott Fitzgerald's books, and my encounter at the library that day, has had on my writing--and my being as a whole. See I sat there in that library, reading, soaking up every word as if I'd never read before, because honestly I'd never read such a brilliant prose before! There was such a bliss in it! And although as I read I couldn't discern exactly what made that book sound like an elysian song in my ears, nevertheless I remember the happiness I felt on that day; the kind I have experienced perhaps twice since then. 

To cut the long story short, I was chased out of the library by an hungry looking librararian who said the library was about to be closed. I was only half-way through my second reading of the book, and although I felt a little pang of sadness as I picked up my bag and stood, dropping the book on the table and looking at it as lovers look when they part, the joy in my heart as I left the school library was overwhelming. I had found purpose! Finally I had found purpose.  I had found my own dance. Or at least a song I could dance to. I was going to write fiction like Scott Fitzgerald or die trying! The next day at a church service I began my first novel.

***
### <center>Over The Years</center>
***

The first few years of my writing I was a Fitzgerald addict. I not only read him, I read everything about him. I emulated his style as much as I could, I read his collections of short-stories, I read his poetry, I read his letters, assimilating his advices. I even read his discarded first drafts.

See Fitzgerald belonged to the modernist era, but he never performed the crazy experiments modernists like Joyce, Woolf and Faulkner performed. He belonged more to the romanticists. He adored Keats and Byron, and in short time I did too. 

During this period of time I wrote the finest prose of my life, some of which I had published in literary magazines. I even got some poetry published too.

Soon after, though, I discovered other writers, and began to experiment with some new style. I still revere Fitzgerald above all others, but I fell in love with the other modernists too and their experimentation in prose and poetry. I fell in love with their interior monologue; how they sought to achieve character delineation not only from external events and relationships, but from internal turmoil and struggles. 

I fell in love with Italo Calvino and the post-modernists. I knew, of course, that I would never be able to emulate their style. Their disregard for syntax and punctuations was totally against my classical upbringing in prose, but I had no less respect for them. If anything I had more.

I tried, but fail, to emulate Kafka, Satre, Camus and the Absurdists.

Like I said, I absolutely love classics--from Homer's *Illiad* to Dante's *Divine Comedy* to Milton&apos;s *Paradise Lost*. 

Among African writers I absolutely admire Wole Soyinka and his eccentric complexities. I admire Ngugi Wa Thiong'o and his simplicity. I revere Chinua Achebe but have reservations concerning his abilities as a novelists. I believe I am close to publishing a trenchant essay on the subject that will earn me the absolute chagrin and possible ostracization from the entire literary community.

As the closing on *style*, allow me to offer the following wisdom from F. Scott Fitzgerald as a paraphrase. In a letter to his friend, John Peale Bishop, Fitzgerald condemned his friend&apos;s tendency to write under the influence/ assimilate the styles, of greater writers. 

>It is pardonable for an upcoming writer, Fitzgerald said, to try to pick up things here and tbere, but ultimately as a writer you must find your own voice!

***
### <center>Sndbox</center>
***

We all know steemit is flawed. If not for a few guilds here that encourage users who put up quality contents, steemit would be brimming with bid-bot promoted mediocre posts and plagiarisms. Among such guilds are @Sndbox, @curie and @ocd. I have been on the receiving end of one of them so I&apos;m familiar with the amount of joy contact with such groups can bring an author.

As a curie curator--though still new at that--I come across a lot of quality users who can not, for a reason or another, get a curie vote. My friend, @besmirched, is a very pertinent example of that. With the help of Sndbox, however, I would be able to reward such users, and hopefully they choose to stay on the platform rather than leave as most unsatisfied users do.

Obviously high retention rate and high quality contents are what would make steemit grow as a platform. And steemit&apos;sgrowth is what we&apos;re all after, because at the end of the day steemit&apos;s growth is our growth!