Gabriel Gbadamosi finds his talisman, and his Yoruba spiritual counterpart, in a junk shop statue.
I've heard tell of the psychopathology of answering machines, the ghost-in-the-machine poetry of microprocessors, but I've watched the use of Facebook profiling by editorial committees: what is our demographic looking for?
But how about, for example, writing to find out about what you don't know? Or writing as a job in itself? Shades of meaning crowd round every piece of advice I ever received. I never took anything as truth, only as something to think about.
Chinua, an Igbo from Nigeria of my father's generation, who wrote Things Fall Apart with its title by an Irishman and its split focus between a pre-colonial West African people and culture and a British colonial administrator; it was, when I read it, the best thing I had ever read.
Writing will demoralise you unless you give in to its moral shaping of experience, but nothing will stop you, as a writer, judging yourself.