I admit to a bit of narcissism.
It comes from a long struggle with self-esteem and insecurity about my place in this world.
Where do I fit in? Why do I exist here right now? What gives me the right to exist at all?
Very painful questions. Very real and close to my heart.
If you haven’t figured it out by now, I like to talk about myself even when I seem to be talking about something or someone else in my creative writing. I suppose some might see such a trend in my academic writing as well. A slice of my personality, my fears, my desires, my obsessions, my problems, and/or my gifts go into each and every contribution I make to the great ocean of writing both online and offline that floats around all of us. In some sense, a piece of my essence, my ashe, my soul goes into my writing. Is it any surprise, then, that I decided to write a story about photos, that this narrative I am building contends with the idea that our images carry a piece of soul to the larger collective consciousness? There is a reason some cultures view photographs as taboo, while other cultures use photographs to cast sympathetic magical spells? Is it any wonder that some people believe that a repetition of imagery can somehow project that person’s will and energy into their own space and influence their thoughts, actions, and beliefs?
My protagonist may or may not look like me. Her or his being may not be the same race or experience. Somewhere in that character’s trajectory lies a small piece of my own journey towards understanding human experience. This is also Afrofuturism.