“Are you not going to write?” Ada-Dadii asked me.

“I am but the writing has refused to obey?”

“What do you mean?” My sister-in-writing looked nonplussed. “Are you not the writer? How can your writing not obey you? Isn’t that your darling pencil in your hand? Ehn, make her obey!”

My gaze didn’t waver from my blank page.

“Ada-Dadii you don’t understand. Writing and I don’t have that kind of relationship; I’m not the boss of her. For instance, the other day, I started a blog post and my writing decided to turn itself into a short story. Next, I tried to write a short story and it refused to go beyond a blog post! Nne, kee ife isim mee? What do you say I should do?”

Ada-Dadii sat down beside me, a pensive look on her face, “Hm, this is very serious o! OKB, this is a curious case of Edemed’itis.”

“Yes”, she answered my unspoken question, “Edemed’itis! It is a condition that afflicts every writer from time to time so that they cannot put form to the many stories in their head. Even if they do manage to write anything down, they never really finish it or they begin another in the midst of one they were writing before!”

After a long pause, in which I ruminated over her words, I raised my head and looked straight into my sister-in-writing’s magnificent brown eyes.

“Does this Edemed’itis have a cure, a solution, an antidote?!”

“I…” A veiled look and those magnificent eyes turned away, “…can’t say, OKB, just write.”

“That’s what they all tell me…”


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