An immigrant of Guyana by way of Washington D.C., Ruth Nineke was raised in New York City by a single working mother, ABC daytime soaps, and cable television. She has moved several times around the three better boroughs: Brooklyn, Manhattan, and Queens. Her life-long love of the nonlinear narrative, plus the technology of the times have made writing and independent publishing her inevitable preoccupations.
At the start of 2018 Nineke gave away the majority of her clothes, forfeiting most of her earthly possessions, and traveled to Bali in search of inspiration and fulfillment outside of the anxiety-ridden, overpriced and hyper-capitalist zoo that is present-day New York City “in Trump’s America.” Basically, she couldn’t afford to live in the city anymore and was tired of feeling unwanted by damn near every single man she’d slept with.
She also needed peace and quiet to write, and dry out.
Between tanning, making kissy noises at stray doggos, and attempting to outline another novel (…or two for 2018 release), the writer also provides consulting services under the banner of Nineke Publishing – her boutique digital agency which specializes in content creation and online brand support for artists and entrepreneurs. Nineke subscribes to and promotes a life philosophy of self-determination. She believes in leading by example, taking risks, and encouraging both her clients and her readers to embark on their own introspective journeys and then push out the very best of themselves.
I’m a lifelong dreamer, who gets high off words.
I never pursued journalism for the same reasons I never sought a book agent or to be signed to a traditional publisher; I need full control over my work and I am far too sensitive for criticism.
In some ways I believe my lack of instruction and guidance in writing makes my work suffer. I’ve never known the external push of an experienced editor forcing me to dig deeper inside of myself, to better express my finer ideas.
As far as journalism goes, I legitimately never had the fire. Having worked in a newsroom on the business side, interacting with and observing journalists – like the creepy writer and people-watcher I am – I realized the major difference between them and myself: I did not possess the necessary hunger and drive to go chasing a story outside of myself.
My relationship with writing is much more romantic, and self-indulgent. I am the alcoholic, emotionally scarred, semi-jaded, idealistic and self-satisfied sort of writer. I write at my leisure and according to my own urgency. I choose when and how to engage in my torturous love affair with words and story telling because I have a delicate mental balance to maintain in order to produce the work.
It’s become fused with my ego and identity in this way where I cannot stand the thought of not being loved for my ability. And under no circumstance can I risk becoming just another writer in a club.
I must stand alone to craft a mystique, and deliver a production of my production. I require a big to-do when I’m ready to write and share, and in the meantime I daydream, spy, and concoct and manifest real life plots with which to play pretend.
Anything else about me is superfluous. I am only a writer, after all, living in a story.