Hop over to my 'new' (new ages with time) blog www.writerdelic.blogspot.com . The writer is ever struggling with reinvention. There is a refreshing in rebirth. Just like a book, we begin ourselves and end ourselves over and over, chapter after chapter. Functional dysfunctionality. Dysfunctional functionality. Crooked as they are, the pieces fit.

Writing About Writing

TUESDAY, AUGUST 11, 2009

I know there are many technicalities to the writing process, yet I have never been really conscious of them. I do what I would call ‘feely’ writing, ‘gut’ writing, as it were, much like a man stumbling in the dark and allowing himself to be led by some sixth sense. Or maybe that’s not quite right; more like a blind man, a man who has been blind throughout his life gets by with more gut :-). I ‘feel’ a story as I write. I ‘feel’ my way into it. And I ‘feel’ when I believe it’s just right, when I think the product is ready. That is how I have always worked. I have no formal ‘training’ or ‘education’ in the creative writing process, but I do intend, at some good measurable point in the future, to perhaps equip myself with something of a creative writing degree, as I think it will help improve my present stature. I say this because one of the most exciting events for me has occurred; I recently got launched into Story Time. It is a daunting and exciting thing, to have your work bared out, for other authors to read and turn over and scrutinise. So far I have had beautiful and encouraging comments about my story. It is indeed inspiring and encouraging to receive positive comments from established and wonderful writers such as Jude Dibia, for instance. And one of my favourite writers of the moment, Noviolet Mkha Bulawayo. It is indeed encouraging. What got me thinking about a creative writing degree at some point in the future, for instance, are the comments I received about my story. There was talk of pacing and language and point of view. Aspects, I then realised, I have never thought about when I am writing. I usually treat my writing as a sort of pilgrimage, a ‘faith mission’. I cannot tell you about how I chose my point of view and I have certainly never deliberated on pacing, but I ‘know’ what I am writing. I ‘feel’ my way through my writing. But now that my attention has been drawn to these aspects which build up a story, I feel the need to delve deeper into them.

I have had a number of interesting experiences re my writing. Like, one time, someone read my story ‘Big Pieces Little Pieces’ (currently on Story Time), and insisted that I had to have experienced what I was writing about, and would not be convinced otherwise. It was too vivid, he said. Some of the detail was too stark to be made up. Someone else, who read part of a story I wrote centred around an illegal immigrant living in South Africa, seemed to think I had experienced what I was writing about. This person went on to divulge some rather touching and personal information about themselves, believing I would be able to relate to it as I had gone through a ‘similar experience’. I did not know how to respond to this individual, as I had simply been writing fiction. I would just like to disagree with this notion that one should write stories related to his or her ‘experiences’, as this makes him or her write better. I do not think this is necessarily so. I believe the beauty of the fiction story is its allowance to explore unchartered territory, to convincingly ‘make believe’, as it were. I find that as I write ( and I guess I write what you would term ‘realist fiction’), I really get into a character, sit in his or her shoes, and for that moment, feel what he feels, express what he is. So far, I have not written a story that can be said to be auto- biographical, to be a relation to something I have, at least, directly experienced. But then I suppose there are sprinkles here and there of the familiar, used as a springboard to convincingly ‘make believe’ the not-so-familiar. I generally like to keep it fiction.

Writing has been many things to me; I used to do it without thinking about it (the beauty of being a child is that you do the things that come naturally to you without having the burden of having to consider the bigger picture :-) ) Perhaps inside I have always known. It was like something that was just a part of the horizon; I eat, I breathe I sleep, I write. But, and I guess like many significant things in life, there was a turning point, some pivot around which the moment had to turn, reshape itself into something more defined, something bigger. I dunno if all writers have such moments. I’m interested to know if they do, and what theirs were. My ‘moment’ came in the form of the astounding writer, Miss Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. It was mid 2007; I was just about to start my degree back home in Zimbabwe, at NUST (National University of Science and Technology). I had enrolled for a BscHons in Architecture. So I’m sitting watching BBC Hardtalk Extra one day and there is this interview with this writer, Miss-Chimamanda-Ngozi-Adichie-who-has-just-won-the-orange-broadband-prize-for-writing. So I’m listening, and it’s really interesting, Miss Adichie has all these views about Africa and her book is about some civil war that took place in Nigeria and from the sound of the interview, everybody’s making a fuss about it. It’s interesting enough for me to go and google her the next day.

This life story of this young writer who once pursued a degree in medicine and left it after two years to go to America and pursue her writing is just astounding to me. More so, her voice is unique, her writing voice is unique; I love the things she is talking about, writing about, amazing. Reality has just hit me. I write. I will write. I want to be a writer. I know all this, have always known all this. But. But. How? There is a journey to be travelled, I realise. But the ‘moment’ is not yet complete, is still making its pivot.

I read the synopsis of Half of a Yellow Sun. I’m in a frenzy. I have to read the book. I just have to get the book. I need to read this book. But wait a minute. Wait a minute. I’m in Zimbabwe. Everyday I walk past Kingstons Book Store and the book shelves stare back despondently at me. There is no way this book is available in Zimbabwe. I look up the book, see the price and the shipping costs, do my calculations, and quickly realise that, there is no way I will be able to afford this book. I have no VISA card or access to any of these complicated payment methods. But I need to read this book.

In a fit of excitement, I write an email to this writer I admire very much, frenzy-fan style, telling how her story inspires me, how I’m an aspiring writer and so-into-writing and I-need-to-read-her-book-but-I-can’t-afford-it-please-may-she-send-me-a-copy-please-please-please-oh-pretty-please. My friends are split to pieces. They are making fun of me. And I am laughing with them, because as I’m reading this email that I’ve sent, it really does sound like the crazy fan to me. Not composed, not cool, very much the crazy fan. No-one will take this email seriously. So I reprimand myself, think of all the corrections I ought to have made, and get on with life. But I’m checking my email as regularly as I can, just in case, you know :-). So there’s nothing for a while and so I kinda forget about it even though I’m a bit disappointed because I’m really itching to get my hands on that book.

Then one day. I’m sure you can guess what happens one day. I open my email and there it is, a reply from Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Encouraging little me to write, and saying yes, she will send me a copy of her book, if only I will give her my address. To say I am over the moon is an understatement. Those two months, before I got the slip in the mail to go and collect my parcel at the Post Office, were the longest two months of my life. So here I am standing outside the Post Office clutching this book and loving the smell of fresh pages and feeling like something is happening. I dunno what it is, just something, you know. What a pretty cover. I’m vowing to myself I will look after this gift, this book should always look like this, so beautiful. And then I open the book and the-something-that-is-happening stops happening because the moment has completed its journey around the pivot.

Inside, the book- a signed copy- reads:

‘To Novuyo. With the hope that you will keep reading and writing. Chimamanda Adichie August 2007’.

The moment has completed its journey around the pivot. Needless to say, Half of a Yellow Sun is an astounding piece of work and it’s not just the story itself, it’s the writer’s voice. It’s the way she presents her writing in that way that is uniquely her. Her explorations of the Biafra war bring to mind the remembrance of much unchartered territory, many pieces left hanging in the air in my own country, dangling and jabbing. I am talking about the brief ‘civil’ war that occurred in the 1980s in Zimbabwe, famously known as Gukurahundi, a time that is not officially recognised in my country and which one cannot talk about.

At university (this is 2007 at NUST), during my free moments, I write. Now everybody is always coming around and asking me what am I doing? And when I say I am writing, the question is always what am I writing? And when I say a story, the question is why? Why? Well, because I love writing and I want to get something published. Now that answer, nobody seems to understand. There is usually this distant look in my interrogator’s eye, as though he or she does not really understand, does not really see the point. It’s something I always struggled with, that always bothered me, until I gave up and decided, it is better to show them. It is better to write and then show them, because to tell them is like to speak Chinese. So at university I am studying Architecture (fondly termed Archi-torture by my class) and during my spare time I’m finding out as much as I can about how Miss Adichie got to where she is, and in the process I am discovering other writers too, like Uzodimna Iweala, author of ‘Beasts of No Nation’. I had no idea that young Africans are writing so beautifully. To be honest, I was quite ignorant of the ‘African Writer’. I did Cambridge in High School and so cannot even boast of having read an African novel as a set book. The last ‘African’ novel I had ever read, was ‘Son of the Soil’ (can’t remember the author’s name) when I was eight, when my teacher saw me with it and told me I was going to go mad, because the book was just ‘not for my age’. And the only reason I read this book was because it was lying around at home, because I was itching to read something and it was conveniently there. Growing up, I voraciously devoured Enid Blyton and any other mystery books I could get my hands on. The Famous Five. The Secret Seven. Nancy Drew. The Hardy Boys. John Grisham. Robert Ludlum. It had never actually occurred to me, that there was anything like an ‘African’ novel. I actually saw myself as the next John Grisham; the fact that I was not in America and had never been to America did not deter the belief that I could write books about Americans in America and be the next John Grisham :-). Such was my state. So this new discovery of the existence of young Africans who write, was very exciting for me.

I started brooding. During my classes, when my lecturers were reeling off the names of great and inspiring architects, I was busy thinking of great and inspiring writers. Questions began haunting me. Like, what am I doing here? Sure, architecture is a great subject, very prestigious, very challenging. And in third world country, being a girl and pursuing such a degree was considered a very great thing. Five years. Five years in this degree.

We are hanging with the second and third years in the canteen and they are teasing us and saying, ‘This degree is hell. You work like hell and while others are partying, you are busy working. But-‘ says a third year, a twinkle in his eye. ‘ The pay off is great. Architects work hard, and they also spend hard.’ He grins.

Don’t get me wrong, I find architecture to be a very interesting subject. It’s just, I want to write. I’m tryna picture myself as an architect and the vision needs a lot of coaxing and even then it’s blurry. I picture my name on the cover of a novel and the vision is as clear as day. Five years. Hmmm. Some of us know why we are here, doing Archi-torture. We have always been clear from the get go about it and we enjoy it and our focus is unwavering. Others, well, some-of-us-the-others, are not quite sure. In third world country, it is easier to pack your dreams in a trunk and sit face to face with reality. And the reality is, Architects even in Africa are highly paid. The reality is, Writers in Africa… who? Who is highly paid? It’s a cut throat industry, I’m told. I can always do my writing as a thing-by-the-side, I’m told. Writing won’t take me anywhere, I’m told. I can always be an architect and well…writing on the side. Problem is, I’m sleeping four hours a day because of the work load and I feel my writing is not getting the attention it deserves. I’m moody as a result. I’m beginning to resent Archi-torture.

Something snaps inside of me. I resent the fact that nobody takes my writing seriously, that everybody wants me to treat it like some little hobby, a poor little addiction to be nursed by the side. So, heart in my throat, I decide to leave Archi-torture, because, wonderful-prestigious-well-paying-degree that it is, it’s just not me and I feel I will not experience the height of my happiness if I do it. There are mixed reactions. Basically many people are disappointed, because they believe I am throwing away one of the greatest degrees on earth. Some are in awe, that I am actually doing this, me, girl in third world country, passing up the chance at such a prestigious and exclusive degree. The awe is mixed with some criticism. The general prediction is that disaster is on the horizon.

So here is how the disaster is working out. I am now at the University of Witwatersrand. Pursuing a Bachelor of Commerce degree. Do not ask me why I am doing Bachelor of Commerce. I just am. And I do enjoy it. Much more than Archi-torture. I think I can marry my Bachelor of Commerce degree to my writing. Because there are many wonderful artists in my country who do not seem to be able to make a decent buck from their work and I think our ‘arts industry’ needs a bit of refining. Because I think the artist in Africa does need, if he is going to take his work seriously and make a living from it, to think just beyond the beauty of his craft to how he is going to manage it.

But now. Learning in South Africa has opened me up to so much, writing wise. Access to the internet is much easier, for example. In Zimbabwe, I personally, in my situation, would not have been able to maintain a blog. The internet access and cost would just not have really allowed me to do so. Here, in South Africa, I have managed to purchase what I consider to be the writer’s most prized utility-his laptop. Back home, I used to write by hand, then go to a public internet café and spend hours typing it out. I did not like to have my work typed by somebody else because there were always errors after the typing was done and I discovered I always revise and rewrite and change this and change that as I am typing. ( I don’t like writing by hand at all, as I’m a messy writer, I constantly change sentences and paragraphs as I go along, cancel this and add that, and so for me writing by hand is a tedious process). In SA, as I am writing, people will not come up to me and ask me what I am doing, then look at me as if I’m crazy when I say I’m writing. In SA, there are nice big book shops that smell of that delicious scent of new books and fresh pages. All of this is contributing to my writing. The atmosphere is conducive.

It has taken me a while to grow into it and get comfortable with it, but, there is no ‘work’ I enjoy more than writing. It has become such an addiction. To write, to check out what is happening with other writers, to find out who is doing what, to discover others’ beautiful work. All a pleasure. Such a pleasure. There is great pleasure in reading others’ work, beautiful work that gives you just another glimpse of the world. I love it. I feel at home in it. I get excited about it. And I know I am young, so young, and so I have a long way to go. I am just starting the journey. But I have had my ‘moment’, that pivot around which I turned. And yet I cannot say it is the only moment, for I have had so many other ‘moments’ after that. For instance, I was reading the work of Noviolet Mkha Bulawayo the other day, and I got so excited, because I did not know that Zimbabwe has such beautiful, starkly unique writing that stands out in the way her writing does. So that was another moment. I was reading E.C Osondu’s ‘Waiting’, and I had another moment. Read Parselelo Kantai’s ‘You Wreck Her’-another moment. Christopher Mlalazi’s ‘A Cicada in the Summer’. ‘Behind the Door’ by Kola Tubosun. ‘Emotional Chameleon’ by Jude Dibia. So many moments. Little moments of beauty inspiring, encouraging, urging on. Writing that is so strong, so captivating. Little moments for a little writer.

As always, I have written too much, lost myself in the ‘moment’. It was just a thought at the back of my mind this, Writing about Writing.

'Many Rivers'- Christopher Mlalazi's debut novel flooding the banks

THURSDAY, AUGUST 13, 2009

I’ve just finished reading ‘Many Rivers’ by Christopher Mlalazi. I was in Zim a few days back and am happy to say I purchased the first copy to be sold in Zimbabwe and Chris delighted me even further by signing my copy. ( I love signed copies- don’t we all? There is something personal about them) I must say I think Chris is a writer carving out his own niche, his writing style is not quite like the ‘common’ Southern- African writing styles I have seen. This is definitely a good thing, as there has been a lot of talk about breaking out of the stifling confines of the stereotypical notion of the ‘African’ story. Many Rivers is a pacey, racy thriller; a Southern-African mafia- type page-turner. This pumped up work is like the bold but quick strokes of a painter on his canvas, rummaging through the many layers of the Zimbabwean stature with a crafty and entertaining eye, and a wise and unusual economy of perusal. I think this suits the mood and pace of the novel well. Chris knows just what to do with his words too, no unnecessary fancy footing and extravagant lacing of words, which is common with many of us ‘writers’ who sometimes attack the English language with that excess zeal of one trying to prove an unnecessary point. It is so easy to get bogged down with how flowery to get the wording and in the end take your reader on a kaleidoscopic ride of the English language while leaving him in a blank space as far as the picture you are trying to get across is concerned. But not Chris. He manipulates this colonial language we have cleverly reshaped and endowed with that tasty African flavour very well. He gives you enough to conjure up the picture and keep turning that page just one more time, one more time, until you reach the final dramatic end and the disappointment grins at you as you realise that there are no more pages to turn. There has been the view that African writing is most often heavy, sombre, often too serious and, besides your regular pacesetters, not enough variety. Well, here is Christopher Mlalazi with some exciting new writing for you. A great read. One of the aims of the written word is to entertain. In Many Rivers, Christopher Mlalazi is certainly at the height of this craft.

Landscapes by Bongani Ncube-Zikhali

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 2009

Light struggles to make its way through the canopy of trees which rise up, tall as towers, to the half glimpsed sky. Their trunks stand ramrod straight, as if they were all cast from the same mould. But they stand in no discernable pattern as if He who cast them did not bother to line them up.

The forest is thick with trees, as far as the eye can see in all directions, trees growing, silently living, quietly awake, waiting for something to happen; or not waiting at all. Simply existing in the microcosm of their individual universes. Their leaves are black where they are cast in shadow and shine green where they capture the golden light of the sun. Countless numbers of black & golden green, shifting in the light wind, changing continuously as some suddenly manage to glint in sunlight and others are strangled by darkness to lose their shimmering glory; shadows once more.

The breeze carries the smell of damp earth and the carpet of dead and dying leaves that carpets the ground. It wafts along gently, playfully even, but then at moments it gains in intensity as if suddenly reminded of some place it has to be. Then it picks up, gathering in strength until the leaves above and below wail in protest, whooshing and rustling against each other. The dead leaves on the ground come alive once more, picked up in the arms of the dancing air, twirling in complicated patterns around the trunks of the trees until they are laid gently onto their grave, the ground, by the dying breeze.

As calm descends once more, the sounds of life are heard. Birds chatter in the high branches, spreading their news to each other and also the thousand and one tappings, slitherings & rustling of bugs, worms, ants and snakes. Some sounds are better seen than heard; the silent fluttering of the wings of a butterfly caress the air around them so gently it, the air, doesn’t bother to report the insect’s presence to any waiting ears.
Beauty is simple here; the butterfly’s wings are coloured petals that seem to be covered in gold dust. As it floats ever so gracefully through the air, one would almost expect a trail of golden shavings to be scattered in its trail. The flower it lands on, almost hidden in the complex maze that is the roots of a tree, is as beautiful as its visitor. White petals swirled around an orange centre; it quivers gently as the insect sets itself onto its meal.

Small as these actors are in the drama that is the forest, there are even smaller ones on the stage of their own microcosms. Ants march in line up and down the trunk of a tree, as unrelenting an army as any that ever advanced over the African plains. Their legs, so thin they could punch holes in water, trample over the bark but leave no imprint, cause no sound. Worms burrow through the earth, blindly searching for what it is, they do not know, only that their lives depend on it. They are unfelt, unseen, unheard but just as alive as any of the other creatures that populate this place.

Creatures that, unaware of it, depend on each other for their continued existence. Creatures that might look at each other and see a nuisance, or a predator, or food; but in reality they behold their guardian, their brother in this life, their complement in the eternal dance that is existence as it makes its way through the tortuous road of time. These are creatures that will live and die together, never alone, always bound by the ties of being and never yet know it. Perhaps that is for the best, they did not eat of the fruit of knowledge so why torture them with its pains. Let us leave them as they are; alive and living, as life commanded them to do, as they only know how to do. Let us leave the cool embrace of the forest shade, let us retreat silently from that dark and mysterious enclave and regard it once from a distance, a wondrous castle of shadows, before we turn our gaze elsewhere.

***
The sun is truly a god here, or as the Ancients would put it; The God. Let us not argue; the heat is more real than any arguments we might care to bring up. As real as the celestial orb that hangs, burning, in the heavens. Its glory is more than any eye can bear and its heat, no its fury, is almost more than any living being can bear.

What else but fury can scorch the earth so relentlessly day in and day out? Without mercy or any gentleness, attacking the terrain with rays of heat as real as sharp spears that pierce the life out of any unfortunate unlucky enough to be on the wrong side of them. As is the land here, doomed to be below the sun and not above it; taken in a forceful embrace that has sucked the life out of the ground. Or as much of the life as is naïve to try and make a life in this region of hell on earth. For it is not only the sun that is guilty here, it’s the heavens as well, the clouds that dare not make their way to this remote outpost. Or when they do, they ride through the sky like stately ships and do not allow the slightest drop of moisture to escape from their snow white interiors. They cast a relieving shadow across the land, whisper the promise of rain in the ears of its thirst and then disappear, flying across the sky, chuckling at the poor unfortunates caught in their golden prison.

And golden it is, beautiful even. The sands undulate as far as the eye can see in shifting dunes that look like a ruffled golden carpet. Where plants grow, by some miraculous deal struck with nature, (or is it simply perseverance) they stand stiff and straight like sentinels, their cacti barbs ready to defend their honour, ready to repel any onslaught.  
And it is quiet. An eerie silence broken only by the sound of the hot desert breeze. A silence that cannot be pierced, lays heavily on the land like a thick blanket as real as the absence of life in this god forsaken land. It is the type of silence that invites reflection just as the sand reflects the heat of the sun back to the heavens. Reflection on the life that will soon disappear from you if you stay here too long, how it is the sum of so much more than your just being alive but the fact that the world wants you alive and has made life flow through the earth in as much as the sand around you is dead. Reflection on the life you are fortunate enough to have, a life that you too often take for granted in the mistaken notion that one somehow deserves life. The absence of life in this place invites you to reconsider that notion. It is after all a place of quiet consideration, of quiet and solitary contemplation. The mystics were not lost when they retreated into the desert to pray;
far from it, they had found their home.

But just as much as the silence invites reflection it awakens voices. The mind undistracted with the constant rush of life about it has time to consider even those deepest fears hidden in the darkest corners of its reach. Voices that speak of death, of secrets long hidden and demons unexorcised in the dark corners of the soul. For in as much as many of us claim to know ourselves we pay little attention to that region that lies within preferring instead to consider the people who surround us. And it is only the strong who venture into those dark depths, only the wise who answer those unanswered questions.

Or perhaps I speculate too much? There is no strength in the snake that winds from side to side across the scorching desert sand, no bravery in the cactus that stands proudly green in this land that promises no water or nourishment for its survival. Perhaps there is no fury in the sun demanding to be worshipped in the heavens as it stays on the mind like some continuous prayer. Whatever. The landscape is what it is and asks no one to validate its existence. Again, the heat is more real than any arguments we care to think of.

Go Our Dove, Those Ahead Shall Pluck You by Bongani Ncube-Zikhali

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 2009

The stars shine darkly, the heavens weep,
They who were once kings have fallen.
The blood of ages has begun to seep,
Through the fabric of time unforgotten.

Forgive, perhaps but forgotten never,
Regret always, but undo? Forget!
For now, always and forever,
That which you began shall beget.

The little things give you away,
Those windows of your soul;
Have lost their ability to sway,
Your true lies are now whole.

Perhaps you believe in fate,
Or is it He you call Father of All?
The Day of Judgement cannot wait,
You who once flew shall fall.

The gates of Hell are waiting,
Your hearts’ direction has found;
The way to your doom awaiting,
They swing open without a sound.

The sun has ceased to shine,
The river no more shall run;
Vengeance may never be ours,
But be sure it will come.

INTWASA 2009

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 29, 2009

Winning the Intwasa 2009 Short Story Competition has served as a great motivation to keep the writing going, to keep penning those musings down, keep playing with those words. I honestly do not have more to say (one of those few times when a writer really is ‘out of words’). Writing competitions, I guess, serve as a stimulus for writing, when you are consciously aware that your work will be read by others out there (in this case judges), you become really aware, as it were, of your work. One of the hardest things is, of-course, coming to an accurate analysis of your own work (very difficult thing), as a writer, sometimes you are simply too close to your work and sometimes you think the going is good when maybe it ain’t so great. Oh, and you are plagued by doubts, I mean how can you be sure that you are on the right lane, there is such a thin line between ‘wow’ masterpieces and absolute crap, sometimes one sees a masterpiece, another sees crap in the same work, then when you try and stick to the safe lane by repeating what has already been done, you are called mediocre. One must simply not lose sight of one’s writing objectives (very hard to demystify, those, ‘writing objectives’, what does that mean exactly?) 

I’d just like to say thanks, I mean so far after winning this competition I got this really great and thought provoking advice from my ‘sista’, who is a gem of a writer, with a gem of a character, and so her words always sparkle like gems, even when she is giving a sista some hard knock lessons on certain aspects of the writing arena, the words fall hard and hit home the way gems are meant to, knock you over with a positive and encouraging light.
Do you get it?
No I don’t get it.
(Whack!-a slap) Now do you get it?
Oh yes!

The African way of rearing does work.  

And my ‘sista’, you must not beat my compliments to a pulp- for some reason or other many of us love to do that- is there some child rearing method that teaches us not to bow before compliments, but to crouch beneath them? (rather to squash them)
Your dress looks soooo lovely!
Aw camun! You mean this ugly thing?
Well (shrug)…if you insist. (haha)

It’s just that us writers are so in tune with the more substantive things of life (haha), otherwise, those of us who give such excellent advice (such as my ‘sista’), should be billing for it, the way lawyers and doctors do (oh especially the lawyers, why are lawyers always under attack? So many lawyer jokes out there), open a lil office and do one of those 750 an hour (I did not mention the currency), then as your reputation goes up and the people are queuing by your doorstep, you stop being nice and start being grumpy and rude to your clients and you raise your fee to 1000 and you no longer specify for how long it is, see people for ten minutes and get them believing they got their money’s worth just because you have a reputable name…Ever noticed how the higher up the ladder these doctors and lawyers and doctors and lawyers go, the cockier they get? Ok, this is not meant to be a generalization ( even though it is), yes, even though it is, it’s not meant to be. So. Writers writers writers. Why do we write? Is it just the pen on the paper, what is there beyond that? Am wondering.

Thanks Intwasa, you are a great motivation to this young writer and you inspire her to go wherever one goes from here (where does one go from here? Where is the where from here? Perhaps there’s a no where. Perhaps there’s just a here) One just keeps on writing and then one should let the writing do the rest (writing has a life of its own it just takes over you and begins to  own you, in the end you no longer know who’s boss- the great coup). No really, I think I’ve said my two cents, it’s just I had to keep saying more because my words were appreciating with the Zim inflation. Now we’ve changed currency. (No look really, no, if my jokes are dry you really don’t have to laugh, you can just, you can just…. you can just something, find something to laugh at, I’m really trying here, at least my jokes are clean, ever listened to any of those live comedians speak, they don’t crack jokes, they make really dirty jokes and then people laugh at their audacity. One thing I love about Zim is we still have our sense ofdecency you know (although again decency is also a subjective thing), but we still have that nice, sour sweetness about us, beats having a sweet sourness, I mean would you rather have it sour-sweet or sweet-sour? I’m telling you, if you were to walk in Joburg with a mini on, they would hoot at you and whistle and ask for your number…if you try the same thing egodini (back home in Bulawayo), they will rip it off you and ridicule you-I mean if you’re gonna wanna have everything out, have everything out, I mean who the hell are you doing it for anyway? ‘It’s my body it’s my body’, not if you’re gonna display it like slabs of meat to be slapped and poked at the open market)

Again. Why do we write? What are the politics involved? Is it just pen on paper? Am just wondering.

An Incredible New Voice - Erica Emdon's unputdownable debut novel 'Jelly Dog Days'

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 2009

Have just finished reading Erica Emdon’s ‘Jelly Dog Days’. Wow. This excellent piece of fiction is simply unputdownable. This is definitely one of the best novels I have read this year- Erica Emdon really comes out with a high flier- the novel is vicious, gripping, domineering. Unputdownable.

‘Jelly Dog Days’ is told in first person. The protagonist, ‘Theresa Stephanie Victoria Mary Ryman’, fondly ‘Terry’, gets under your skin right from page one. We go with her through her violent and dysfunctional childhood, with an alcoholic mother and a wickedly dangerous stepfather, and the many responsibilities she has to bear as the first of five siblings. The story is set in Johannesburg in the 1970s, with powerful and relevant links to the events of that time, such as the Soweto students uprising. One of its many strengths is its expert build up of a brutal reality- the pieces are not too neat, as tales usually are, but jagged and chipped, as life really is, and I think this is one of the many brilliant aspects of the novel, one of the reasons why the book is so unputdownable, why there is a surprise in every corner. The way the tale unravels is unpredictable, and this holds one suspended, hooked to the dangling morsel moving along the pages.  

Excellent character build up, you get to really appreciate the characters as being so ‘real’ because of the way they are so ‘pregnant’. What I loved most about the characters is how they don’t act as they  should- this makes the tale all the more real. Often we have this view of how peopleshould be, what they should do, how they should act. This tale is all the more harrowing because it teaches us that even the people who shouldlove us right and should get their lives right for our sake- for example Terry’s mother- sometimes simply can’t and simply don’t. There are these glimmers of hope in the story, where Terry’s mother seems to be cleaning up her act, and they make the tale all the more heart wrenching. There are things that happen to Terry which shouldn’t, and when they do they should get justice, but don’t. We never stop learning about the characters, just the way we never stop learning about people in real life; as each situation comes up we get a deeper understanding of Terry’s grandma, her stepfather Piet, their friends. People aren’t always as they seem. The complexities and many trip ups in this story lend it a very real quality that you find you can ‘taste’.

The theme of this tale borders around family, and I think it makes one of the most excellent representations of the complexities of the family set up, be it an Afrikaans family or any family at that. The very fact that family fails to intervene in the case of Terry, who is a mere child, the manner in which many ills are ‘covered up’, is so typical of the family set up. We have Ulrike, Terry’s aunt, who although is well meaning and cares for Terry, is not really effective in helping Terry. Many times in the book, Terry has hopes of perhaps going to live with Ulrike, and, ironically, this invitation from Ulrike comes rather late in the book, when really, it is too late. The irony of the letter is in itself disappointing and frustrating, Ulrike says she has ‘heard a bit about what has happened’ to Terry (and what has happened is definitely more than ‘a bit’), and invites Terry to come and live with her ‘for a while’. Ulrike represents those people in our lives who, although well- meaning, never really stand up to do anything to ‘help’. Another character you would just love to smack is Terry’s grandma. Her failure to act as an adult in the face of overwhelming evidence of Terry’s dark situation is maddening. By far the most interesting, disturbing, and in my opinion rather ‘psychotic’ character is Terry’s mother. This woman is just incredible. Just when you believe she can’t shock you, she does. Just when you think she will get it right, she doesn’t. She’s incredible.  

This touching piece of work resonates on many levels. I think one of its many beauties is its universal tones, its ability to conquer the racial and cultural boundaries. This is one of those books for everyone, that everyone can read and relate to at some level, because it really has a lot of threads, in my opinion, about 'human-ness', and 'human-ness' is something about every one of us. It also goes against the stereotypes one may have of the white race in South Africa, there are many ‘assumptions’ I had to revise, great stuff. You move from standing on the outside to getting on the inside of things. One of the best ways to learn, really, about a culture or a race, is through fiction. Absolutely. This is a tale of a dysfunctional childhood in a white family in apartheid South Africa, and yet it is more than that. The author’s language and wonderful description of childhood and memory, the way the voice is so efficient in its change from that of a child to that of a teenager, thus changing gears in the mood and perspective, builds up a little web that seems to link up to so many aspects of this journey we call life. I am a black Zimbabwean (not yet born in the years in which this book is set), reading this story by a white South African writer, and yet her descriptions coax memories of Zim as it was when I was growing up. I find myself reading a description of the fruit trees in Terry’s family’s garden and suddenly I am remembering the fruit trees at my grandfather’s house. I am reading about Terry and her dolls and her childhood friends and teenage spats and suddenly I am remembering something of my own childhood- a sweet nostalgia is creeping up on me.

One thing I think the story may have been able to do without (and this is merely my humble opinion) is the epilogue. I loved the lack of ‘finality’ in the page before the epilogue (just a personal taste of mine- it does not speak of the merits of the epilogue, as we all know that tastes differ). It was a dangling morsel with a shadow of finality but no appearance of the finality itself.

Works such as ‘Jelly Dog Days’ leaves one asking,  Where has such wonderful fiction been all along, where has this writer been all along?,glad that this gifted writer has found her voice, eager for her next work. If this, her debut novel, is so rich and so ‘wow’, then there is expectation of even greater things to come. A well researched, ‘real’, beautifully written, excellently paced piece of fiction. I recommend every lover of fiction to get a copy of this novel (published by Penguin SA, 2009)- it really is one of the best works I’ve read, well written, excellent pacing, I cannot say this enough! (always get excited when discover great author, needless to say will now hound Erica Emdon’s works!:-)