Quotidian

Dear Children

On the 3rd of September I, and three other authors, were invited to be speakers at an SPCA fund raiser. Yes, four introverts were slated to be the entertainment. Yes, I was to speak about a time that I’ve now left to history. During the run up to the event, my mind was blank. I couldn’t think of anything I hadn’t already said, to say. Then one morning, in the shower (where all good ideas emerge), I began to think of all the things I wanted my children to someday know about This Day.* So that’s what I did, letter by letter.

 

3 September 2015

Dear Children,
Today I was asked to give a little talk on why I wrote a book. Instead I’m reading letters I’ve written for you, to read someday, but not today. I’m not ready for you to hear these words, even if I’m speaking them to others. Because I’m not sure you’re ready to understand. Or maybe you are and it’s me that isn’t ready. Either way, you can wait.

 

Dear Children,
As much as I tell people I wrote the book for me, I also wrote it for you. Don’t bother to search for your names in the dedication. They’re not there. I couldn’t forget that my first published book, about an unexpected pregnancy, became an actual experience after I landed an agent.

So then there was you, my son. The first child. Who arrived without invite after a hideous year of good-bye. Good-bye due to old age. Good-bye due to suicide. They kept coming, even after your birth. Such as the day I held the finger of your eight-month-old playmate. A cold, they said. But by the next day he was dead.

Then there were the almost good byes. Near misses. One from depression.  Then two. Then you, my second child, my daughter, whose faulty umbilical cord should have killed you during birth. But it didn’t.

Nevertheless, forgive my superstitions. There was no way I was putting your names on a book that opens with a mother writing a letter in the sand to her dead son.

 

Dear Children,

I wrote a book about living life in a world that is far from fair. How not everything in life can be cured or fixed, nonetheless, we must learn to live in that space. Because when times got hard I began to reflect on the women I most admired, including my grandmother. That the single attribute that all these women shared was that they tried. No matter what life tossed at them, even if it killed them, they tried to keep going. This was despite, I am sure, going through periods where they weren’t sure what they were living for.

Remember, my children, life isn’t a contest. All I ask is, you try.

 

Dear Children,
You don’t remember me as I knew me up to the age of thirty-three. I was strong, sporty, never used prams, instead I carried both of you in slings. I even managed to teach basketball classes with one of you on my back. All of which happened before the time you began to store your memories, for now and the future nows.

The me you know, and will remember, is a mother who can’t always use a knife. Who isn’t supposed to lift heavy things. Who sometimes can’t drive a measly 55ks. She spends a lot of time on the computer. She is always sore. Sometimes she can dance, other days not. She’s supposed to exercise a lot, but also rest-rest-rest, take daily medication, wear funny tape and braces, all of which change depending on the day. But at least we now know I’ll be okay. It doesn’t kill you. That’s something, at least.

 

Dear Children,

There is a rumoured poem by Charles Bukowski containing the line Find what you love and let it kill you. James Rhodes, a pianist, wrote an article of the same name for The Guardian. In it, he discusses rediscovering his love for the piano, even though the endless repetition from practising can be hard. Boring. Means dropping other activities he liked all for the one thing he loved to do more than any other.

The world is an interesting place. There is so much to do and explore. But sometimes you are forced to make choices. Sometimes you can’t do it all. James chose the piano. I picked the book. A book I wasn’t sure I would physically be able to finish. Things were still unknown during that time. So on the first day of writing I wrote the beginning and the end. Then, in a way, I could say it was done.

This is called hedging your bets.

 

Dear Children,
I wrote a book about how your spouse, your partner, can never be your everything. That society often expects too much from lay people – our friends and families – when it comes to dealing with hardship and poor health, including depression. That it is wrong to believe that your spouse has some magic ability to fix or support all that life tosses your way. They have their own demons to battle. Society will try to isolate you, in grief, in hardship, in illness. But often the answer is outside of your relationship. Even then, the answers might not be a fix. They may only be how to make do.

Making do is better than nothing at all.

 

Dear Children,

I wrote a sad book where people still laugh and make jokes. Because that’s what real life is like. You can be hurting, things can go terribly wrong, yet still find something inside that moment, funny. Even during a funeral. Don’t apologise for this.

 

Dear Children,

People used to tell me, after I had you, to treasure every moment. The truth is, parenting is hard. Children sometimes behave terribly. Not every moment is wonderful. And that is exactly how life works, too. The key is, no matter how awful life has become, is to be able to laugh. I read in an article by Glennon Melton, ‘Don’t Carpe Diem,’ that rather than to feel regret for not always being happy, to simply be satisfied with Kairos. Kairos, the Greeks called this the time of the gods, those moments that take you out of the everyday, full of chores and responsibility, the hardship and the pains. Life is not easy. But you’re okay, so long as you can still see these moments, that raise us up from the rubbish, as Kairos. If you ever reach a point where you can longer can see these times, when the laughter is totally absent, please, get help.

 

Dear Children,

I wrote a book where women talk to each other, and not always about men or children. These women have ideas, impulses and random thoughts about a variety of topics. Because that is what women do. I was tired of books that didn’t show this.

 

Dear Children,

When I began the book, they didn’t actually know what was wrong with me. There I was, thirty-three, losing the ability to use my hands and everything hurt. Experts kept making suggestions, but things only got worse. At that time, we didn’t understand that Hypermobility Syndrome paired with something like Fibromyalgia, if left untreated, can create havoc on the autonomic nervous response, mimicking other chronic disorders that are very scary.

During this time of fear, I was losing all that I used to do: surfing, knitting, cooking, piano, gardening. My hands were working less and less. And nothing I’d written up to that point was good enough. I wanted to say, at least once, that I’d written something beautiful, even if it was a bit sad. To leave it for you. So I decided I would. Even if though it hurt. Even if nobody published it. At least I could print a few copies to show you, my children, that there was a me that could do things before I no longer could.

That’s why it is a short book.

I wasn’t sure I had much time.

I really wanted to make sure it was done.

Then things turned out better than I thought. Not great. But okay. And during this, somebody agreed to publish my little manuscript.

There are more than two copies around. Honest.

 

Dear Children,
While it is trendy to claim that everything can be solved with positivity, this isn’t actually true. Sometimes, no matter which way you turn a situation around, it still stinks. It’s still awful. You still wish it didn’t happen. It’s okay to vent. To cry. To say you’re angry and upset. But in the end, you need to keep going. But keep going doesn’t always mean try harder.  It sometimes means try different.

 

Dear Children,

While writing the book the doctors discovered that I was okay. Well, not really. There is no cure for HMS, a chronic degenerative condition, or Fibromyalgia. But neither condition is as bad as some they were testing for. You can live a long life with both. And that while that life will never be easy, most people’s lives are not. As Marian Keyes put it, ‘I’ve realised I’m not special.’ Everyone lives with challenges, some are visible, others are not.

However, I may have passed it on to you. Actually, we already know one of you has it. But you have your own choices. We know more about how to live with it. Your experience might not be so bad. In fact, right now, you both seem to be living well. Active, but not too much. Even so, should it start to snowball – the doctors still don’t know why it does for some and not for others – at least we now know what to do. For me, it means proper meds, tape, exercises and braces. For you? We shall see. Science is still exploring.

 

Dear Children,

Now that I know I can still write, this book is hopefully not the last. I’m working on another. I still have to write slowly, but not as slow as before. I’m stronger. I don’t require as much rest.

Yet, I’m still trying to write for you. And me. But this time, it is two stories: the one that I planned and another that consists of the main character you demanded. This book is a massive mess.

You see, writing This Day was the most physically taxing thing I ever wrote. But the voice of the main character was easy. I walked with her. Understood her. Could hear her, clearly.

This mess is physically easier, but the voices are loud and keep talking over each other. It is the most complicated storyline I’ve ever tried to create. Even so, if that book is ever published, I’ll dedicate it to you.

Promise.

* This Day currently on sale (now – 30th September)  for R100 on the Modjaji website.

Originally posted on my Books Live Blog

On Write Life Part 3: Liked vs Loved

This is a short series on trying to find the Write Life: click to read Part 1 or Part 2.

I read Amanda Palmer’s The Art of Asking, recently. In it, she talks about an artist who was getting a ton of likes on YouTube. Loads. The artist’s work was popular, people were watching, glad to have that work in their lives. That is, until the artist tried to crowdsource for funding in order to turn the art into something more tangible than a YouTube video. I believe the artist raised around 45US dollars. People liked the artist’s work, but it was not loved. It takes a certain love before people will pay. I read that scene in Palmer’s book and thought: Bingo, my problem in a nutshell.

Love is not always necessary. There are things I do because they are part of who I am, regardless if I have a flair for it. Writing, for example. Yes, I prefer it when publishers want to publish me. Yes, I prefer it when people read my work and enjoy it. But if these chronic conditions have taught me anything in life, it is that I write for me, first. I have, in the past, tried to peruse more lucrative writing gigs and taken a stab at writing for that elusive market. The only things I achieved with those stunts was a pile of rejections, braces and permanent damage to one of my wrists. But when the days came to stop living life as I once had, giving up most of what I used to do, I discovered that writing was a part of me, even if it hurt. I can’t even say writing is something I love or enjoy. But I know I’m not me without it and I am willing to risk a lot to keep doing it, even if nobody is reading.

Dedication sometimes requires a bit of love, however. There is an activity has eaten a ton of my time, cost me money and earned a lot of like. People were delighted with what I was doing, as long as it was on par with that artist on YouTube: free. Yes, I had my 45dollars of love, from a few souls. But overall, there was like and no love from the greater world. Which wasn’t a big deal, at first. Again, not everything I do needs to be loved or appreciated by others. That is, until:

• I was getting too tired.
• Some people said that if I ever found to time to do this other idea they’d pay me. Even better, this other idea wouldn’t take up quite as much of my time.

 

Putting it that way, it would seem the decision would have been no-brainer. But life is rarely so simple as two bullet points. In addition to a number of other factors, I’d invested a lot of my energy into a something that had touched lives. It is hard to call such a project off, even when exhausted, fed up and news that my latest funding idea had fallen through. Liked is still something and that something had felt good. Also, I was cautious about the enthusiasm of this other idea. I’ve learned over the years that just because people say they’ll pay for something, doesn’t mean they’ll necessarily pony up once the goods are produced.

The process of reaching the final decision was gradual and involved a number of events. One of which was being able to drive myself to Cape Town and back, for the first time in four frustrating years. That felt good. I love the freedom. Independence. But I know from my past, that I am running on borrowed time. If I keep working at the intensity I have been, all my hard work to regain my life – hold car keys without dropping them, cut up my own food, drive 5 hours and back – will start slipping away, all over again. As it is, I still can’t consistently walk my dogs or jog, surfing is totally gone, my time at the piano is a joke and I considered it an amazing week if I’ve managed to knit a row or two at a scarf that, after four months, might finally be long enough to wrap around the neck of a Smurf.

I’d rather try to stay as healthy as is possible while living my life. I’d rather look into things that might pay. I’d rather have a bit more time for writing. So I made the change. There is guilt. Overall, however, I know the change is necessary if I’m ever going to find the Write Life.

Write Life Part 2

This is part 2 of a mini series on getting myself back to the Write Life, originally posted on Books Live. Read Part I HERE. 

This second post was originally going to be light-hearted. How, after six years of public education, we’ve taken a different direction. How, when life is too busy,  it might be time to stop screaming at the universe and attending pointless meetings and consider, instead, a radical change. That the results of this risk, so far, have been brilliant and play a huge part in finding the Write Life.

That was what I was going to write about.

But this morning, as I took the children to the new educational arrangement, we got to talking. The conversation began over a wildlife program we’d watched last night, which led to a discussion over why I am incredibly reluctant to watch TV. That when I do, it is programs like Myth Busters or Muppet Show reruns. I explained that I read and see a lot of things, especially on social media, and much of it is incredibly sad. That it reaches a point where I’ve had enough. Watching it on TV is too much. So they asked if I’d seen anything on the internet had upset me recently. I said yes. That in addition to a bunch of heart-breaking news stories, there is a photograph I saw while loading up twitter that I cannot un-see. I didn’t tell them what I saw, but I did tell them it had to do with the xenophobic attacks occurring across South Africa.

This led to discussing xenophobia. They asked a lot of questions, good questions, and I tried to be answer as honestly as I could in an age appropriate manner. But some of the questions are the same questions I am seeing across the internet and, while there are a lot of theories, the truth seems to be that nobody knows. I told them that, too. Because I think it is important for adults to tell children that sometimes, even the big people, don’t know the answer. Then one of my children asked if I was going to be safe. Would people come after me since, unlike my children and husband, I am not South African.

They are the first people in my daily life to question if I am safe. For reasons I cannot explain, the anger does not seem to be directed towards white women living in South Africa holding American and British passports. To a child, this makes no sense. If people are upset with foreigners and doing bad things to foreigners what difference would it make that my mom is white and has US and UK passports? Foreign is foreign and we need to go hide mommy, now. I calmed them down. But no, it doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense. Just like Apartheid, which we’ve spoken a lot about, didn’t make sense. Hate never makes sense.

This is not the first time I’ve encountered the foreigner but not. During the various hoops I jumped in the United Kingdom to get my residency and, eventually, my citizenship (all vastly easier than trying to get any visa or residency in South Africa, by the way) people would routinely go, ‘But that is ridiculous. They shouldn’t make you do that. These rules are for those people…’ and then they’d normally stop talking, splutter, in the realisation of what they almost said.

Those people…Whoever those people are, depends on the country you live in, but every country has them. These mythical people that are causing all the problems, taking all the jobs, using up all the welfare, not participating in daily life. Those people. It becomes so ingrained that during my UK citizenship ceremony I, and the rest of those people, had to suffer through a pedantic lecture about getting involved in our new country, volunteering, taking part in local activities. Which is ridiculous. The UK, like most countries, has rules about granting citizenship. One of them is that you have to live in the UK for many years before you are eligible to apply for citizenship. During those eight years of living in the UK before being granted citizenship, I’d been working, volunteering and doing exactly what the lecture encouraged me to do. But if you’d been in the audience that day, you’d be forgiven if you’d thought we’d all walked off the boat a mere ten minutes ago.

But none of what I experienced in the UK comes close to what I have gone through and witnessed at the whims of the South African Home Affairs. I considered putting it in this post, but it turned into a 2,000 word rant and the fingers were still going. Another day, perhaps.

Instead, I’ll return to my children’s education. Originally the plan was to remove only one child from the local government primary. Then three things happened in as many weeks, two of which were illegal, all of them not good. I only found out about the first illegal action when I discovered the second. I only discovered the second because, unlike the first, the child could no longer hide the pain, hurting so much the child did not want to sit in the car. I demanded an explanation.

I was furious, as any parent would be. But what cut deepest was that the illegal actions had happened, not unseen in some dark storage closest, but on a playing field in front of fellow students, staff and parents. This was not a matter of one adult making a wrong decision. It was that nobody intervened. Not one person took the adult aside and said, ‘We don’t do this.’ People pretended not to see, looked away or decided it wasn’t their problem.

They just stood by and let it happen.

On The Write Life

This post was originally on Books Live.

This is part 1 of a mini series on getting myself back to the Write Life.

I was bursting into tears at odd moments. I was finding myself angry over things that normally wouldn’t bother me in the slightest. Yes, 2015 got off to a rocky start, and our hearts have yet to recover. But this was something else. I watched myself writing vents on Facebook that friends would – kindly, nicely, gently – tell me to delete. And after a few deep breaths (and hastily following their advice) I would gradually see that what I was complaining about was not, actually, the problem. But what, exactly, was the problem?

A month ago I vented to a friend. When I was done, she – kind, nicely, gently – said, ‘Tiah, when’s the last time you’ve taken a break? A real break from work.’ I blinked a few times, considered the last few months. I said, ‘That day you took me for the op. That day. Well, actually, I don’t remember much about that morning. But I certainly didn’t do any work after we got to the hospital.’ My friend put her mug of coffee down. ‘Tiah, that’s not healthy. That’s not healthy for anyone.‘

It has been four years since my health plunged and altered permanently. Four years from the dark days I feared I couldn’t cope, was useless, had nothing left to offer the world. Somehow, in four years, while learning to live with two chronic conditions, I have managed to refill my life to such an extent that my work hours exceed what is considered wise even for a physically healthy individual.

The difficult part is, I don’t have a terrible life. My days are blessed with wonderful things. I have – at last – come to the realisation that being a work-at-home parent is a good thing for me and my family.  It is a pleasure watching my children take part in their after-school activities. I enjoy having dogs around. I find the chickens a hoot. It is a delight to have a book published. It is a privilege to be part of Short Story Day Africa. I still giggle at the idea that I get paid to read books. I want to do reader reports, and have enjoyed the work. And even with all of this, there is still more out there that I want to do.

Everyone has exactly the same amount of time, the same twenty-four hours. – Kathleen Norris, The Quotidian Mysteries

I have been known to talk about ice cream. How ice cream is delicious, but you shouldn’t eat it for every meal. Perhaps I’ve created a life with too much ice cream. Some have suggested whole parts of my life should be cut, like going on a brutal diet. But what would go? And is it really about cutting, or more a matter of portion size?

About a month ago, I began to address these questions. Things have to change, before I alienate my friends, family and the people I work with. Because it is never good to be exhausted. But perhaps a more realistic balance can be achieved without a slash and burn. This isn’t about quitting. This is about finding the Write Life.

Part II has been published. You can read it HERE.

On Black Dog Arriving

Originally published on Books Live

Black Dog Arriving

 

On paper my life has been through a bit, in the last three months. 2014 ended with an accident. 2015 began with a death. Another member of the family is gravely ill. Tucked around the loss and worry have been the more everyday life-hitches: Eskom load shedding, Telkom incompetence, a burst water pipe (again, and again, and again), an employee breaking a leg, a minor operation (me), a stomach bug (child)… The physio keeps strapping me up and sending me back out there, like a coach during a game. So it goes, Kurt Vonnegut would say.

The morning after the death, husband and I sat side-by-side, bleary eyed and stunned while a waitress brought our drinks. We were at a rest stop outside Swellendam, facing their picturesque mountains. In an adjoining field, our dog, Orwell, joyfully ran, delighted to be travelling with his family. His bliss was so great you could practically hear Born Free playing as he romped. Smiles crept across our weary faces. I said to Husband, ‘Really glad we brought the dog.’

Then we returned from the wake and Orwell fell into his post-holiday-with-other-dogs-slump. So it goes…

Between the accident and the wake a friend dropped by. After saying what is said in these times, the conversation wandered into the more everyday. He mentioned he had started volunteering at the SPCA. He regaled us with his humorous encounters with dogs that would never suit our family. Then he paused. ‘I probably shouldn’t tell you this…’ But he did. A blind Labrador puppy. ‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘You’d never know at first that she’s blind.’

And my ears perked up. Labrador is the right size to be a friend to Orwell. Blind dog might not try to usurp our un-Alpha-but-still-like-being-in-charge dog. And he really needs a friend because every time we return from holiday that involves other dogs, he goes into a slump. Plus a blind dog would probably be less likely to catch a chicken while we train her not-to-chase-the-hens. But this was not the time to get a second dog. We were still travelling back and forth on a moment’s notice, hoping death would be held at bay. She’ll be adopted by the time life has calmed.

She was still there.    

I could tell you all the reasons people told me not to get another dog. The list is long and their objections are sound. I could tell you all the reasons people say you should never adopt a blind dog, too, as many were eager to share their thoughts. But there are times when decisions don’t make sense on paper. I wanted a dog. I can take care of a dog. As I told my father during a recent telephone conversation, ‘Everyone keeps telling me not to over do it, until they want something, like dinner and laundry to be done. If life is going to be this busy and this chaotic, I’d like for some of this crazy to be for good reasons.’

Because the truth of the matter is, when your health limits your physical capabilities the greater world can forget about your need to participate in fun. Unintentionally, these caring souls try to make my life even smaller than it needs to be. You could just watch. Be careful! Are you sure you should? Oh, please take the kids to school and activities. You want to what? You might get hurt! Is dinner ready? Have you seen my shirt?

Hey, if I’m going to hurt, it would be nice to be hurting because I love dogs, and not because of the damn dishes. And let me be the first to say, my most debilitating injuries I’ve suffered in the last four years were all acquired while doing not-fun-things! Like saving a child from poor traffic choices. Necessary, but not fun.

Almost two weeks ago I went to the SPCA and asked to see their kennels. I told them I was cautiously interested in a second dog. I did not, however, inquire about a specific one. I stood there and examined them all, and there was one dog – more than any other – that tracked me as I walked around. This puppy was alert, energetic and showed promise of intelligence and was sweet as any dog lover could want. So then I brought Orwell to see what he thought. Then the kids. And then a few days after that, the black dog arrived.

 

Her name is Ziva. She’d like you to know she gets around fine, all on her own, thank you very much. That how a dog copes with a disability depends on the dog. Her presence has yanked Orwell out of his mope-slump and is keeping me from losing perspective in this current circus called 2015. Playing with my dogs is the ultimate stress relief.

And every day since I brought her home I’ve thought of Ella, from This Day. How throwing your energy into devoted, loyal companions keeps the beast at bay.  If our characters have future lives, may Ella be blessed with a dog – or two.

On 37

Today I am 37, or so my husband says. Last week I started to believe I was turning 38, which led Husband to inquire what exactly were in those drugs the doctor had put me on to deal with the most recent injury.

Been a funny year, good things and terrible things. The book being published was – undeniably – a good thing. Yesterday a piece I'd written for The Spark was published on Books Live. The writer is required to explain what sparked  the idea of the novel. Yesterday, I sat there reading it and thought, How far I've come.

I'm no longer the person who wrote This Day. It isn't that I'm better. (I'm writing this wearing two wrist braces, my neck is taped to prevent my jaw from dislocating after an incident and there is even more tape on my shoulders and back. The back brace is sitting at my feet – ever ready - should I have to put it back on, which I've had to do from time to time over the last two weeks.) The difference is I'm armed with knowledge on how to cope. The difference is that I'm no longer flaying in the deep.  The difference is that I no longer have the fear: I know what it is and it can't kill me.

I'm also better. – You just said you're not better. – I know. I am, yet not. The Fibromyalgia, managed with meds and a slight change in diet – is no longer causing parts of my body to simply not work, while the burn races along unchecked. Little breakouts occur and I now have tricks, which allow me to stamp it out before it runs rampant. Hypermobility Syndrome has also been helped in numerous ways. We've sorted out nutritional deficiencies (my body doesn't seem to believe making vitamin D is its job, nor is it interested in absorbing B vits from food). Exercises – based on where I am at on that day -  improves stability and keeps me strong-ish (I can now cut my food and turn the car on without feeling like a hero). I now know which braces provide support or prevent over extension of joints, without over restricting me and causing knock on problems. My nearly magical tape eases muscle spasms while, often, doing what a brace can more comfortably with less bulk.

The most useful tool, however, has been learning to read pain. The most serious signal doesn't even hurt – a tightness in the body if left ignored, eventually results in serious injury. I had one very bad 'whoops', and now know if I ever feel that again it means 'Call the physiso, now!' at we nip it in the bud before it becomes a major incident. Some pain, however, I simply put in its place and work through. Other bits tell my diet has gotten out of whack. Another – rest more. Another – rested too much. Some pain signals injury. Some is simply the body complaining that it was built (mostly) for 33 years of living-the-life-I-had, and I've gone past it. Overuse: too much, too much, too much. Should have led a gentler life. Ah, hindsight, you always arrive too late.

Yet.

Now is better. Life is no longer spiralling ever downwards. It is a series of ups and downs, much like owning a jalopy. My 'front bumper' might become too loose, so we work on fixing that; meanwhile a tire goes flat, so we patch it up, only to have the rear bumper fall off, so we strap that on, then my rear viewer mirror cracks. I won't claim to be a cheery person. But I am, as my physio wished, now living my life. It is a good place to be. Here is to 37 years: some jalopies don't quit; they simply gather a bit of rust.

On Music & Writing

Originally appeared on Books Live

‘If your story had a soundtrack, what would it be?’

I commonly ask fellow writers this question. Writing – good writing – moves to a rhythm and flows in the same manner as music. This staging of words is most easily witnessed in movies, where the pacing of the tale is echoed by both the lens and musical score. Thus action lovers steer clear of flicks full of scenes filmed in soft focus and set to Pachelbel Canon in D.

I write best to silence. But before I begin laying down the words, I must listen to what my characters have to say. These imaginary souls begin whispering while cooking dinner, exercising and taking a shower. As their stories unfold and shift, their actions begin attaching to music. The songs are played while the research gathers.

We hear how we feel. Empathy is strung along the notes. This is what I hope to achieve in words: the tone, the tempo, of the writing portraying the mood of the character and the emotion of the storyline. But my mornings begin with the clutter of the everyday: feeding a dog, taking kids to school and working through my physio routine. When I do reach my desk, I am greeted by a plethora of cyber duties. By the time the e-noise has been damped, my brain is far from the awaiting manuscript. It often requires another cup of coffee (or three) and music in order to sink back into the words. When my head is in the right space, the music is turned off and I begin to type.

The songs I played during the course of creating This Day shifted with the hours of the tale. The music put in me in Ella’s head. It helped me connect with Bart – he, who, by the time the reader meets him, is closed off to the world, even to his wife. It would be cumbersome to mention every song I used over the three years between idea and publication. But if I were to pluck a chunk of the music and try to arrange them along the storyline they’d go something like this: Tracy Chapman’s At This Point In My Life, P!nk’s Try, Florence and The Machine’s Shake it Out, Pentatonix’s Say Something, Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah, Billie Myers’ Kiss the Rain, Bastille’s Overjoyed (Acapella).

The song list tells the narrative well enough, in its own abstract way. But there is one song that sums up the heart of the tale better than the rest. Oddly enough, I didn’t come across Bastille’s Flaws (Acoustic) until well after the first draft was written. It altered how I viewed my work. When I began working on This Day I thought I was writing to the mantra: pick yourself up and try, try again. Which Ella does, in her own way – try. And yes, the story is, very much, about that. But after listening to Bastille’s pleading ode, I realised there is an underlying theme to all the music I’d been gravitating towards. The song made see that underneath the words was a simple portrait of two deeply damaged souls – Ella and Bart – who, despite their privilege, have suffered through a tragedy. An experience that left them both deeply changed. Flawed. The days of covering up their faults or putting a positive spin on their failings, are over. Yet, these two characters are still reaching out to each other, in their own dysfunctional way. I didn’t set out to write a love story. But, upon reflection, I may have accidentally done exactly that.

 

Excerpt from This Day

Books Live has kindly post an excerpt from This Day. To read it, click here.

- The water devours the words. -

On This Day at Open Book

I survived Open Book! What a lovely time was had. Saw some friends and met new ones. There may have even been a few books sold.

For those interested, Books Live covered both events.

The link to my launch of This Day.

The link to the reading where there is even a youtube clip of me trying to read in dim lighting while trying to remember not to whack the microphone. (I think there is a learning curve for these events and I'm still a newbie. The man next to me was a pro.)

2014 Short Story Day Africa Shortlist

If you missed the announcement on Books Live, the 2014 Short Story Day Africa shortlist is:

• “Leatherman” by Diane Awerbuck (South Africa)
• “I am Sitting Here Looking at a Graveyard” by Pwaangulongii Benrawangya (Nigeria)
• “In the Water” by Kerstin Hall (South Africa)
• “Ape Shit” by Sylvia Schlettwein (Namibia)
• “Swan Song” by Jason Mykl Snyman (South Africa)
• “The Corpse” by Sese Yane (Kenya)