I'm done...

Yes! Yes! Yes! I’ve finally finished my novel last week. *does a little dance*

The mix of feelings rushing through me when I realised that I was actually really truly done were totally overwhelming. Joy, euphoria, accomplishment, you know, all those happy feelings you get when you’ve done something that you feel proud of.

Alas, the joy was short-lived. After the joy came the doubt.

And not slowly either, none of that letting me down gently doubt. No, gripping me by the chest doubt that shouts in my head: Do you really think this book is worth the paper or rather bytes it’s written on? Seriously? Who would want to read this drivel?

And being the co-dependent person that I am, I quickly reached out to my fellow writers, the people that I can’t do without in my life.

One of them said: ‘Just ride the wave. The shore awaits.’

That made sense to me. Writing, for me, is like swimming in the ocean. One moment I’m calmly floating on my back, watching the pretty clouds playing in the blue sky above and the next an unpleasant wave comes and crashes me into the sand underneath. I guess I have two choices when this happens: Either stay there at the bottom and let the grains scrape me raw, or push up and find that perfect wave that will bring me to the shore where my deck chair and one of those drinks with little umbrellas in them wait for me.

Book-reading Today - 21 May 2011 (3-5pm)

Woolfson and Tay is hosting an author reading for Words Made Flesh, an anthology of short stories and novel extracts that showcase new international voices writing in London today.

Authors reading include: Laurika Bretherton, Rochelle Gosling, Peter Miller, Jennifer Nadel, Susan Oke, Mark Pendry, Rosie Rowel, Barbara Wren and Colette Swires.

The anthology features work by writers on The Complete Creative Writing Course, and is proudly published by Treehouse Press.

This wide-ranging selection of work about love, lust, and ennui, covers inter-galactic spacetravel, the heady world of art and horse-riding, small-town life, dating in the Big Smoke, and getting by in Glasgow. We meet a South African policeman at the end of the Apartheid era, a budding Tanzanian chef who dreams of macaroons, and a hitman returning home to investigate his sister’s death.

Pop by and spend an enjoyable afternoon in this award-nominated independent bookshop, café and gallery while listening to some of these stories read by the authors themselves.

Check out info about The Complete Creative Writing Course

And about Treehouse Press

Woolfson and Tay Bookshop

I hope to see you there!

Quatermain's Expedition Camp

I have just come back for the most amazing place - Quatermain’s Expedition Camp in South Africa’s Eastern Cape. Firstly let me say this, when I go to a game lodge my expectations are pretty high. I grew up in Namibia and Etosha National Park was almost in my back yard. During my teens in South Africa I’d take a backpack, a sleeping bag and hike up mountains, cook my food over a fire, drink water from rivers and sleep under the stars.

I would love to get that experience back, but with a little more finesse. This is where Quatermain’s comes in. If you are looking for one of those five star, take-out-a-second-mortgage-on-your-house types of bush experiences, you know the ones where you sleep under a fancy duvet, in an air-conditioned room, with a Jacuzzi in your bathroom then this is not for you.

At Quatermain’s you experience the bush differently. You step back into a romantic time when Africa was wild and free and explorers where just starting to discover its wonderful secrets.

Let me explain. About 45 minutes from Port Elizabeth, there’s a sign that says Quatermain’s and Carnarvon Dale. There’s an unguarded gate. Yes you actually have to get out of your little rental car yourself and pull the chain over the wooden pole and push the gate open - just like on a farm. Then you follow a dirt road, a farm road before you arrive at a farm house. This is where you leave you little car and a big open four wheel drive picks you up. Once you and your bag is safely on the truck you know why you’re leaving your car behind. It is rough terrain, seriously rough, as in grab-onto-the-nearest-pole-or-you’ll-fall-out rough.

At the camp, and yes I can call it a camp. Unlike some places that call themselves camps but they have spas and what not, this is truly a camp. Anyway when you get there you are transformed back to the 1920s. The boma forms the heart of Quatermain’s. There’s a fire pit for cooking, a large table for eating and socialising and chairs scattered about.

Quatermain’s only has three tents which sleep two people each. So at the most there are six guests at a time. The only modern facilities visible are two semi-open showers and two toilets. There’s hot water and you can watch the birds in the trees while you wash your hair.

The tents are a little bit away from the boma and ablution facilities. This is to allow you privacy I suspect. You take a winding path through the bush, a sudden turn and then right before you, your tent and the feeling of old worldliness strengths.

The tents were specially built for Quatermain’s on spec according to the 1900s British military style and the attention to detail is amazing. A canvas water bag hangs at the front with a canvas basin below it - this water is not for drinking but washing your face and hands.

On the deck stands two chairs and a table, again, not just any chairs, these were made according to Queen Victoria’s specifications. When she visited her army during some or other British war, she noticed that her officers were sitting on crates. So she decided right there and then that no officer in the British Army would sit on crates so she had these folding chairs designed. No matter what the terrain they are always stable. Apparently it has something to do with the leather straps and the wooden legs. All I can say is that they were comfortable.

Now I didn’t go to Quatermain’s just for the accommodation, I wanted to see some wildlife. And wildlife I saw. Everything from elephant to cheetah, lions to hippos, buffalo to black rhino, vervet monkeys to a jackal buzzard breeding pair. And nothing was too much work for our ranger, who went out of his way to show us everything.

Another thing that sets Quatermain’s apart from the other lodges in the area is that its guests are allowed onto Shamwari. So you get to see game on Shamwari as well as Amakhala, giving you a double chance to see everything.

During the morning drives you have a coffee and rusk break. Coffee served from traditional tin mugs and Ouma rusks. During the evening drives there are sundowners with wine in metal cups and French cheese. Returning from your evening drive the Boma’s lit up with oil lamps, the fire burns happily in the pit, the real old-fashioned gramophone player plays its war era songs and a glass of sherry awaits you.

I must add that for a place that has no electricity, they certainly make excellent food. The dinners were all done on the open fire in the boma - potjie (a type of stew) or a braai (BBQ). Cooked breakfasts await you after the morning game drives. You put your order in before the drive and when you come back it’s ready for eating.

After dinner you sit around the fire and exchange stories and when it gets time to go to bed you take your oil lantern and walk through the bush to your tent. If you look up into the sky you’ll see the most amazing constellation of stars. The army style metal beds with their military blankets are surprisingly comfortable. When you blow out your lamp and the darkness and silence embrace you, the call of the jackals in the distance awakens your longing for another time, a time when adventure laid around every corner.

My new Kindle

Two weeks ago I got a surprise, a delivery man on my doorstep with the new Amazon Kindle 3. It was a gift from my Geek. I have been kicking against getting an eReader simply because I love to page through my books, smell the paper and enjoy the feel of it.

Well it took me less than a day to be converted. My Kindle 3 is the same weight as my iPhone. A few grams are added with the pretty green pouch, but all in all it is lighter and thinner than your average novel, which makes it easy to carry. The text is exceptionally clear and it is so easy to use. I love that I can make notes and comment within the books I read. It is particularly useful when I read something for research purposes.

I have one big issue though. And this is not with Amazon as such, but with ebooks in general. I am all for copyright, I’m a writer after all. But when I buy a book I want to be able to take it with me wherever I go. Reading is a relaxing past time, not something that you do behind your computer at your desk.

So therefore I try to avoid buying encrypted books, not because I want to cheat the author or publisher out of money, but I just want to read my book where and when I please.

It’s like buying a frying pan that can only be used on one plate on your stove top. AND you cannot take it with you when you move house or buy a new stove. Honestly. It sucks!

What sucks more though is when a store doesn’t tell me clearly that the book I’m buying is encrypted and can only be read on the device that I’ve used for the purchase. I’ve just spent £30 on new ebooks which gave me an option of ePub or PDF format. Nothing about encryption was mentioned anywhere on the PDF version.

My new Kindle converts PDFs so I figured I’m safe right? But when I tried to download them onto my Kindle I got the message loud and clear: SORRY YOU IDIOT you've just spent £30 at Kalahari.net on books that you can only read at your desk.

I guess I'll have to educate myself a bit more so that I won't make that mistake again.

It’s just a little crush

I know I’ve confessed on this blog before that I have a little crush on a specific man, but I reckon after last night it’s turned into a proper full blown obsession. Honestly, he is everything you want: Articulate. Clever. Funny. Modest. Just Perfect.

His name is Carlos. He’s Spanish. Although if you ask him he’d say he just happened to be born in Barcelona, he could have been born anywhere. Where you’re born is not that important he says. Home is the place where he lives at any given time. Home can be anywhere.

Now before you think I’m having some juicy affair behind my awesome Geek’s back. I’m not really. I’m talking about Carlos Ruiz Zafon. That amazing author of Shadow of the Wind and The Angel’s Game. His stories are dark and gothic and oh so beautifully written.

In Shadow of the Wind I walked with Daniel on that misty morning to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books. Actually I WAS Daniel. I saw the winding labyrinth. I smelled the musty pages of the books with souls. And the opening paragraph in The Angel’s Game had me clutching the book to my chest as I rushed to the counter of the bookstore to pay. I mean: “the sweet poison of vanity in his blood” and “he machine-gunned the text with corrections and amputations.” How amazing right?

Carlos (I feel I can call him that, I’ve looked into his eyes, I’ve earned that right) confessed that he does not have a muse calling him on his cell phone with ideas. And that he would love for Microsoft to develop a software programme called MetaphorX to write his metaphors for him. Apparently he has to squeeze his brain real hard for anything to come out. Just like any other mortal. That statement made him even more perfect in my eyes.

And he does have two vices. Alcohol is not one of them; it gives him a headache. No it’s cigars and caffeine. I don’t think the cigars part is much of a vice because he only smokes one every six months or so. But it sounds like if he could he’d mainline on Coca Cola, which to a fellow caffeine and sugar addict is not such a bad thing really.

After the talk he sat patiently and signed all the books placed in front of him. He chatted to every person. I must confess, I was star struck. I mean I’ve had a crush on the man for who knows how long and then suddenly he’s sitting right in front of me. So rather than saying something stupid I just smiled like that obsessed fan Annie Wilkes in Stephen King’s novel Misery. But he still signed the book for me. Thank you Carlos!

London Book Fair 2010 – SA Market Focus

The South African Pavilion at this year’s London Book Fair looked a little fore lone today. Empty stands and a little bit of chaos this morning were blamed on the travel situation. But the show had to go on and in the spirit of creativity London friends of SA authors were roped in to do readings.

Panel discussions were no less exciting. Five minutes into the the Overview of SA Publishing Fathima Dado came rushing through the doors. Clearly relieved and proud that she made it. I would be too if I had to hitchhike across the English Channel. She got a lift from a ‘very handsome Belgium gentleman’.

Brian Wafawarowa, Executive Director of the Publishers Association of SA had his hands full. He chaired most of the SA focused discussions and announced this year’s Cape Town Book Fair which will be held on 29 July to 2 August 2010. There will be an extra day added to focus specifically on the trade industry. However the fair will keep its festival feel and it will celebrate books and reading across South Africa.

Wafaworowa hopes that the Cape Town Book Fair will become the African Book Fair and act as a gateway to the rest of Africa. He also announced that The International Publishing Association will be hosted at the 2012 Book Fair in Cape Town – a first for Africa.

General SA Book Info:

Average selling price of a book in SA = R124 (The highest it has ever been)

Adult fiction = 2.6m units sold in 2008

Adult non-fiction = 5.7m units sold in 2008

Children’s fiction = 1.1m units sold in 2008

Children’s non-fiction = 1.9m units sold in 2008

Adult fiction sales are up 14.7% from 2007 to 2008.

It is estimated that only 4% of people in SA read outside of the educational structure. Most of them are white and middle aged.

The boom in middle class black readership has not happened yet.

Two reasons are listed for this: Firstly that the distribution network is exclusively located and not attainable for the general population. Secondly that the content is not appropriate for the target population.

Wafawarowa said that he wasn’t certain that these were all the reasons, or that he agreed with them. He pointed out that Exclusive Books opened a huge bookstore in the centre of SOWETO and that the results were not encouraging. Also the bookstore in Newtown, Johannesburg is not doing so well either.

Unfortunately, as with so many things in life, there doesn't seem to be a solution for this specific challenge. Government subsidies and cutting VAT on books have been talked about but not much has been done. Many have to choose between buying a book or paying their electricity bill. As long as books continue to be a luxury item, then there is not much hope for an increase in reading habits.

I am an Afrikaner

When I was younger I used to be embarrassed to be an Afrikaner, a Boer. I felt dirty, guilty, rotten. When I went to the big city to Jo’burg, I taught myself to speak English with a non-Afrikaans accent. People thought I was English. Few people spoke Afrikaans to me. I felt relieved, proud, free.

But still it wasn’t enough. So I fled. I went to America. Then I went to England. I wanted to brush the dust of Africa off of my feet. I wanted to have nothing to do with it. I shut down all feeling about what was going on. I didn’t want to care who was president. I didn’t want to be interested in the new South Africa.

Even so, I went home every year, to visit my parents, my friends. All the time thinking, I am not part of this anymore. I can remove myself and be a tourist here. The couple of times I tried to speak Afrikaans with people they replied in English. And that was okay. It didn’t bother me.

When foreigners asked me about South Africa I had the standard line: “It’s an amazing country with so much forgiveness, such strong people.” Did I believe my own words? Not really. I couldn’t even forgive myself how can I expect others to forgive me?

So the guilt? It never left me in fact it just got worse. I found this huge hole inside me. Something was missing. I couldn’t fill it with new friends, new countries, new experiences or even a new passport. It became a dark festering sore.

At the beginning of 2010 I decided to go back for an extended visit. I stayed for five weeks under the pretext of research for my novel. In the Eastern Cape I met a woman from Venda. She was the same age as me. She grew up on the other side of the apartheid curtain. But she seemed to have moved on. How did she do that? I asked her. I asked the same question to Xhosa man I met a few days later. How do you forgive? How do you do that? How can you forgive me and my people?

His answer? “We have no choice. If we want to make this country work we have to move on. We have no choice.”

Move on? No Choice? Really? Maybe I’m still stuck in the old days. Maybe I’ve been away for too long. I don’t know. Maybe I’m looking at things from a different point of view. From someone separate from it all.

I was a good child. I listened to adults. I obeyed all the rules. I was a real little patriot. I stood on attention when the flag was raised. I sang with all my might when Die Stem played during assembly. I was scared of black people. I believed that they were bad. They were going to break into our house and kill me in my little bed.

Now I know different. We were the bad ones. We were the ones that did the bad things. How scared must that woman from Venda have been in her little bed in the township at night, waiting for the police to come, to take her daddy away? Our fears? They were the same. We had the same fears.

After we’ve talked around in circles she took me by the arms. She looked into my eyes. She said:

‘You have to move on. This thing is ruling your life. It is not right. You did nothing wrong. You were a child.’

She shook her head at me. She must have seen that I didn’t believe her.

‘I forgive you.’ She said. She pulled me closer and hugged me. I was stunned. That was not what I was looking for. I wasn’t looking for absolution. That’s not what I want. I want to feel bad. I want to beat my chest with my fists. I want to wail. I don’t want to be forgiven. I can’t be forgiven.

I felt my arms hug her. I felt the tears. My tears. Can it be this simple? A few words, a hug. Is that all that lies between my guilt and my freedom?

She wasn’t finished. ‘You can show people over there, overseas people, that not all Afrikaners are bad. You can be an ambassador for your people. You have to finish your book and then people will see how things really were for you.’

When I got on the plane, back to London, I felt strangely less empty. Like the hole is slowly being filled, like one of those egg timers with the grains of sand slowly trickling down.

I had a few Afrikaans CDs and novels in my luggage. I am healing. This is my journey. Everyone has their own journey. Some may never heal. Some people have been damaged, hurt, brainwashed for too long. They won’t heal. They can’t heal. But there are others that can.

One image has stayed with me from my trip. Five students at Barney’s pub in Port Elizabeth. One white Afrikaans girl, one white English boy and three Xhosa boys drinking beer, telling jokes and not talking about the pain, just being students out on a Friday afternoon talking about stuff.

I’ve realised that I have to stop running. I have to face who I am. I need to make peace with the fact that I am a white Afrikaner. A Boer. This is probably coming many years too late, but I think I am slowly starting to realise that I am allowed to listen to Afrikaans music, read Afrikaans books and speak Afrikaans.

I am allowed to do this and enjoy it, because I AM AN AFRIKANER. This is who I am.

Where is Home?

When we left our home on Valentine’s Day the sun was shining, our skins radiated a golden southern hemisphere summer glow. Twenty four hours later we were burrowed in a Chicago hotel room with the heat turned up full and snowflakes settling on our rented Camry outside. I crawled under the duvet mourning what we’ve left behind, hiding from what was ahead.

South Africa with its blue skies, open spaces, bright smiles and friendships that bind people like the gnarly thorn trees growing in the north was our home. Pastel sunsets across the Jo’burg skyline. White waves crashing on Fish Hoek beach. Dolphins visiting swimmers at the pier in Port Elizabeth.

The flat open spaces stretching across the Free State becoming more mountainous towards the coast. The Klein Karoo with its water retaining succulents thriving in the summer heat. The pale blue skies of the Langkloof with the smell of apple blossoms in the spring and ripe fruit at the end of summer.

The Knysna heads where the waves pulse and swirl around the rocks. The Outeniqua Mountain range and forests with ferns the size of trees. The Addo Elephant Park with its regal grey giants.

We left the heat behind for a wintery Chicago. Cotton wool flakes dissolving on bare hands. Red smudges on knuckles and blue digits. The cold was unexpected. Our windbreakers and tennis shoes did not prepare us for the ice winds. Fashion was snubbed for puff jackets and snow boots. Wool scarves and hats replaced flimsy t-shirts.

The airline lost our luggage. Our first priority was to find shoes. My husband refused to meet his new boss wearing sneakers and a t-shirt. The taxi driver suggested Oak Brook Mall, a ten minute drive from our hotel. The rand dollar exchange rate sunk in when we got to the till and had to pay three times more than what we would have ‘back home’.

Our driver didn’t re-appear at eight pm in front of Marshall Fields as promised and we sat just inside the door not wanting to wait in the cold, arguing about how we were going to get back to the hotel. We found an empty phone booth with a number for a taxi pasted on the side of the box. Later back in our room, we ate nuts and Pringles from the mini bar for dinner.

When the buzzer went off the next morning it was still dark and the white blanket had not disappeared from outside our window. First light brought a sense of wonder with it and we ran outside like children throwing snowballs. I cried all day in our room and had had a shower before my husband got back from work. I insisted on this move, the least I can do is pretend, I told myself as I spread rose red on my lips, patted concealer under my eyes.

We found an apartment in River North, on the fifty second floor with a balcony and a view of Lake Michigan and the Hancock building. A grey white city stretched out below us for as far as our eyes could see. Smoke spewed from the extractor fans on the rooftops around us and the cold settled into my bones.

A new country, a new life. I wondered where the sun had gone. Do these people ever see light? How can the days be so short? I hardly left the building. We had a business centre, library, gym, Wholefoods Store and a Blockbuster Videos inside. No need to set a foot out there, in the white unknown cold.

The days became weeks, the weeks became months. Daylight hours got longer and with it the heat and sun melted the ice outside and warmed our blood. Five months later we’d all but forgotten those cold dark days. We enjoyed free concerts in Grant Park, the Taste of Chicago festival, Lake Shore Drive’s L.A.T.E. Bike Ride, free Tuesdays at the Chicago Art Institute, lazy summer Sunday walks along the lake towards Navy Pier, lunch by the river and Yo-Yo Ma at the Ravinia Festival with stars shining from above.

I found other charms too. The grocery stores with nectarines in summer and whole isles dedicated to bread alone. Designer clothes on a budget at Feline’s. A library taking up a city block and stretching across seven floors with gargoyles protecting its four corners. Walking alone up State Street to where it crosses Superior after dark and not feeling any fear. Sitting in Borders on Michigan Avenue sipping on a latte watching the trees swaying and bodies rushing past the Water Tower.

Autumn came too soon but it brought a new world with it. One I’ve only seen in movies. Plastic pumpkins filled with sweet treats next to front doors. Children dressed up like they’re from another world. When Thanksgiving came we were invited into American homes to celebrate with families. Christmas shone bright with lights on Michigan Avenue and nativity scenes in front yards.

I realised then that home is not a single geographical place, but rather somewhere where you feel wanted, cherished and accepted. And although South Africa will always be my first home, I found another place to call home. For four years I called the city by lake home.

Huddle's Collaboration Blog

P is for Productivity

Collaboration Blog on Huddle.net

M is for Document Management Software