Author Talks

Yesterday I spoke to primary school students at Westwood International School in Gaborone all about writing. It's my third year in a row. The class I'm speaking to in this picture were the younger of the two I had this year, but they were very enthusiastic asking lots of questions and then afterward asking me to sign little slips of paper for them. It was very sweet.

I always feel a bit sad that this school, primarily filled with children of privilege, have this opportunity while kids in government schools do not. I don't know why I'm not asked to read or speak at government schools. I wish I was. I now have books prescribed in upper primary and in junior secondary schools here in Botswana so I hope I'll get a few invitations. I think meeting writers and seeing that we're just normal people lets children see that even they can be a writer one day if that's their dream. Also getting the opportunity to ask questions about writing and books is a great way for kids to cultivate a love for books and reading, one of the most important parts of education in my opinion.

I thought you'd also like to see a nice photo of an example of Gaborone's varied fauna. This photo was taking in town. I wonder what those World Cup visitors (if any spill over our border) will think of our modern African city.

How Emotional Do You Get?

If you are reading this, know I am not around. I am not here. I am off to Gaborone to Author's Day at Westwood International School. This is my third year of attendance and actually I'm looking forward to it. The librarian, Joy, who organises the event is such a -well- joy, and I look forward to seeing her and reading to the kids. My only regret, as always, is that more schools do not do this. This year though I intend to write about the day in my new column and hopefully other schools can get an idea and more such wonderful events will sprout up.

But that is not what this post is about though. That will be for another day.

I'm currently working on a novel, the project I decided to complete in Egypt. It is about a couple who go through quite a terrible ordeal (do you see how cagey I am being?) after the wife has an affair. As I'm writing, I feel so attached to my protagonist. I feel like what is happening to her, is actually happening to me. I wrote a chapter yesterday about the first phone conversation she has with her daughter after her husband chases her from their home. Through the whole chapter, I was weeping, my shirt was wet with tears. I felt like it was me, that I was banned from my home and my children for a stupid mistake that unfortunately creates a chain reaction of terrible consequences.

Are you ever swept away with your story, lost in such a way that what you're writing becomes more real than what is actually around you? I'd be interested to know.

A Pre-Dawn Engagement with Mr. Genet

About four this morning I heard the dogs going mad outside. It was still dark and because of the storm in the night the electricity was still out so I couldn't see what they had up the tree, but whatever it was was something causing much excitement. My husband woke up and the sun edged its way towards day and it looked as if Chelsea and her dog, The African Sausage Dog, had treed Sgt. Catman and Senor Ramon. What was going on? We don't have dog-cat wars in our house- harmony is the rule of the day. Had the social balance changed during the night?

My husband went out to the tree and called the cats. They, uncharacteristically, climbed down from the tree and came running to us. But still the dogs were going mad.

The sun climbed a bit higher and suddenly at the tip top of the tree we saw a long, thick, furry striped tail. I got the binoculars and was surprised to see a little foxy face clothed in a beautiful spotted coat. We had a genet in our garden! The dogs had not been chasing the cats, they were a tag team against the genet!

We locked the dogs in the garage and the cats in the house and waited. And waited some more but still Mr. Genet refused to go home while the coast was clear. Three hours later and the dogs were manic to get out and the cats locked in the missing Giant Teenager's bedroom were just about to crack the puzzle of the door handle and Mr. Genet had fallen asleep in his tree.

Now the plan was to shake the tree so Mr. Genet would be uncomfortable enough up there to come down here. My husband got the pole for the pool vacuum and shook the tree and Mr. Genet came down from the tree in a flash and promptly made his home in the back shed we call the Duck House. And as I write this that is where he is.

Here is more about our new guest. I hope tonight he'll have the chance to slip away to safety. Cross fingers- I'll keep you posted.

Botswana Democratic Party Splits

One thing you can say about news in Botswana since President Ian Khama took power- it is always exciting. Hardly a day goes by without a new breaking story that leaves us frantically texting and calling and Facebooking each other. Last week it became official that BDP Member of Parliament Botsalo Ntuane and BDP stalwarts Sidney Pilane, Kabo Morwaeng, and Ndaba Gaolathe were issued letters suspending them from the party for questioning the path it is taking under Khama's leadership.

On the weekend the suspended group (dubbed Barata-Phathi) held a meeting deemed illegal by Khama's faction of the party. At that meeting, they decided they would form a new party of their own. In an attempt to stop the splitting of the ruling party, President Khama sent a delegation to the meeting asking Barata Phathi to list their grievances. The list produced was long and a bit pie-in-the-sky including such things as a review of the Constitution and the powers it awards the president of the country, the rejection of the recent recommendations from the task force on moral regeneration, and a demand that the law on declaration of assets for MPs be passed and implemented before the end of the year.

The split of the BDP, if it goes down the middle, could be a good thing for the country. It's important to have a strong, healthy opposition to maintain a strong, healthy democracy. If instead, as I suspect, it takes only the voices of sense in the party, and the bulk of the membership remains firmly behind President Khama, it will do nothing more but confuse the members of the electorate who see things in the country veering in the wrong direction. Who should they vote for- Botswana Congress Party (BCP), the only sensible opposition party, or the new Barata Phathi Party? It will do little more than divide an already divided opposition vote and leave the BDP even more firmly in control.

Why couldn't Ntuane and friends find a home at the BCP? That way the opposition would be strengthened. I think it may be more about positions and power than patriotism. I'm not optimistic that this new move will change anything but it certainly sells newspapers so that's a good thing.

The Buzzing in my Head

For some reason the world around me seems to be buzzing lately, but it is a nerve wracking buzz with an edge of uncertainty. I feel like I am at a cross roads of some sort and I can't quite see clearly through all of the smoke and the noise that clouds my mind. Being a compulsive planner of note such a situation does not sit well with me.

In a little more than a month I'll be gone to Egypt. The preparations around this seem to fill my mind. I've sent my passport for the visa and have bought the ticket. The book I want to write there has been troubling me, so in a move to get a handle on the situation I have started the rough draft. I'm writing like a fiend, 5000-8000 words per day on the rough draft. The story is forcing its way out. It is rough and will need work, but I feel better getting out. This is helping to ease the mind noise a bit, but anticipation of the trip and what I'll find there is creating a loud noise so this small alleviation is hardly noticed.

I've been paid the first of my two big royalty cheques. It was for two short story collections prescribed for primary schools in Botswana. I co-wrote the books with two other Batswana writers. I hesitate to write the amount of the cheque, but as a service to writers who live here and are curious about such things I will do it- it was P84,000 and some change, this is in the middle of the credit crunch mind you. We had negotiated a non-royalty deducted advance paid out upon delivery of the manuscripts. I recently read a news article in The Daily News from a Setswana writer who had a book prescribed (poetry) who complained about the small amount of money he received from his book as compared to the publisher. I think his complaints were disingenuous and smack of inexperience and naivete in the publishing industry. I was more than happy with that cheque and the deal we made with the publisher.

Some of the noise in my mind is caused by the hype developing around the television series I co-wrote for PSI called Morwalela. It will soon be shown on Botswana Television (BTV) and I'm anxious to see how it will go. Combined with this is my column that will be starting the first week of April. And then there is the first romance which will be coming on in a few weeks.

Buzz, buzz, buzz- how can a writer work with all of this noise?

Support Words Etc.

Words Etc is a fantastic (!!) South African literary journal. It includes interesting articles about the craft and the status of writing and writers in South Africa (and occasionally Southern Africa and the rest of the continent). It has short stories and creative nonfiction. Occasionally some travel articles and always loads of book reviews.

This quarter's issue is all about crime fiction- one of my favourite genres. The cover sports the successful crime writer Margie Orford author of the Dr. Clare Hart series which includes the books Blood Rose, Like Clockwork and Daddy's Girl. Inside the pages you'll find an extensive article and an interview that gives insight into Orford's reasons as to why she needs to write crime fiction living in such a crime ridden country. Very interesting.

There is an insightful article by Sarah Lotz about writing legal thrillers in a South Africa with its inconsistent legal past and present. A travel article by Bronwyn Mclennan about her recent trip to Russia and an analysis of prostitution in South African crime novels by Nora Kruger. There are reviews of Nairobi Heat by Mukoma wa Ngugi, Jassy Mackenzie's My Brother's Keeper, Begging to be Black by Antjie Krog, and The Last Resort by Douglas Rogers (definitely want to get this one!) as well as many other wonderful books. There is even a short story by Helen Moffett giving yet another handy way to deal with the unsightly problem of infidelity. It is indeed a literary banquet fit for a queen or king, whichever the case may be.

In this paper-hating time we live in, I fear for Words Etc. It is such a wonderful magazine done with such passion and finesse, and so very important for this part of the world where books and writers often fall to the back of a queue of more pressing issues. Perhaps it is just selfishness on my part, but I so want Words Etc to continue for a very long time. It's a magazine that people from all over the world can treasure. So please susbscribe! Click HERE to get the information about subscription.

The Bed Book of Short Stories

Modjaji Books is an independent publisher in South Africa who publishes writing from women in Southern Africa. They have been very successful despite their small size. They have won awards for their poetry books, and their novel, Whiplash, was shortlisted for last year's Sunday Times Fiction award.

I was honoured to be asked to help compile a collection of short stories around the theme of bed -and now the book is ready for pre-orders! It has a fantastic collection of writers including flash fiction star Liesl Jobson; author of the hilarious book Exhibit A, Sarah Lotz; and our new up and coming short story writer Gothataone Moeng, among many other fabulous, talented writers. See the list here.

Modjaji Books is one of the publishers attending this year's London Book Fair which is having a South African focus. In celebration of this upcoming event, they are having a sale on their new titles, including the Bed Book.
Support a very special publisher.

Yeah for Modjaji!!

My New Column!!

I get a lot of writers, especially from Botswana, calling and sending emails asking about publishing and how to go about it. After over six years of being in this writing business, I have had some successes, made my share of mistakes, and learned a lot along the way. Last year I got the idea that maybe I could convince one of the national newspapers to carry a column about publishing, writing and books; a practical column that helps Batswana writers and shines a bit of light on their accomplishments.

I put together a proposal and sent it out to Mmegi, Midweek Sun and Guardian and waited. And waited. Yes, they were interested but "these things take time". And waited yet again. In the meanwhile thanks to Facebook I met Beata Kasale, one of the owners of The Voice newspaper. I first met her in cyberspace and then in real life. I found her so interesting and we hit it off straight away. Though at first I didn't think The Voice was the right paper for such a column, I liked Beata so much and she was so enthusiastic about my idea ,I changed my mind. Now after a meeting last week and more thought I think The Voice is going to be a perfect home. It is the most read paper in the country and the whole point of the column is to get the information out there. The plan is to talk about publishing and how to go about it, but also to include snippets of publishing and book news. The column will start the first week of April.

Celebrate Read an eBook Week by Buying 100 Stories for Haiti

I know many of you are skeptical about ebooks, but there is one thing we must accept- they WILL be part of our future. This week is Read an eBook Week and what better way to jump on this new horse than with a lovely book like 100 Stories for Haiti which is now waiting anxiously to be bought by many, many people.

The book includes short stories from writers living all over our planet. They donated stories after a call was sent out by UK writer Greg McQueen. Any money made goes to the Red Cross to help the Haitian people put their lives back together after the devastating earthquake.

The stories are short (under 1000 word), uplifting, and just the right size to read during tea break or while waiting in the queue at the bank or while your rice is cooking.

BUY THE BOOK HERE....

Then eat a chocolate as a present to yourself because you have done a very good thing. Thank You!!!! :)

Remember- you do not need an ebook reader to read ebooks. There are formats which you can read on your computer, PDA, smart phone, or laptop such as PDF and RTF. Have no fear jump in- the water's great and there are no sharks- promise!

International Women's Day

Happy International Women's Day everybody!

I remember being a little girl and thinking how I'd hate to be a boy because everything was so limiting. Girls could wear dresses and trousers, while boys were trapped in trousers forever. Girls could cry but also fight. I was lucky because I was born when it was no longer acceptable to stop a girl from being anything she wanted to be. In the chaotic world of my childhood, growing up and getting married just didn't seem like a sensible plan for a life. Far too fragile and prone to wild emotions, so I was never the little girl dreaming of a white wedding and an even whiter picket fence. I wanted something a bit sturdier and in a more sensible colour.

I know my freedom of choice was won from the wars fought by the women who went before me, and I am forever thankful for that.

In Botswana, women are in a fairly good position as long as they have an income. Poor women here, like poor women everywhere, are vulnerable. They get in relationships with men and become trapped because of economics. Once trapped they are vulnerable to violence and other forms of domestic abuse. They are also unable to negotiate things such as condom use making them more likely to contract HIV/AIDS.

In Botswana, abortion is illegal. Women are forced to go to unhygienic and untrained abortionists and, if they are found out, they are taken to prison. The prisons are full of women who had no choice. Again this burden falls on poor women. Women with money can go over the border to South Africa where abortion is legal and can be done in a clinic or hospital.

It is shocking how the issue is rarely discussed in the country. The missionaries were highly successful in Botswana and Christianity is rampant and nearly mandatorily assumed. As a long time member of Emang Basadi (a women's' rights NGO), I've been in discussions with some of the leading women's rights activists in this country and when abortion is brought up even they are vehemently against it. This saddens me.

Today as we think about the progress women have made, we should know too that the work continues. Until all women have unlimited choices, free of constraint of any kind, the struggle must continue.

My Lovely New Tea Set!!! (Yes- it needs 3 exclamation points)

My husband is the best gift buyer in the world. In the past he has bought me a puppy for Valentine's Day (my dear Chelsea), an iMac (where my writing career began) for our 10th wedding anniversary, and the well known and coveted Accumulator for this year's birthday.

This last weekend we went over the border to South Africa with a sick friend and when we came back he bought me this lovely tea set. I make a pot of tea every morning for breakfast and I am very fussy about the pot I use. Size, shape and colour all play a large role. This teapot has now become my favourite by a very wide margin. It is so jolly and green; what else does one need? I'm already a big fan of enamelware of all kinds, so this is like enamelware with whipped cream, chocolate sprinkles, and a cherry on top.

My favourite bits are the little girls and their ever changing dresses and hair styles. The girls on the tray, the sugar bowl, the milk jug, and the teapot are all different. It makes me think of Giant Teenager No.1 who is now free from school hairstyle dictates, and is changing her hair almost daily. Yesterday when we came home from South Africa, she had changed to a wild crop of short maphondo on the top of her head with the bottom shaved nearly bare with three stripes on each side and all dyed maroon.

My second favourite thing about the tea set are the giraffes. I'm a currently considering starting a petition to remove the buffalo (ugly) from the Big Five and have the elegant and beautiful giraffe take its place. I'm still working on the wording for the petition because I'd also like to see how the under-rated warthog might find a place in that illustrious grouping. Big Six perhaps? Big Six is so much tidier with its symmetry of three-letter-word butted up against three-letter-word. Anyway, like I said, I'm still considering the wording, but the point is I like giraffes and I very much like the giraffes I will be having my morning tea with for now on.

Though I didn't know it at the time, this tea set is made by a very lovely South African group called Lumela Afrika. According to their website they do all sorts of wonderful things.

Lumela Afrika, established in 1995 is a job creation project focusing on the employment of single mothers and men from the local townships of Sharpville, Sebokeng and Orange Farm. Each brightly painted piece is hand drawn and painted, making each product unique in its own right.Lumela, however is not just about bright, fun products - it is essentially about empowerment and upliftment. Proceeds from the sale of Lumela products go towards supporting children’s homes for abandoned and abused children as well as aids orphans.

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And here, having nothing at all to do with tea sets or gifts, except that I found this photo in my camera when I was downloading the tea set pics, are the cats busy at their day job.

It's a Blogsplash with Thaw!!

Ruth's diary is the new novel by Fiona Robyn, called Thaw. She has decided to blog the novel in its entirety over the next few months, so you can read it for free.

Ruth's first entry is below, and you can continue reading tomorrow here.

_______________________________

These hands are ninety-three years old. They belong to Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. She was so frail that her grand-daughter had to carry her onto the set to take this photo. It’s a close-up. Her emaciated arms emerge from the top corners of the photo and the background is black, maybe velvet, as if we’re being protected from seeing the strings. One wrist rests on the other, and her fingers hang loose, close together, a pair of folded wings. And you can see her insides.

The bones of her knuckles bulge out of the skin, which sags like plastic that has melted in the sun and is dripping off her, wrinkling and folding. Her veins look as though they’re stuck to the outside of her hands. They’re a colour that’s difficult to describe: blue, but also silver, green; her blood runs through them, close to the surface. The book says she died shortly after they took this picture. Did she even get to see it? Maybe it was the last beautiful thing she left in the world.

I’m trying to decide whether or not I want to carry on living. I’m giving myself three months of this journal to decide. You might think that sounds melodramatic, but I don’t think I’m alone in wondering whether it’s all worth it. I’ve seen the look in people’s eyes. Stiff suits travelling to work, morning after morning, on the cramped and humid tube. Tarted-up girls and gangs of boys reeking of aftershave, reeling on the pavements on a Friday night, trying to mop up the dreariness of their week with one desperate, fake-happy night. I’ve heard the weary grief in my dad’s voice.

So where do I start with all this? What do you want to know about me? I’m Ruth White, thirty-two years old, going on a hundred. I live alone with no boyfriend and no cat in a tiny flat in central London. In fact, I had a non-relationship with a man at work, Dan, for seven years. I’m sitting in my bedroom-cum-living room right now, looking up every so often at the thin rain slanting across a flat grey sky. I work in a city hospital lab as a microbiologist. My dad is an accountant and lives with his sensible second wife Julie, in a sensible second home. Mother finished dying when I was fourteen, three years after her first diagnosis. What else? What else is there?

Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. I looked at her hands for twelve minutes. It was odd describing what I was seeing in words. Usually the picture just sits inside my head and I swish it around like tasting wine. I have huge books all over my flat; books you have to take in both hands to lift. I’ve had the photo habit for years. Mother bought me my first book, black and white landscapes by Ansel Adams. When she got really ill, I used to take it to bed with me and look at it for hours, concentrating on the huge trees, the still water, the never-ending skies. I suppose it helped me think about something other than what was happening. I learned to focus on one photo at a time rather than flicking from scene to scene in search of something to hold me. If I concentrate, then everything stands still. Although I use them to escape the world, I also think they bring me closer to it. I’ve still got that book. When I take it out, I handle the pages as though they might flake into dust.

Mother used to write a journal. When I was small, I sat by her bed in the early mornings on a hard chair and looked at her face as her pen spat out sentences in short bursts. I imagined what she might have been writing about; princesses dressed in star-patterned silk, talking horses, adventures with pirates. More likely she was writing about what she was going to cook for dinner and how irritating Dad’s snoring was.

I’ve always wanted to write my own journal, and this is my chance. Maybe my last chance. The idea is that every night for three months, I’ll take one of these heavy sheets of pure white paper, rough under my fingertips, and fill it up on both sides. If my suicide note is nearly a hundred pages long, then no-one can accuse me of not thinking it through. No-one can say; ‘It makes no sense; she was a polite, cheerful girl, had everything to live for’, before adding that I did keep myself to myself. It’ll all be here. I’m using a silver fountain pen with purple ink. A bit flamboyant for me, I know. I need these idiosyncratic rituals; they hold things in place. Like the way I make tea, squeezing the tea-bag three times, the exact amount of milk, seven stirs. My writing is small and neat; I’m striping the paper. I’m near the bottom of the page now. Only ninety-one more days to go before I’m allowed to make my decision. That’s it for today. It’s begun.

Continue reading tomorrow here...

10+ Rules for Writing Fiction- kind of

Lately the internet has been in love with the Guardian's 10 Rules of Writing Fiction by the authors at the top of the pile, people like Margaret Atwood (swoon) and Micheal Morpurgo and PD James. I hardly need to turn my head to bump into a link to the list. It was even on Boing Boing the other day!

Not to be left out, Blogger Tom Howard also came up with a list of 10 Rules for Writing Fiction. Here's a couple from Mr. Howard:

2. Writing in blood will add a much-needed touch of sickening horror to your work; it will also indicate to publishers that you mean business.

6. Never open a book with the weather. Use your fingers instead.

I thought it was time TfB got into the spirit and tried to come up with our own 10 Rules for Writing Fiction. I'll start us out.

1. Despite advice from the misguided, adverbs add colour. Where would the world be without bumpily, answerably, and remedially? How would you write the sentence- "I bumped along bumpily" without such lovely words?

2. Avoid characters that bite. If you're writing a novel, it might take years to finish. Try to get the cost of band-aids written into the contract. It adds up.

3. Settings waste time. Never mention them.

4. When writing, three things are mandatory: a cat to walk across the keyboard and delete the most perfect sentence you've ever written, chocolate in amounts that should not be revealed in polite company, and a connection to Facebook where you can brag about the fact that you are procrastinating.

5. Get a door. A big heavy one. With a lock. Preferably one that closes you inside of a room.

Okay- that's my contribution. Whatda ya got?

Our Morning Walk

In the morning me, my dog Chelsea, and her dog, Buster the African Sausage Dog, set out on our walk.

We all enjoy getting out and about.

The road is long but full of adventures.

We walk and explore until we reach our turn-around tree.

Buster makes sure everyone knows we were there.

We lay down and take a rest and think about bunny rabbit clouds.

It's time to head back!

....but there's still plenty to investigate...

....like the interesting wildlife.

We can see home now...

...and there's the gate.

A good hearty walk needs to end with a nice cool down.

Thanks for coming along!

Critiquing Other People's Work

I finished my third round of edits on my second romance but I had a niggling feeling. There was something not quite right. I want a surprise and then a big surprise and I feared surprise number two was too obvious. So I asked a writing friend if she might give it a read. In a day she was done and back to me with some nice comments, but then the next day she said she hates critiquing as it gives her too much stress since she knows how bad comments about her own writing affect her so she doesn't want to do the same to others. I felt bad I'd put her through so much agony. At the same time I did recognise her comments for what they were, a slightly too large pile of sugar.

I know two things: 1) No writer is perfect. 2) No writer likes criticism. Both of these do make critiquing other writers' work difficult, but what are we to do? We can't see our own work clearly. We must ask for some one's eyes and, at least for me, I find the best eyes are writers' eyes.

This is my take on critiquing: if someone asks me, I do my best. I take my time and point out everything. I do this because I feel I agreed to give it a look. I shouldn't do that unless I care about that writer and their writing. If I care about the writing, I want it to be the best that it can be. I'm definitely not the know all for what good writing is, I only know what I think works. I always qualify my comments at the beginning by saying it is my opinion, take it or leave it. I know reading criticism is difficult, but we must accept it as part of our job description as writers. If I send a critique that says something like- "Oh that was a nice story"- beware, it means I don't care about your writing enough to give you a passage to improve it.

I should say though, I would never take book reviews and comments at Amazon as criticism that would direct my writing. Those are something different. I'm talking about proper criticism from another writer or someone with interest in my writing's success.

I understand my writing friend's angst and I've made a promise not to ask her to critique my work again, but it has got me wondering- is it okay to just write the best piece of writing that you can and send it off to the publisher without fresh eyes to see it?

I know all writing advice says no, but I'm currently down to zero people who I trust enough to give me honest advice. I had a terrible experience with an online writing group and will never do that again, and where I live there is no one I can work with in person. Also I write across so many genres few want to follow me there.

And what about critiquing? Must all writers do it? Some people believe it is mandatory for a writer to critique others so they can understand their own writing better. What do you think? I'd be interested to know.

Louis Nchindo-R.I.P.

I hesitate to write this post but I feel many people who read my blog don't live in Botswana and don't know what is occupying our daily conversations as of late. In Botswana we've been dropped into the middle of a real-life novel; one with twists and turns and intrigues of the most devious kind.

Louis Nchindo was the managing director of Debswana, the 50-50 partnership between diamond giant DeBeers and the government of Botswana. Nchindo was to face 36 charges of corruption in a case set to begin in April. Many of the charges stemmed from the time he was the head of Debswana while others involve a land deal; the land deal mishaps also have his son's name on the charge sheet. A few weeks ago, it came out in the press that our second president, President Masire, received loans from Debeers while Nchindo was at the helm and that the ruling party, Botswana Democratic Party (BDP) had also received money from the diamond miners.

Shortly after this our third president, President Mogae, went public with revelations that Nchindo threatened to reveal secrets about him, including details about his girlfriend, if the corruption charges were not dropped. President Mogae did not report this alleged attempt at blackmailing to the police but apparently told Nchindo that no charges would be dropped.

Last week everything came to the dramatic climax when Nchindo's family reported him missing. By Thursday morning rumours were being passed through cellphones and on the internet that Nchindo was found dead in the bush, his body half eaten by animals. Even on Friday, police in the country refused to admit that Nchindo was dead though international sources were reporting that fact. In the end, the facts were Nchindo was found in the bush dead. His body eaten by animals, only his torso intact. Quick-quick the body was apparently identified by forensic scientists to be Nchindo's, and he was cremated.

Here are the three obvious options:
1. He could take no more and committed suicide.
Unlikely given his abundant resources and legendary arrogance.
2. Someone killed him.
He had a lot of information on a lot of powerful people and a court case could get very messy.
3. The dead person is not Nchindo and Nchindo has skipped the country.
At least in the Facebook groups and conversations I've been part of this is the most widely held belief among Batswana.

So that's where we are. But, too, this is Botswana. What do I think? In a few weeks people will forget all about it and the case will disappear. Budding Batswana novelists should take notes; I see a blockbuster in the making.

Time to Accept the Inevitable

In his article at Huffington Post by Dan Agin makes the point that the scribes who wrote out books by hand also thought the gig would never end, just like current publishers who keep repeating the mantra that paper books will never die. The biggest thing slowing down the demise of paper books is the prohibitively priced Kindle, but according to Agin, that's a done deal too as Amazon has free software you can download to read ebooks on your PC or laptop. And besides any technology company worth a grain of salt is busy as I speak developing their own form of the Kindle so the prices for the readers are bound to crash soon making them available to most folks.

But Agin warns-It's tragic because when an industry dies because of corporate blindness, people do get hurt. When the automobile put the horse and carriage trade out of business, blacksmiths and carriage makers became irrelevant overnight. But before that happened people were up to their eyeballs in media baloney that the automobile was only a fad.

As writers we need to look at the situation clearly using our business brains. How do we get the best possible position in this new game? Already there are many pluses. To start with- 50% (and sometimes more) royalties on ebooks. Having to pay publicists, for sure, and agents, perhaps, from your slice of the pie may fall away too. As writers we will have much more control over sales. If we have a blog or website, which most of us do, we can set up a bookstore in minutes. There will be no more worrying if your book is shelved cover out or spine out or if it has made it into the storefront window. Blog book tours will be the norm rather than the exception.

It is time to let go and accept the future. For writers, at least from my perspective, things are looking pretty bright.

Bad Bad Blogger

Apologies to my readers for hardly blogging at all last week. I've had visitors from the United States; a friend from high school and university and his partner. We were busy remembering and laughing and having a huge pile of fun. It's always a bit bittersweet when people visit me here. I know it's very expensive for them to get to Botswana and when they leave I know they'll not likely visit again and we may never see each other again either. So it was lovely, but tinged with sadness.

The other bit that is filling my mind right now is a job. My husband is currently living about 200 km from me in the capitol city of Gaborone attending university. He doesn't like living alone. Also the government pays him his full salary for the first year of school, but for the second and third year he goes on half salary. We can survive on that, but my writing income is not always as steady as I would like it to be so some months it could be tight. So on the weekend there was a good job in the paper for a publishing manager in Gaborone. He wanted me to apply so I could go and stay with him in Gaborone. I've done it, but I'm not sure I want the job.

I have been a full time writer now for about three years and before that I owned my own business for ten years so it's been a long time since I was an employee. And I'm not really someone who can do things halfway. I can't say I'll take the job and write too. If I take the job I intend to give them my time. So it will be two years of very little writing. I've just really started building up solid relationships with my publishers and I am fearful this could back track my good work so far.

At the same time my husband has been my biggest supporter in every way. Perhaps it's time I give a bit back. It's all keeping my head spinning. In any case, I've only sent my CV; they may not even call me for an interview and then they may meet me and see I'm not what they want. I'm trying not to worry about anything. Trying to wait for the bridges to appear before I see how I'm going to get across. But I can't help feeling a bit sad about it all.

Good Writing

I’ve been having conversations about writing and what good writing is and if it is always the same. Are there things that are intrinsic to good writing? Can we produce a checklist that we can tick off as we assess a piece of writing? Or is good writing in the eye of the beholder? What about bad writing? Can it be seen straight away?

People who know me and my writing know that I am a composite just as my writing is. I am in introvert who talks too much in public. I love to exercise and get out and active, but I will eat a piece of cake before an orange on any day of the week. I read Victoria Holt and I love Kazuo Ishiguro. I love Sue Townsend and all of the Spud books and I get weak in the knees knowing there is a new Margaret Atwood out and about and I do not own it. My writing is just like that. Just like I hate to be put in a box in my life, in my reading, and I hate to be put in a box with my writing. I write for children. I write romance. I attempt to write literary. I write detective and sometimes even write ghost stories. I write exactly what I feel like writing. I try to do the best I’m able to with each.

But is good or bad writing defined by style? Can people who love literary fiction look at genre and say that it is good writing? Or will people who write literary fiction always see genre as weak writing, as bad writing? Writing for genre is all about plot. It is storytelling. Literary is about an exploration of character; plot is what happens, but of far less importance except for where it moves the character. Of course, occasionally they cross. I don’t see one better than the other- I love them both.

I guess my point is – is there a definition of good writing or is it fluid and subjective? What do you think?

Uganda, Homosexuality, and the Rest of Africa

Early in my writing career, I was contracted to write a book about Uganda by an American publisher. According to the agreement, I would write it and an American academic would then look at the book and have his say (and his name on the cover) and then I would be given the proofs of the final copy with the edits and I could decide if I wanted my name on the cover or not. I was never given the proofs. The book went to publication after the publishers accused me of plagiarising and threatened not to pay me. I didn't plagiarise anything and they never gave me the option to remove my name from the cover. I was not happy with the final book which turned a Uganda I saw as a success story into another African basket case. I try to ignore I was part of the book's propaganda and I often feel ashamed about the whole thing.

Time has passed and things have changed. President Museveni has gone from being the saviour of Uganda to being the chain around its neck. His iron grip on power is killing a country that has had more than its share of suffering. Now thanks to influence from an American Christian cult, The Fellowship, he is attempting to get a bill passed that could give homosexuals the death penalty for loving each other.

One thing you can say about Christians, when it comes to Africa, they have some serious staying power. The seeds they planted have taken root and grown filling the entire space. There is a passion and vehemence about African Christian churches that I've not seen in other places. Perhaps it is some amalgamation of traditional religion with the teachings of Christianity, I don't know. It's funny how the typical response of Africans who are against homosexuality is that it is an imported concept, some Westernised activity imposed on Africans. I wonder why they never see the same thing can be said about Christianity.

The fear now is that Museveni's vehemence against gays will spread. Already a Malawian gay couple who married were arrested in December. Mugabe has not been quiet about his views on gays. Even here in Botswana it is illegal to be gay though no one has been arrested. The non-governmental organisation Lesbians, Gays and Bisexuals of Botswana (LEGABIBO) is unable to operate properly in the country as it is unable to be registered, as such there is no organised way for gays to fight against the unfair and out-of-date legislation.

I sometimes can't quite feel a problem that is far from me, that I have no personal connection to. So when I hear about the terrible, stupid, preventable shortage of food that Zimbabweans will have in the coming months, for example, I don't let the words flow in and out of me. I stop them along the way and think of people I know in Zimbabwe- personally- people who will miss meals to feed their hungry children. Only then does the impact of what is happening find its true space in me.

In 2007 Ugandan Monica Arac de Nyeko won the Caine Prize for her story Jambula Tree about the two girls Anyango and Sanyu and the forbidden love that they had for each other. It was a painful story to read and it stuck with me. Characters tend to live on in my mind, in some sort of semi-real state. And as I watched Museveni joking on the TV about how overseas leaders were calling him and tell him sending gays to the gallows was not a good move diplomatically, I thought of Anyango and Sanyu.

In this world, where hate is everywhere, how does one's thoughts get so mixed up so as to get to a position where love is wrong? I don't believe Jesus or God would be on Museveni's side; if they are I don't think I can follow along behind them.