A lot about writing is the painful act of waiting. Waiting for an acceptance. Waiting for contest results. Waiting for the edits to be approved. Waiting for decisions to be made. Waiting for books to be back from the printer. Waiting for royalty reports. Waiting for cheques. Waiting to get on that stage.
Like I said waiting.
I am stuck today in waiting mode, or perhaps I’ve melted. It is very hot (maybe 45 or 50 C in the sun) I might be lying, but I am able to fry an egg on Buster, the African Sausage Dog, so it is quite toasty. (That sentence sounds very breakfast-y, dontcha think?) And to compound that, I’ve been reading The English Patient and am mentally living in the Sahara Desert. So I’m hot in and out. Though, I have made a vow not to complain about heat. It really is not fair to complain about both hot AND cold, so since I hate the cold more, I’ve decided to leave the heat alone.
As I write this, I’m waiting to see if I’ll be a famous writer who has written for The Mail and Guardian. As people who read this blog know, I love Mail and Guardian. So now they have this section Voices From Africa, with lovely little articles about life in various countries in Africa. I sent an audition article and I’ve heard nothing. I think maybe I’m not African enough, which is fair enough. I’ll admit I’m in a strange place. A naturalised citizen with an African name, and decidedly white pigment. I cannot change any of that, and I really do accept people are looking for certain perspectives that I might not have, but I wish they would just say- “Hey, stop waiting, we don’t want you”. It would be helpful, though, of course, sad.
I’m also waiting for the results from a presentation my writing partner and I made for a new job. I really shouldn’t always call her my writing partner, but naming her could be dangerous. She is secretive and has a killer look when she’s annoyed. I am not lying. It has been documented. I would point you in the direction of her scary photo which is somewhere in cyberspace, but, I repeat, she is secretive and I’m not immune from ‘the look’ so I’ll pass. Just believe me on that one.
I’m also waiting for my children’s book, Mmele and the Magic Bones, to come from the printers. It should have happened more than a month ago, but the publisher has many stories as to why it hasn’t. Suspect stories. I have a sinking feeling this may not turn out well.
I really shouldn’t make myself crazy. What will happen- will happen, nothing I can do now. Right? I think what I need is a good dose of African fatalism. Maybe I should go back to Mozambique and….. THAT ferry (!)….. but, that, my friends, is another story for a very different day.