Stories From Cape Town

I am exhausted and happy and inspired and filled up and full of so many things to say and too tired to say them. I had a lovely time at the Book Fair. I got back last night at about 9 pm. I have a feeling I will be blogging about everything that happened there for a few weeks in one way or another. I felt so much like a real writer- it was great- maybe I'll begin to believe it soon. So many wonderful stories to tell about the Fair.

One evening after the Book Fair there was an event sponsored by British Council. The London Book Fair is linking up with the Cape Town Book Fair; a process which began this year with author Keven Brooks and poet Xena Edwards attending the Cape Town Book Fair. Next year there will be a whole section just for South African writers and publishers. So this event was about that, sort of a kick-off to preparations.

So I was standing there and suddenly I looked next to me and there was Henrietta Rose-Innes, last year's Caine winner, just like that! People who read this blog regularly know that 1) I am a writer stalker of the first order and 2) Henrietta Rose-Innes is one of the many in my sights. SO- I turn to her and say in my inept, diarrhoea-of-the-mouth way-"My god you're Henrietta Rose-Innes- I think I might cry". She asked me to please NOT, which is fair enough. I got to tell her what a fan I was and that was lovely. She mentioned that she knew me and my writing too, which was nice though a suspect it may have been a segue to get away from the scary writer-stalker, but it was wonderful to meet her. She has a very calm, intelligent, focused way about her, much like her writing. I kept thinking she reminded me of someone and it was only in the morning when I woke I realised it was Jodie Foster, though everyone I told says I am wrong, I still think she does.

It was a lovely, albeit awkward, moment. One of so many at the Fair.

Obama Fun

Australian poet Maxine Clarke has a laugh out loud funny poem she intends to perform in Melbourne very soon all about her dreams for President Obama. I have a feeling many of us share her thoughts. Stop by her blog and read it for some fun. Wish I could fly to Melbourne to hear her perform it!

And for more fun check out this video about the culture shock Obama got when he stopped in a Denny's Restaurant. Hilarious!!! Apparently the President will never be the same after the visit.

Off to Cape Town Book Fair!!

If you're reading this you should know I am gone. Picture me flying off to Joburg (BRRRRR Cold!) and then flying again to Cape Town (Yeah- ocean!). I leave Friday morning and won't be back until Wednesday. I will be listening to authors read, crying at performance poetry, learning at panel discussions, meeting up with publishers, seeing old friends, meeting new ones, and doing what I love best- stalking writers!

I am a writer because I have a long and committed love affair with books. My first letter posted in the mail was to an author of a book about monkeys- and he wrote me back! Since then I've been a committed writer lover. So I will buy books and stand in long queues to get them signed and be so grateful that the person took the time to sit down and write the book so that I could read it, and then as a cherry on top pitched up at the Book Fair to speak about it and then sign my copy. The whole thing borders on a religious experience. I'll be worshipping the only way this committed agnostic knows how.

So have fun while I'm gone...and don't be naughty....okay.. just a little bit. See (? read) you all when I get back.

What’s the deal, JM Coetzee?

I received my copy of New Writing from Africa 2009, which is the anthology of the stories that made the shortlist for this year’s PEN/Studzinski Literary Award. It is a beautiful book. They’ve done a lovely thing at the beginning of each story with a map of Africa and the writer’s country highlighted and then their picture and biography. The two Botswana writers, myself and Wame Molefhe, are second and third in the book thanks to the alphabetical ranking of our country. I would request Algerian writers to please refrain from entering next year or if you must enter please move to Zambia or Zimbabwe. That would be very helpful.

Bios are tricky, more so when you are asked to comment on your writing. I think my attempt at anti-intellectualism in describing my story worked- unfortunately. It was almost as bad as Mma Molefhe’s painful admission that one of her hobbies is sewing.

The book is beautiful- that is- until page 394 and 395- the final judge, Mr. JM Coetzee’s comments. The prize winners in this competition were all white, South Africans though all judging was done anonymously. This seems to have pushed Mr. Coetzee, sitting in Australia with his heavy satchel of white guilt, to come up with a reason. He does contend that he perhaps does not have an ear for the continent’s writing and for that I give him one point. But then it all goes very wrong. He then says- “…educational standards vary, and along with them levels of competence in the reading and writing of English, not to speak of familiarity with international literary trends and standards. We must face the unhappy fact that the playing field on which the PEN/Studzinski Literary Award was contested was not a level one, and will probably not be level for a long while”.

In a handful of words Mr Coetzee manages to insult the winners, as well as all writers from the rest of the continent. To the winners he’s saying-“Okay you won, but not because you are good writers, it’s because institutional inequalities gave you a leg up.” How nice is that? If I was among the winners, I’d be less than pleased.

The weighted ethnocentrism of his remark has it falling flat on its face. If you look through the bios of the writers from countries outside of South Africa many are academics. Cameroonian Naomi Nkealah is doing her doctorate, Kenyan Ken Kamoche is an academic in UK, Nigerian Maik Nwosu is an assistant professor in USA, Nigerian Omolola Ijeoma Ogunyeni is an associate professor in USA, and Zimbabwean Novoilet Bulawayo is doing her masters degree at Cornell- these are no academic slouches.

I also find his condescending contention that writers on the continent are not in tune with “international literary trends and standards” very disturbing. Which trends and standards are those? Euro-centric trends? Writing in Africa has a style, grown from the soil of this continent. Perhaps a judge familiar with the “African literary trends and standards” may be more suitable to judge this contest. For if it is the case that the writers from the continent are so ill equipped to compete with the learned white South Africans, as Coetzee contends, why is it that those same writers have not taken over the Caine Prize? Why do Nigerians win? Ugandans? Kenyans? Zimbabweans? How did they manage to slip by the judges with their shoddy work coming from minds not schooled to the rhythm chosen by Mr. Coetzee?

SA PEN has done a lovely job by extending the contest to the whole of Africa. Now let’s have judges who can hear beauty in the literature of the continent.

Snow Flower and the Secret Fan

I just finished reading Snow Flower and the Secret Fan by Lisa See. An excellent book about a special relationship between two women during unbearable times. There is so much about China and Chinese culture that I knew nothing at all about and I found the book fascinating for that too. It is about two girls growing up in the mid 1800's in rural China. Lily comes from a poor family, her father a farmer, while Snow Flower is from an educated, wealthy family. Though their backgrounds would normally have kept them apart a matchmaker decides that they are 'old sames' and the two girls begin the most important relationship for women of the time, in many ways more important than their marriages; a laotong relationship. They are now paired for life.

Though much about Chinese culture is revealed; foot binding and its importance, the very strict class system, and the role of women in society, the most interesting to me was Nu Shu. Nu Shu is a secret language only known by Chinese women of the time. It nearly disappeared until recently when the government realised its importance in their society and resurrected it.

Nu Shu was taught by mothers to daughters and by sworn sisters or, in the case of Lily and Snow Flower, by laotongs. It was a secret language not to be shown or learned by men. It was used as decorations when embroidering with poetic messages about women's lives. It was also used to make books called third day books, in which sworn sisters, mothers and laotongs wrote messages about the newly married young woman. The book was read on the third day after the marriage. For Lily and Snow Flower, they used Nu Shu on their secret fan to record the important events in their lives.

Apparently it is the only language written only for women. That seems quite astonishing to me. In so many cultures women suffered similar oppression as Chinese women, one would have thought naturally such languages might have developed, as a secret code to express their real thoughts and wishes that society forced them to hide.

I recently read a post at Helen Ginger's blog about researching for fiction and how the author should be knowledgeable about their material, but they shouldn't set out to use their fiction to teach their readers. I think Lisa See does an excellent job at doing just that, of walking that difficult line. The facts about China in the mid 1800's are brought out through the beautiful love story of these two girls. A very good book I highly recommend.

Don't Bash Your Head Against the Wall

Tim Clare author of We Can't All Be Astronauts writes an interesting essay in The Independent about his road to publishing success. He says-

Tenacity and flexibility make a formidable team. Take pleasure in creative failure – it's a sign you're pushing yourself – but learn from it too. I had to bash my head against a brick wall several times before I thought: "Hey, maybe I should change direction." Getting published is about practising until you're really good, then persevering until you're really lucky.

I think we all take our own roads on this writing journey, but I'll agree bashing your head against the wall for extended periods should be avoided if possible.

When I started out writing I thought I was going to be one of these humorous writers with quirky characters a la Sue Townsend. I wrote two novels and they both were beaten around like a baseball at the World Series. They have now been benched (to continue the baseball analogy further than I really should). I was banging my head against the wall. So I tried writing detective books and it worked. So though I am not of the school that says 'rejection is good for you', in a twisted way it got me published. So flexibility is indeed important. Don't fall too in love with your initial idea about the type of writer you want to be. You could be wrong and that could keep you from success.

As Mr. Clare says, flexibility is important, but more and more I'm realising that tenacity is the key. There are many, many writers who are much better than I am, but they will never be published. Anyone will tell you making a success of writing is almost impossible. The road is littered with people who lost hope. Pit bull-like tenacity is what will get you through. They can shake you, they can bash you left and right- but don't let go. Stay steely-eyed and hold on. Hold on and somewhere ahead, with a little luck and quite a bit of hard work, success will find you; it's almost certain.

The Funeral

I went to the funeral for a friend to my children on Saturday. I couldn't stop thinking about the mother and putting myself in her shoes. Batswana are a very stoic people; wild emotions are frowned upon. For women, when someone very close to you dies you are put in a room with all of the elderly women in the family. This bit of writing is about that.

The Dream Dying Room

She sits in the room she’s been assigned to for the last week and a half. At first she wanted to rebel against tradition and get out. Her son was dead and it seemed only right that she should be involved in laying him to rest just as she’d been involved in every aspect of his life up until then. But the routine of the room has become a comfort. The abnormality of it gives structure to the dead end her life has run into. The room is a fitting place for dreams to die without hopes begging for their resurrection.

People crowd. She can hear chairs knocking against each other in the garden. People talking. The smell of cooking fires drifts in. People pass through to view her son, so abnormally still in the wooden coffin, so quiet and solemn. She sits, statue still. She’s found it helps to keep down the emotions simmering just under the surface, like lava in an active volcano. No one wants an eruption, it’s frowned upon; she’s been taught that since she was a little girl.

People are settling. She can hear her husband’s aunt start a hymn in her strong, solid tenor. Though she mourns with them, a sprinkle of excitement can be heard around the edges of her voice. She revels in every opportunity to share her talent with strangers.

Everything is heavy and distorted. The old women pack her up and push her into a stranger’s car. It smells of dust. The blankets are tucked in around her as insulation against the world and she sweats in their folds. When she sees the ragged hole torn into the red soil, her mind clears. This is it, she tells herself. She will leave her son here. Alone. Forever. She tries to think of other things as they lower the casket. She picks at her anger at the minister who pleads with the gathering to save themselves before it is too late, but she has no energy to build up any proper fury. She’s not succeeding in diverting her attention. The soil drops shovel by shovel onto her son. The echo of it bangs against her weary heart. It will continue in her mind long after this day.

She’s weak from the effort of keeping herself sane. She sits in the room again. She can hear people stacking chairs. Cars start and drive away. Plates clank against each other in a metal washing tub. Men lift the massive three-legged, iron pots onto the back of a baakie that brought them.

The room is emptying. People must go home. They’ve finished what they came for, to bury her son. They must get back to their lives that have been running along without them. At some point, she knows, they will come and tell her to leave the room too; to get back to her own life. But her life is no longer waiting for her. Her life was not running along while she stepped out of it for a few days. The room that she rebelled against at first is the only place her new life still goes on. Now her only wish is to cling to the abnormal; she knows the ordinary will force her defenses down. She might not survive it, she thinks, as she buries herself deeper into the heavy blankets and dreams that she might be forgotten.

Reading Your Work Aloud

I hate public speaking to such an extent that it has become a handicap. Even at lovely events where I should be enjoying myself and my success, I'm busy spazzing out in my head about speaking in public to such an extent that I am for all practical purposes not there. It is shameful and ridiculous. I feel for my audience when I must read my writing in public. All I want is to be through. I can read at a rate that literally makes peoples' heads spin- I've seen it with my own eyes, and let me tell you if members of your audience are battling to keep their heads on straight, I can assure you it inspires little confidence and then it is just a horrible downward spiral from there.

Since I've realised this affliction has become a liability, I am trying to put myself in more and more places where I must speak in public. I do think some of the problem is just lack of practice. Just like anything, every time you have a bit of success it makes it easier the next time.

At a recent workshop I attended, we needed to read some of our writing out loud to the group. I realised a few things. One is that if you are reading and you think you are reading at a BBC Special English pace then you are at the right speed. It makes a difference. People take your writing more seriously if you read slower. You also sound calmer even if you're not. Speedy Gonzales does not give off an aura of a calm guy. Slow and steady is the key.

At the same workshop, I was advised to stop and look up and look around, connect with your audience. I think this also helps with the speedy reading. If you connect with someone in the audience, you will begin to feel that it's more of a conversation as compared to a speech. Conversations I can handle. Speeches are for Obama and Abraham Lincoln- not me.

To be a writer, means at some point if you have any success at all, you will be expected to read your work aloud. In a recent article in The Guardian, Stuart Walton wonders if this is always a good thing. Writers, as in my case, are not always the best readers. They can ruin the writing for the reader, and that's a bad thing. But sometimes a writer can read in such a way that the listener discovers another way to think of the writing. As Walton says, "There is one immense and tangible benefit to me from listening to literature, rather than reading it for yourself, which is that, just sometimes, the voice you are hearing is better at the job than the one inside you."

My goal one day is to be that sort of writer; a writer who can read my own writing and lead the listener to a more interesting place, a place they maybe would not have found on their own without me. Otherwise what's the point of reading our work aloud?

So more public speaking for me. It's a bit like that terrible bitter cough medicine your mother was always forcing down your throat. It's painful, but I know it's for my own good.

Me? The Winner? Yahoo!

I guess there is still hope of me becoming the next Edgar Allan Poe or Stephen King (maybe). I won a competition over at Watching9987 with a scary little flash fiction piece. A 50 word story about a mother dreaming about her first doll- that quiet one put out by the PR Department for Motherhood. Didn't they just suck us in?
Pass by and give it a read and check out Nik's very interesting blog while you're there.
Big thanks to Sue and Nik!!!

A Liar Among Us

Are these the eyes of an animal you can trust?

On Sunday, the veterinarians arrived. They're a husband and wife team. They came to give Chelsea, the African Sausage Dog, and Sgt. Catman their injections. Amidst all of the needles and injecting of various liquids, the husband veterinarian revealed something that has altered my world. It has tested my faith in many things that I firmly believe in. It has shifted the path of my future.

Sgt Catman is a girl.

Yes. It is the truth. He entered my home as a male. He positioned himself as a male. We built our lives around that fact. And now what? How do we go forward?

I've grown used to seeing him as a boy, and I don't think I can change now. We've decided to ignore the vets (the wife checked and confirmed the husband was right). In any case, the Sergeant is going for sterilisation on the 27th of July, so I don't think she'll be that averse to remaining a boy in our minds, it will become irrelevant in practical terms anyway. Besides she was the one who entered our hearts under false pretenses.

Sydney Pilane- A Real Motswana Patriot

It is easy for opposition parties to criticise the ruling party, but for a member of the ruling party to step forward and state that what President Ian Khama is doing is wrong takes a brave and true patriot. Well known Gaborone lawyer and former advisor to President Festus Mogae, Sydney Pilane, has an excellent article in this week's Sunday Standard titled Would Lt. General Ian Khama Please Stand Down and Make Way for Mr. Ian Khama.

People outside of Botswana may not be aware that there is a growing fear in my adopted country. On the day President Ian Khama took office he gained my allegiance. His speech about the 4-D's (discipline, democracy, development and dignity) showed his vision for Botswana and I was ready to get behind him. But since that day, step by step, Batswana have watched his concerted efforts to dismantle a democracy his patriotic predecessors (including his own father, our first president, President Seretse Khama) had worked so hard to build. And as the democracy we took for granted slowly slips away, he is replacing it with orders on high and fear around every corner. His cabinet has become little more than lackeys and yes-men. He rules by decree without thought to the consequences. The recently passed media law will control the press he so despises. But none of this can hold a candle to the recent events in this country.

Two weeks ago, an alleged petty thief, John Kalafatis, was pulled over by people who were either members of our new spy department, Directorate of Intelligence Security (DIS), the Botswana Defence Force (BDF) or the police; to date everyone is pointing the finger at someone else. Kalafatis was forced to get out of the car he was in and then he was assassinated. He was shot at least eight times at close range. According to witnesses in the car, he was unarmed.

Mmegi and The Sunday Standard broke the story. According to the story, Kalafatis knew that the DIS were after him after he allegedly robbed a house of some Gaborone big-wig with the right connections, the name has yet to be confirmed, even the theft. Allegedly, DIS officials told him and members of his family that they were going to kill him. Kalafatis left a letter with his lawyer detailing just that.

After Kalafatis was killed, the government's reaction has been astonishing. They held a press conference excluding all private press. At that 'press conference' the journalists were spoken to as if they were children who had misbehaved, instead of professionals with an obligation to report what happens in the country. The president has since decided to sue The Sunday Standard which alleged that the house robbed by Kalafatis belonged to his elder sister and that he rushed to her side on his motorbike once he heard. Now the government has issued an order that no government departments or parastatals are allowed to advertise in any of the Mmegi papers or The Sunday Standard. In the current credit crisis situation, it could mean the death of these privately owned papers, which would be a tragic loss to this country and a knock to democracy . The government once before tried to do the same thing to The Guardian and The Midweek Sun which took them to court and won, so they are aware that what they are doing is against the law. Doesn't matter. Even killing unarmed suspected thieves is okay- our vice president recently said that killing one or two people is no problem.

President Ian Khama does many wonderful things, but unfortuantely these do not outweigh the damage he is doing to our country. Where I stood 100% behind him, I am now keeping my registration card in a safe place and plan to vote for the opposition in October. I will not stand by and let Botswana go the way of her northern neighbour. It's the duty of Batswana to see that that never happens.

Whiplash on Sunday Times Long List

I am so pleased that Whiplash by Tracey Farren (Modjaji Books) has been placed on the Sunday Times Fiction Prize Long List. Please folks- if you haven't read this book you need to- now! Here is the link to buy online . Here is my review of it. Please folks- this book is exceptional.

Now let's all cross our fingers, legs, eyes and any other thing that may be cross-able and hope that Whiplash makes it to the shortlist and goes on to win.

Congratulations to the Rain Queen!!!!! Long live the Rain Queen!!!!

**** NEWS FLASH*****

4 jUNE, 2009

Whiplash is shortlisted for the Sunday Times Fiction Prize! See others on the shortlist here. That eye crossing seems to be working so keep it up!!

Good News!!! Good News!!!

I've been away for a week to Gaborone for a radio scriptwriting workshop. It was very good. The facilitator gave wonderful information about radio writing, but also information for writing in general. I learned so much about writing English scripts for the beginners in standard one, that I feel I need to go back and nip and tuck the 16 scripts I've already finished in that series- that was not such good news. Also I got to interact with people, some old friends I hadn't seen for awhile, some newly made ones . It made me realise how little I socialise nowadays, excluding my running commentary with Sgt. Catman, but to be honest he is not much of a conversationalist.

BUT this is a post about good news- and there was good news. Last week Tuesday the list of prescribed books for secondary schools came out. What I knew was I had one chance with a science textbook I wrote for junior secondary, form 1. Luckily, I was misinformed. Macmillan had submitted my book, The Fatal Payout, for senior secondary and it was chosen as the ONLY set book for literature! The science book wasn't taken, but that's fine actually because I'm so over the top pleased about my dear Detective Kate Gomolemo. There are four finished books in the series but only two are published. Since they've been doing so badly, I swore the other two would never see the light of day. Perhaps I'll change my mind now.

The other equally lovely news was that my writing partner's (She Who Will Remain Un-named) short story collection for junior secondary was chosen as a prescribed book too! It was funny because we were both sitting in the workshop when we found out. How that went is a funny story in itself , for another day perhaps.

So now, I have six published fiction books and five have been prescribed as set texts by the Ministry of Education. In this part of the world, where even in South Africa a best selling novel will sell 4000 copies , this is a jackpot. The primary school books for example, I might sell above 20,000 copies per title the first year. The new policy is to keep set books for 3-5 years, so I'll still be making fairly good royalties during those following years too.

What does this mean to me? I'm a full time writer. Lately I've been lucky with two television scriptwriting gigs in a row, so money has been regular and pretty good. Before that, it meant me doing piece meal. I might do a few radio scripts, write two or three articles for our national private daily Mmegi, some local magazine articles, the occasional international gig. It was constantly querying, constantly working on two or three articles, trying to run after government official for facts (this alone can take days in Botswana where PRO in Government of Botswana-speak means expert at dodging journalists), setting up interviews, researching, running up and down- basically a lot of work equaling piles of time consumed and usually a small pay cheque, leaving only a few precious minutes here and there for my fiction, the thing I most love writing, with the bulk of the time eaten up trying to earn a living.

Now these better royalty cheques will translate into time. Time for my fiction. Time to write anything and everything that I want. The big hammer of reality will finally get a rest. Not everything I put on paper must already have a market. That money equals freedom-freedom, what a lovely, lovely word that is.

Saturday Fun

I'm not a photographer but the sunset outside my gate was so lovely I just wanted to share it. The picture doesn't do it justice, of course. Botswana and her big skies can't quite be photographed.

Now that you've enjoyed my sunset, stop over at Blood Red Pencil for some fun. Marvin D. Wilson entertains with those 'that's not what I meant to say' lines like: Drunk Gets 9 Months in Voilin Case (shame!) and Include your Children when Baking Cookies (if you are Hansel and Gretel's Witchy Friend that is). Very funny!

Enjoy your weekend, Ditsala!

Taking a New Direction

When I first started writing I submitted everywhere. It didn’t matter if I would be paid or not, I just wanted to be published. And I was published in many places. Then time passed and I thought I should make a rule that I will only submit to magazines that pay, unless there is some prestige involved. And that’s been my policy for some time. But now I’m wondering what the point is. I write short stories, I send them out and I get paid usually around $25-100 USD. This money is fairly useless to me because to get it to Botswana, most is eaten by bank charges. Nowadays I ask for Amazon gift certificates and then it gets eaten by delivery charges.

I have stories published all over the world and yet it hasn’t led to me getting an agent. It hasn’t really got my name out there in any sustainable way. So I’m not making money and I’m not building a name for myself. But I spend an inordinate amount of time writing and submitting short stories.

I’ll admit I do like to write a short story. There is something quite fulfilling in writing them and I doubt I’ll stop completely. I can’t deny that I have made a substantial amount of money from short story contests, and they actually DO get your name out there.

I guess I’m trying to re-evaluate my priorities though. It’s not really about the money. I just want some sort of sustain success. I’m a bit tired of the rollercoaster I currently ride. My fiction time is limited and I think it’s time I spend it on novels. I love writing books. I love the long term journey and stepping into that other world. Short stories are not long enough to give me that kind of a feeling. Though my books haven’t done so well to date, I do feel part of that at least is bad decisions made by me, mostly regarding publishers. It also has to do with too much time spent on short stories.

So it is time for a focus shift. I’ll still write the occasional short story but they will no longer be my focus. Getting my work out there will mean getting my books published, not forever trolling Duotrope looking for markets. Like most change, I feel scared and a bit sad, but more than anything I’m excited.

African Short Story Awards Announced

Lots of prizes for African writers to announce.

First, last weekend the winners of the first PEN/Studzinski Literary Award were announced and the book with the stories from the finalists was launched. My story Pulani’s Eyes was a finalist but sadly didn’t win. The winners are all South African which was likely to happen since out of the 672 entries only 155 came from non-South Africans. The winners are:

1st Prize: Where he will leave his shoes by Karen Jayes

2nd prize: Dr. Mamba by Andrew Salomon

3rd prize: (Two winners) The Visit by Nadia Davids and Survival Mechanisms by Ceridwen Dovey

Honourable Mentions went to:

NoViolet Mkha Bulawayo – Snapshots (from Zimbabwe!!! Yeah!)
Naomi Nkealah – In the Name of Peace
Isabella Morris – Bluette
Irene McCartney – Pauline’s Ghost
Congratulations to all of you!

Also just announced is the shortlist for this year’s Caine Prize.
The 2009 Caine shortlist is:

• Mamle Kabu (Ghana) ‘The End of Skill’ from ‘Dreams, Miracles and Jazz’, published by Picador Africa, Johannesburg 2008

• Parselelo Kantai (Kenya) ‘You Wreck Her’ from the St Petersburg Review, NY 2008

• Alistair Morgan (South Africa) ‘Icebergs’ from The Paris Review no. 183, NY 2008

• EC Osondu (Nigeria) ‘Waiting' from Guernicamag.com, October 2008

• Mukoma wa Ngugi (Kenya) ‘How Kamau wa Mwangi Escaped into Exile’ from ‘Wasafiri’ No54, Summer 2008, London

Two other entries were highly commended: ‘Devils at the Door’ by Sierra Leone’s Brian James, and Ghanaian writer Nii Parkes’s ‘Socks Ball’.

I’ve yet to read any of the stories so have no guess who might win. Congratulations to the short listed writers and good luck! My story The Christmas Wedding was submitted this year but failed to make the cut. My only response to not making it in contests is – I’ll get in there next year- so watch out!

Keeping the Present in Today

This beautiful Sunday morning I've been catching up on a few blogs I've not had time to read. One is from the lovely, artistic Kayt, The Pedestrian Crossing. She wrote about discovering some objects she'd long forgotten and how they pulled her to remember the lovely journey she'd made to the present. And then she had these wise words for her readers: Today is the only today that I get and anything that helps me pay attention to it is nothing short of manna from heaven.

This is the only 17 May 2009 I will ever get. Do I want to spend it with uncertainties? Do I want to spend it with regrets? Do I want to worry about three months from now? About next year? How wasteful and disrespectful that would be. Today is a gift, a present. Why do we squander this present? So wasteful. Today, at least, I'm going to enjoy my present and try my best to do that from now on.

Poetry Jam Session at the White House

I know I'm an Obama devoutee BUT who can't love a president who holds a poetry jam session in the White House? I mean really guys. According to The Guardian Obama is a poetry lover and has been spotted with a copy of currently battered Nobel Prize winner Derek Walcott's works in his pocket.

Now everyone- in the spirit of the first White House Poetry Jam Session how many words can you find to rhyme with Obama???

An Award? I'm Blushing......

I was awarded a Kreativ Blogger Award by the world champion of the short story, Tania Hershman. Thanks Tania!

Along with the award I must list the top seven things that I love. This is problematic as I love lots of things but I'll try my best.

1. My husband and the Giant Teenagers

2. Chelsea, Buster the African Sausage Dog, and The Catman

3. Sunshine, by the ocean best of all, but sunshine anywhere

4. Floating in a swimming pool watching clouds drift by and vultures circle high in the sky until my skin wrinkles up and I've forgotten what time it is

5. Walks in the bush

6. Lasagna ...and cheesecake, if the world was perfect and kilojoules didn't exist

7. New books

I think I'm greedy with things I love because I keep thinking of new things I need to add to this list. So I must stop....

The Adaptation of a Writer

I read an excellent post by John McNally at Emerging Writers Network via Tania Hershman's blog about why anyone would want to write short stories. He makes many very interesting points, but one thing stuck out for me. He talked about excellent short story writers who stopped writing. They were everywhere and highly successful, at least from writers' points of view, and suddenly they were gone. He mourned their loss.

In my relatively short time of writing, just over six years now, I have slowly seen myself change. Against my nature, I have accepted the status quo, in some instances I no longer fight it. I no longer have hope that I might change things. I feel sad about this and I wonder if perhaps these short story writers who have disappeared with their talent decided that perhaps they didn't want to adapt, they would rather do nothing if they couldn't do things as they wanted.

Publishers in Botswana publish for the school market. When I got my first Detective Kate Gomolemo book published, the publisher assured me that they would market it to a mainstream market as even I knew it was not suitable for schools. They didn't do that.

So I moved on to publisher number two and explained what I wanted with the second book. Print it dirt cheap, sell it everywhere newspapers are sold, and build that book buying public in the country. They also reeled me in with all sorts of yes words and then did what they'd always done before- marketed it, primarily, to the schools.

There are four books in the series. All long written. But I'll write no more and I'll not see another one published. I suppose in this sense I'm a bit like those MIA short story writers- if I can't have my way I won't do it.

But too, now I accept if I'm going to write books in Botswana, I must write for the school market. That's it. There will be nothing else until everyone gets in the boat and starts rowing together. I'm sad about giving in to this but, at least for the time being, those are the rules of the game. Survival of the fittest -no sentimentality allowed, no dreams out of the box- the conditions of the environment will make all decisions- and that's quite sad.