My original plan for this long weekend was to visit my sister, Megan, in Manchester after spending the earlier part of the week at the London Book Fair with my sister, Estelle, from Rome. We were going to cover the South African Market Focus, live-blogging the events for BOOK SA.
As it happened, I spent a lovely weekend with Megan in Cape Town. Her travel plans had also been thrown into disarray and was unable to return to the UK. On the upside it meant she was present at Not the London Book Fair held at the Book Lounge just a week ago. My account of NTLBF appeared in the Sunday Independent yesterday, albeit in a truncated form.
Because the uncut version gave a fuller account of the celebration, I’m posting my original here:
Leaving the UK’s visa agency in Adderley Street on Thursday noon with my freshly minted visa and DAC-sponsored ticket to the London Book Fair, the first whiff of impending calamity arrived by phone.
My sister in Rome, scheduled to join BOOK SA, the exclusive media partner covering the South African Market Focus, sent an email headed “Volcanic surprise”. She’s pregnant, I thought. She will be cross. But her message had news of a different baby altogether. Ash? Volcano? Iceland? Say what?
Soon, with 100-odd other writers and publishing industry professionals who’d invested thousands of hours preparing for this unique opportunity, hope was icy shards, stratospherically distant.
The emerging phenomenon was of such outlandish proportions. How would Mother Earth’s exhalations play out? A far-out proposal for a generous benefactor and a specially chartered flight for the stranded participants popped up, but not even Richard Branson could have saved the day.
Contingency arrangements sweated through the ether. Breathless conversations with volunteer back-up personnel advised how to set up stands and collect material freighted earlier. The show must go on, said Alistair Burtenshaw, the London Book Fair’s director.
Those who’d lingered in foreign departure halls returned, exhausted, only to discover rumbles of an underground event on the cards. By noon on Friday indie bookstore proprietor, Mervyn Sloman and BOOK SA’s Ben Williams were rapidly hatching a plan to channel the peculiar turn of events into something other than a stillbirth.
“Not The London Book Fair” would go off with a bang at the Book Lounge. South African literature would party, regardless. It would be live-blogged and videoed, linked to London. It would happen in reverse; a breech delivery, but a live celebration nevertheless.
Twitter. Facebook. Skype. Emails whizzed. Tickets were booked. Online friends offered their homes. Soon Victor Dlamini, Fiona Snyckers, Kopano Matlwa, and Phakama Mbonambi were flying from Joburg; Ingrid Anderson pitched from Pietermaritzburg.
Helen Moffett, just back from breaking the news of the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize in Delhi, was instrumental in organising an event that testified to the resourcefulness and resilience of South Africa’s literary community.
The evening kicked off with a video message from Alistair Burtenshaw and Amy Webster, expressing their dismay at the outcome. They promised to keep the pavilion going on behalf of those with scuppered plans. “There is a Joburg- and Cape Town-shaped hole at the fair this year,” said Webster.
Antjie Krog’s poem set the tenor of the evening: I belong to this land,/ it made me./ I have no other land but this one./ I do not believe in miracles but the existence of my country is a miracle./
Imraan Coovadia read an engaging extract on taxi poetry, Victor Dlamini’s insights and probing questions drove to the nub of of seriousness in which our literature breathes.
Coovadia reflected on how SA lit has been determined from outside for too long. “We’ve been told what to read from those who know what’s good for us. But all the interesting stuff, reflecting the different parts of South Africa that makes society interesting, isn’t on that list. If you read Coetzee, you don’t have a sense of walking down a Cape Town street.”
After readings by Liesl Jobson, Kopano Matlwa and Fiona Snyckers, Colleen Higgs spoke about Modjaji Books, an independent publisher that focuses on women’s writing, including the “unpopular” genres of poetry and short stories.
She had been looking forward to networking with other independent publishers – in particular the Norwegian who has bought the translations rights to Whiplash, the novel by Tracey Farren that was shortlisted for the 2009 Sunday Times fiction prize. “I’ve been practising so hard to be a ‘real publisher’,” she said.
Matlwa, whose second novel, Spilt Milk, was due to be launched at the fair, said she wanted to tell Londoners how excited she was at the wealth of stories coming from the country. Snyckers spoke of how vibrantly alive women’s fiction was. “From high literature to bright pink ‘chic-lit’, poetry and everything in-between, our writers are world class.”
The final event concluded with a panel comprising Arthur Attwell of Electric Book Works, Phakama Mbonambi, editor of Wordsetc, and Williams. They spoke about the challenges of raising the profile of South African literature internationally.
Mbonambi, who was hoping to secure subscriptions ‘in pounds’ for his magazine, said “We’ve put on a brave face. All is not lost.”
In true mythic style, several fairy godmothers attending any proper ceremony were present. The Annexe, Kalk Bay Books’ new arrival, provided a plethora of scrumptious treats to keep the festive hoard well nourished, and Leopard’s Leap not only furnished wine, but also created a video message of support featuring Not the London Book Fair attendees that was sent to London on Tuesday morning. At Not the London Book Fair, the link up happened at every level.
And how it has been my week for arriving on Youtube. Much to my surprise. After a life time of hearing myself from inside my ears, I find myself gazing at video clips on the net.
Did I agree to this? I can’t recall that I did. Had I known how odd I sound, how peculiar I look, I’m not sure the self I recognise as my own would have consented had anybody stopped to ask.
Do others who discover themselves similarly caught and digitally rendered also peer through their fingers in morbid curiosity?
A string quartet plays in the garden this International Women’s Day and camellias are floating in the pond, the champagne is chilling on ice. Metaphorically, of course. It’s the garden party of my heart.
So I’ve lit the candle-lanterns that swing in the summer heat and the kids, allowed up after dark, wave sparklers and scoff brownies. Before the night’s out I’m raising a toast to the savvy, smart, honest, beautiful, funny, generous and wise women who people my tribe in the broadest sense of the word.
To those sisters in writing who raise families and manage lovers, hold down day jobs and edit journals, write their own work and publish others’ work, who stay with the schlep that is the writing life, and still glow in their wit and humanity, I can’t pass up this chance to wish you all well.
So many women writers show me all is not lost in my messy words; they patch up my muddles and drop me emails; they talk me down off high ledges and send me straight talk; they bail me out for the day, or sometime just a minute; they write their own shimmering texts that make me proud to know them; they believe that what we’re all trying to do is worth staying with even when it sucks, the whole indecent catastrophe. And of late it has sucked, sharp stones in spades.
Tonight this huge party is for all the women around the world who have made a difference to each other, hand-holding and cheerleading, proffering tissues and tips, reading first drafts and attending readings, and kindly souls who help me go on when I’m ready to quit.
And thanks also to Annie Finch who started WOM-PO and Amy King who keeps it running. This Women’s Poetry Listserv has given me more to think about than there is space in my head for thinking.
And because Lucy Pijnenburg, over at Poetry International, has focused her attention on this cause for celebration, and how women’s poetry still doesn’t get equal air time, it makes sense to link to her article:
Juliana Spahr and Stephanie Young’s 2007 article ‘Numbers Trouble’ highlighted the fact that women poets are still underrepresented in publishing in the USA. In countries where more male poets are published, the publication of a poem by a female writer, even if it is not an overtly “political” poem, can be seen as a political act in itself. Should a 50:50 men to women publishing ratio be aimed for? Are there simply fewer women poets writing and trying to get published? And if so, why? ‘Numbers Trouble’ shed new light on how editors go about representing women whilst ensuring that the aesthetic merit of poetry is kept.
On 12 November 2009 I published this blog in which I made reference to, inter alia, Bert Oosthuizen. The allegations made of and concerning Bert Oosthuizen were made in error. I retract these and apologise to Bert Oosthuizen for any harm that my statement caused him.
Because there is more nonsense out there than a body should have to endure – David Bullard, for example, who truly should know better – it is gratifying when hatemongers get called out on their caustic prattle.
At the same time when the so-called brains behind the South Africa Sucks blog was arrested last week, the hackles rose: is Big Brother finally coming to pluck out the tongue of Free Speech?
“The so-called Uhuru Guru,” writes Women.24’s Lili Radloff, a regular target of his bile, “has been identified as a certain Bert Oosthuizen who lives in Joburg.” There’s more to his dollops of meanness than meets the eye.
Lili puts it very nicely on her blog:
Now I think it’s fair to say that Bert doesn’t like South Africa, the government and black people in general. And he also doesn’t like me much.
To which I can only say, take a number and stand in line, buddy.
The baser part of me thinks people like Oosthuizen should be locked in jail. And yet, being a believer in a free society I was rather alarmed at the thought that the police can apparently just barge into your house, confiscate your happy-making interweb shit and throw your ass in the chookie.
Sometimes I really curse the fact that I believe in freedom of speech. Because God knows, not everyone deserves a voice.
However this opens out, I hope that SA Sucks gets turned off, once and for all. Maybe in its wake we find a platform for people explore their fear without resorting to the dehumanising racism that needs to be ended.
Last night I attended the Cape Town launch of Antjie Krog’s latest book, Begging to be Black. The first person to greet me as I walked up the stairs was Hugh Hodge, who edits New Contrast, and who runs with Karin Schimke, “Off the Wall”, the weekly poetry gig in that has met over the years at Touch of Madness in Nuttall Street, Observatory.
He greeted me with the horrible news that Oscar Paulo, the waitron originally from Angola, who always greeted everybody with the warm appellation: Daaaaaaarling! had been stabbed last Thursday while talking in a phone booth.
Oscar seemed always to have first dibs on the poetry gathering, setting up the room, bringing drinks in during the reading, clearing up afterwards. He’d always remember me, even though I attended only occasionally when I lived in Joburg. Oscar had a welcoming presence that genuinely embraced the poets and poetry lovers he served.
Off the Wall, the weekly poetry forum that has hosted poets from near and far, was started by Ronnie Levitan, a gifted architect and photographer, who was murdered in 2005.
There will be a memorial gathering for Oscar at Touch of Madness on Saturday at 2.00 pm. Leave a message of condolence on the Touch of Madness facebook wall
In a bid to join those of my friends and family who strive conscientiously to save our ailing planet, I have very recently pledged to compost my vegetable waste, buy less stuff, and recycle glass and plastics. I’ve signed up at 10:10 and sent ten of my nearest and dearest an invitation to sign up too.
In a fit of what looks already like misguided enthusiasm, I wrote very quickly a 3.5 line poem in response to a last minute call for 350 poets to contribute to the 350 Poems project, where my effort has just appeared:
Before my newborn ears heard rivers, a cipher stamped a number I now cannot forget. I’m waiting, still, to hear the goddess whisper my real name.
I hope that by adding my voice to the universal call for the reduction of CO2 there is not a correlatory increase in my anxiety at having sent out a poem prematurely.
As a compulsive fixer and tweaker, I have already edited the version that appeared at 350 Poems. Will my neurosis boil all day, counteracting whatever small benefit such publication achieves?
No, perhaps it doesn’t have to. I will go down to the sea today and cast my anxiety about my poetry onto the water, and listen for the prompt to wellness in all my doings.
Daar is ‘n verlange in my bewustheid, ‘n ontwaking wat my hart prikkel. Dis ‘n diepe gevoel wat los my nie uit nie. Maande of jare het ek die sintuig sonder ‘n naam verwaarloos, die ongesoeke ding wat my pla. Miskien verdwyn dit binne ‘n uur of ‘n week. Kan dit wees dat die klein onverwagte en onbeminde stemmetjie het my hele lewe gefluister? Sal dit ooit kan stilbly as ek dit aanhoudend ignoreer? Ek verstaan nie die mening hiervan nie, maar daar’s geen twyfel dat ek moet probeer om Afrikaans te skryf.
Het dit iets te doen met my onlangse duiselingwekkende rigtingsverandering? Die laaste twee jare wou ek uittrek Kanada toe. Ek het alles beplan en geld uit die land gestuur. Verlede November besef ek (nadat ek oor die R100 000 betaal het) dat ek kan nie aan nie, en besluit om liewers huistoe te kom, terug na die Kaap waar ek van my kinderjare gepas het. Roer my ouma my bloed? Roep sy my naam?
Ek het nooit Amelia “Millie” Jobson (gebore Wege) ontmoet nie en daar is nie ‘n enkele foto van haar wat word in my ouers se huis vertoon nie. Ouma Millie is oorlede in haar vroeer-vyftig jare toe my pa elf jaar oud was. Vier van haar ses kinders is oorlede – twee het saam verdrink. Was dit borskanker of ‘n gebroke hart wat haar so vroeg weggeneem het? » read more
Ten days ago, I left home at 4am and drove 800 km to Richmond, with my friend, Isabella. Truth is she drove in her very nice BMW, and the combination of a nice car and being driven was too marvellous for words.
My contribution to the road trip was to unscrew bottles of water, holding the bag of biltong open periodically and reading aloud from a rather lovely collection of short stories, The Children’s Hours: Stories About Childhood. I glanced up now and again to peer at a passing windmill or admire the vastness of the sky.
I find reading aloud one of the best ways to really hear how a story works. Some other part of the brain must get engaged. Or would that be the ears, maybe? » read more
I went to a fascinating poetry evening hosted in conjunction with The Weekender and the Wits School of Literature and Language Studies a while back. Rehana Rossouw kindly encouraged me to write up the event and here it is.
The sad part of the story is that the memory card in my camera had a meltdown and I lost all my photos and video – the latter was intended for the next issue of Poetry International and would have conveyed the remarkable nature of the poetry. » read more
Doorknobs & Bodypaint is a quirky name for a journal. Their submissions guidelines are no less eccentric. For example, the editors are currently looking for stories under 250 words for their next issue. Additionally, the sub-theme is “exuberance” and the year is 1929. Within the story, you must use this text: uninhibited enthusiasm. Make of that what you will but I dare you to have a go. Submissions close October 26th.
Similarly, the journal Tattoo Highway, invites writers to respond to a given picture. This device also appeals to me. I entered some years back and won second place there back in Issue 11, receiving a $20 Barnes & Noble voucher for my effort.
It might not be everyone’s idea of a good time, but for me it does indeed raise “uninhibited enthusiasm”. Working from prompts, whether a list of words, an image, or a set of odd-sock criteria is all a way to trick myself into writing. I approach the page as a kind of game, a way of getting the story underway while my inner critic is checking to see that I’ve obeyed the rules of the game. » read more
August has been kind, starting with the launch of View from an Escalator at the Jozi Spoken Word Festival which was very well attended. Launching a book is always a turning point and the sense of completion that ensues was, once again, a terrific relief.
I really like this photo because it shows who’s looking over my shoulder. The muses that emerged in this artwork that formed the backdrop of the reading sure have teeth – somehow that encourages me. » read more
Last night I attended the Cape Town launch of Antjie Krog’s latest book, Begging to be Black. The first person to greet me as I walked up the stairs was Hugh Hodge, who edits New Contrast, and who runs with Karin Schimke, “Off the Wall”, the weekly poetry gig in that has met over the years at Touch of Madness in Nuttall Street, Observatory.
August has been kind, starting with the