Why writing takes time, patience and a vow not to commit murder

Being a writer is often a thankless job. It entails many hours of isolation, swearing at your computer screen and any living thing that moves around you and insomnia. Insomnia is a big part of being a writer.

Wordsmiths are also supposed to conform to the fine traditions of drinking surreptitiously from a hip flask and wearing a wide-brimmed floppy hat to let everyone know how eccentric you are, but being religious-ish I have yet to take up the drinking part and the wearing of a scarf interferes tiresomely with the big floppy hat idea.

My original point was that it is for the most part, unrewarding and wretched. And there is no shortage of people telling you to “hurry up” and get published. Which makes me want to stab them with a rusty ice-pick. But there are those brief moments that make it worthwhile, like finding the R100 note that I stashed in an old jacket pocket a year ago (most writers live below the bread line, and I am no exception) and the day I got the email from StoryTime’s editor, Ivor W. Hartman, telling me that two of my short stories had been nominated for selection in the literary e-zine's second anthology of short stories, African Roar 2.

I always knew that if I took up writing fiction, the road would be a long, empty monstrosity with many potholes and misleading signs, sort of like driving in the Tshwane Municipality formerly known as Pretoria. I prepared myself for millions of rejection letters and editors’ secretaries slamming the phone down on me. That’s how the industry rolls and I’m not in a hurry.

The only problem is that I wish someone had told that to my nearest and dearest. It’s almost as if someone put the evil idea into their heads that I would be an overnight success and that I would suddenly be transformed into a multi-millionaire, giving television interviews, accepting awards and cutting red ribbons inexpertly at opening ceremonies. The worst part is when they start mentally spending the non-existent money from a non-existent publishing contract for me. I’m talking beach houses and speedboats.

The two stories I mentioned earlier are both very special to me. “Trapped” was the very first short story I ever wrote and within ten minutes (figuratively speaking) it had been accepted for publication and was generating a lot of discussion and awareness about the problem of woman and child abuse in South Africa, an issue which is close to my heart.

“Longing for Home” was a story I put a lot of work and attention into. It centres around a young Zimbabwean girl, who, sent to England to study towards a degree, finds herself the sole breadwinner of a large extended family when violence erupts back home in Zimbabwe. It is a story of broken expectations, an African sense of duty and finding love in unexpected places.

So please feel free to read my two stories at the links above and you can also check out some of the other fine offerings by my fellow StoryTime writers. If you liked my two stories you can vote for them here – select Trapped by Hajira Amla – StoryTime#77 and Longing for Home by Hajira Amla – StoryTime#91, then scroll down to the bottom and click on the Vote button. Finding out my stories have been selected to go into the anthology would be one of those sweet, sentimental moments a writer waits for. My lower lip is ready to tremble theatrically any time. Voting closes on the last day of September 2010!

Thanks
Hajira

Restless nights

It has been my second night straight without any sleep and about two or three weeks since I knew a proper night’s slumber. Yes, I have been bitten by the fiendish insomnia bug. The bags under my eyes are now large enough to accommodate all of Mariah Carey’s luggage, and I have changed my Facebook picture to that of a rather attractive-looking donkey. Yes, sleep is a fickle thing indeed.

The romantic in me suggests that during these restless nights I should be true to the writer’s stereotype and sit up until the wee hours of the morning, a double scotch in hand, cat on my shoulder and a shotgun on my lap, hacking away feverishly at the keys, but I don’t drink, the cat can be homicidally averse to being awoken from his carefree night-time slumber and I am sadly lacking in the shotgun department.

It is also challenging to be properly eccentric when you share a house with non-writers. The desire to sit up nights and slump into the horizontal position during the day may oft be looked at askance by the people and children in the house who expect to be fed at regular intervals during the day. Their clothes stand in ridiculously frequent need of washing, hanging and ironing, their dirty dishes pile up in the sink begging to be washed. This is the pitiful impasse of the female writer who is reasonably cognisant that her offspring should preferably not be removed by Social Services.

It is thus that I remain in bed all night, trying hour after dolorous, humdrum hour to find new joints to crack in a reasonably loud and satisfying manner, a myriad of inconsequential and mediocre thoughts stampeding inconsiderately through my echoing cranium. And when the birds begin their pre-dawn song and the call to morning prayer sounds, I may perchance thereafter fall into an inert, dreamless unconsciousness, only to awaken abruptly as the morning’s clamour begins.

To be a truly great writer, one should preferably be a convicted criminal and one should die an honourable writer's death - suicide, syphilis or consumption. I am working myself up towards all of these lofty goals, but in the interim I hope to get some sleep first.

2009 in retrospect

I can’t believe it’s the end of the year, and it’s been a pretty strange one for me. It’s been one of mixed emotions, of failure and of success. I’ve explored some unchartered territories and been bloody scared out of my wits on occasion. But looking back, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

My daughter came home on Thursday with an excellent report from school. I'm very proud that she managed to adapt to a new school halfway through the year and managed not only to catch up, but to excel.

This year I finally come to a place within myself that gave me the courage to start writing, when I’ve known for years that it’s what I should be doing. And while I expected a slew of rejection letters, it came as quite a surprise that a number of my short stories have immediately been accepted for publication in various literary journals.

I’ve met some really wonderful people this year, and I’m all the better for knowing them. And for the people in my life that have not exactly turned out to be panaceas to my soul, I’ve let them go on their path while I’ve continued along mine.

While standing up for yourself and what you believe in is extremely important, this year I learnt that at times stating your position, taking a step back and just having faith is far more powerful than arguing and starting conflicts.

Speaking of faith, this year saw me take a huge leap of it in moving back to South Africa from England. And the person I was putting my faith in was my husband. Now, I’m not a soppy person, but I am allowed to have a moment once in a while. He has supported me through thick and thin this year, as always, and he never ceases to amaze me. For the good, kind, intelligent person he is, and all the things he does for me, I am truly grateful and he deserves all the kudos in the world. For being enthusiastic about my writing, for buying me ice-creams when I was fed up, for building me - with his own hands - my very own writing desk and making supper when he saw I was under the weather, thank you Ahmed, for the support and love.

As nice as being back in England was in some ways, being back in South Africa, which I consider to be my true home, is better. I have my wonderful, supportive parents; I have natural African beauty surrounding me, a beautiful home, I’m within six hours’ drive of one of the wildest, most breathtaking stretches of shoreline in the world and I feel a sense of freedom and joie de vivre that I could never feel in London.

I have also given up one of my biggest addictions – Tab. The Coca-Cola company is evil, I tell you. It has been one month and I’m going strong. This is coming from a person who thought that the only thing water was good for was showering with. Hopefully my memory will start improving now from the lack of aspartame in my system. That’s right – now I will actually remember conversations for longer than 5 minutes after they take place. I think I’m up to 6 now.

English skills

I know I live in South Africa, but I find it intolerable when I see people whose home language is English, who presumably at least studied English right up until Matric, fail so miserably whenever they put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard). It’s like a pustule, a repulsive boil on my skin that I wish would go away but won’t.

I owe my career in journalism to the very fact that this irritates the living hell out of me. When I was twenty-one my provincial newspaper annoyed me so much with its constant spelling mistakes and grammatical faux pas that one day I picked up the phone and gave the Editor-in-Chief of the newspaper group a dressing-down for his employees’ inability to represent his newspapers in a professional manner. He immediately offered me a job as Chief Sub-Editor.

Microsoft Word Spell Check is not enough, people.

I was reminded of my pet hate when I read a local newspaper recently and saw with horror that the Editor’s letter was full of typical primary-school errors. Seriously, you shouldn’t be allowed to become a newspaper editor unless you have undergone some kind of screening test.

One cannot wish all Hindu’s a happy Diwali. That would translate into: you wish all Hindu is a happy Diwali.

And don’t you dare write that something is nerve-racking. It’s nerve-wracking.

Please do not say I could of, you should of, or they would of. It’s HAVE. I could HAVE killed you, but I won’t. You should HAVE paid more attention in class, but you were too busy passing badly-written notes around. They would HAVE passed Matric if they had studied English a little harder.

Back to the apostrophe. You can’t say “Put the hat back in it’s box”

That type of apostrophe is a contraction – it shortens a word.
It’s = it is
I’m = I am
You’re = you are
Can’t = can not
Isn’t = is not
Won’t = will not

And my personal favourite: people who write things like “John and Cassandra think their the cutest couple ever”
They’re = they are

Then we have people who have no idea how to apply words such as whom or shall in a sentence. I won’t even go there.

If you wish to provide your undoubtedly valuable opinion on something, please make an effort not to use the word “nice”.

Here is the Oxford English Dictionary’s definition of nice:

nice
• adjective 1. pleasant; agreeable; satisfactory. 2. good-natured; kind. 3. satisfactory in terms of the quality described. 4. fine or subtle: a nice distinction. 5. archaic fastidious.
— ORIGIN original senses included "stupid" and "coy, reserved": from Latin nescius ‘ignorant’.

Please do not read a classic piece of literature, look at fine art or go to the ballet and say that you thought it was nice. The word nice, as you can see above, has various meanings in the English language, and in any case, surely you can be a little more imaginative and use some other adjectives? Here are a few useful ones:

Interesting, moving, delightful, alluring, refined, resplendent, magnificent, marvelous, ideal, stunning, bewitching, tasteful, absorbing, provocative, exquisite, seductive, tantalising, winning, winsome, engrossing, electrifying and magnetising.

Many people hold positions where they are issuing written communications to others. Journalists, bloggers, authors, PROs, managers and marketers need to up their game in terms of their English skills because it not only makes the writer look bad, but also casts an unprofessional pall over the organisation they represent.

Everyone makes mistakes. They are unavoidable. However, everyone who is in a communications role should ideally brush up on their English skills, if only to avoid having to feel guilty when they read blog posts like this one. That would be NICE.