So I wrote a book….
April 13, 2011 - Author: admin
Isn’t that insane? I did it! For real this time. Not “Hi, I’m Nadine and in a perfect world I would be a novelist…”
I am struggling to grasp this. I imagine other writers have gone through the same thing. I am often comforted (and disappointed) to find that most of my reactions to absolutely everything are quite normal, despite being a little bizarre.
Anyway, here I sit. I have written this novel and my work is done. I have handed it out to a few very carefully selected and trusted individuals, and for now the ball is in their court. But here on my side of the court, I am struggling and ball-less. I don’t know what to do without the ball… (Okay time to change metaphors!) (more…)
15 Comments - Categories: Uncategorized
On finishing novels and postponing weddings…
March 30, 2011 - Author: admin
I finished writing my first novel last week. And really I have this feeling that I should be shouting it from some sort of rooftop or at least streaking in the parking lot or something but I am very much struggling to find the words for any of it.
At the end of last year I found myself struggling to get The Poetry Project off the ground. Money issues of course. Among other things. I had hoped that three weeks locked up in a friend’s beach house reading novel after delicious novel would make a difference. Brain sabbatical. Or something. But January came and I was still tearing out my hair over The Poetry Project. *scream*sob*sulk*
So I put it aside. Because feeling despondent about the whole thing wasn’t doing it any good. Instead, I picked up my novel. Well, more accurately, i picked up both of my novels. I have two. Two from start to finish. And I thought, maybe, just maybe, if I could just finish one of them properly – properly enough to be ok with handing them over to someone else to read – maybe that would mean something. (more…)
4 Comments - Categories: Dear Diary
May 7, 2009 - Author: admin
Khaya walks slowly through the fields where the sun beats down in anger on hardened soils that were once rich in rain and green. One foot and then the next she tells herself, over and over, with every step as she gets closer to the place she is looking for. She will know it when she sees it, but she keeps having to remind herself to look. One step and then another. The load she is carrying against her breast does not stir as she stumbles for a moment, almost losing her footing. She steadies herself. It does not stir. She tightens her hold. And it does not stir. She comes across a rock that seems as though it might not be moved except b y excessive force and so there she stops to place her bundle on the ground before her. The wind blows softly, pulling at the cheap white cloth and exposing a still silent face, eternally mute and breathless. With her bare hands she begins to loosen the ground before her, digging slowly, without noticing as the hardened soil cuts into her knuckles, causing them to bleed. Silent tears creep to the corners of her eyes and spill over, almost invisible, leaving only salty tracks before disappearing into nothing. She places the blood-stained buncdle into the hole that has ravaged her fingers, and slowly pushes the soil back to cover it. It doesn’t matter, she tells herself. It happens all the time. It doesn’t matter…
No Comments - Categories: Short Stories