The Eastern Cape.
That was my wishlist for Friday’s writing class. And I got all three.
Natalie Goldberg’s way of practising non-attachment (read Spontaneous Writing Booths in her Writing Down the Bones) got me thinking about the students in this term’s Creative Non-Fiction course.
Every Wednesday they courageously read their drafts of the week’s essay topic. Every Wednesday I can feel the room go clammy with collective apprehension. Then I hear lots of encouragement and appreciation in response to what we’ve heard. Then there’s silence. Finally one will ask – very softly – how long such-and-such a piece is. “It felt longer,” the brave one – very tenderly – says. The writer responds equally bravely, and the conversation usually ends with everyone commiserating over the culling of darlings.
Goldberg reminds us that writers need to be great warriors, and that people want “the cut of truth”. That’s what I wanted this class to practice.
So, not being in Minnesota on Friday, I modified her suggestion to suit us. We each wrote down three topics we wanted written about. That meant 18 potential writing presents were in the box. Round 1: we each selected one slip of paper. Wrote on that topic for eight minutes without thinking (much) or editing (much). Closed the document, emailed it to me, deleted the document. Round 2: Select another slip. Write. Send. Delete. Round 3: Like that. Again.
We modified our methodology as we went along. For instance, no need to continue padding if you think you’ve made your gift before the time’s up. It could be non-fiction or poem-like non-fiction. It could resemble a snatch of your notebook.
The purpose of typing was to avoid handwriting being recognisable. I printed out the 18 pieces, snipped off any incriminating identity hints, and matched up the topics with the original list I’d made at the start. (OK, so I knew who had written what for which recipient but someone had to operate the writing gift registry.) Everyone was delighted with their presents so we decided to read them aloud (curiosity trumps shyness). Although the students recognised each other’s voices in many pieces, the starting position of anonymity did help to unclasp the fear of judgment in every writer.
It was less easy, though, to delete our darlings, a keystroke I did not police but handed over to individual consciences. However, I failed to anticipate that even those who did delete their original documents would still be able to retrieve copies from their sent emails. (And now they’re filed in cyberspace.)
Even so, we all agreed it was an enlivening exercise – and we each got three terrific presents. Thanks for that, Natalie. I got hope, balloons – and The Eastern Cape:
Where the dry grasses rise high as children, and the brown-green hills rolls for miles around, you will find me.
Perhaps you will find me beneath the pink blossoms of a winter cherry tree. Or perhaps beside a field of aloes. Or a row of juicy succulents sprinkled with pink vygies.
In the late evening, when the last of the sun’s embers dip beneath the horizon, you might find me at the blaze of a bonfire, spreading my warmth to the stars above.
Perhaps you’ll look to the sky, dimpled with milky stars. And there, just beyond the mountain peak and rocky highlands, you’ll see me.
Other desires on the gift list were:
The woman across from me has eye make-up on today that is very cherry blossom
Perhaps she is about to burst with fragile joy
First world problems
First world problems are illustrated by the following examples:
- Too many groceries to fit in boot hence two trips must be made.
- Not enough milk for cereal.
- Television remote is just out of reach and thus one is forced to watch something they do not like.
If you have experienced any of the following you are a first-world problem sufferer. Do not worry. You are not alone.
It was only when I was much older that my dad told me the truth about success. Cracking open a beer for me – our first father-son beer a few months after my 18th birthday – he sat heavily in stretched fabric of the fold-out chair on the shore of the Zambezi river. We were on a sand bank, a small island called Chundu lost in the legal no-man’s land between Zimbabwe and Zambia. He was quiet, and I sipped my beer. The sun burned. A bird called. The wind whispered.
“If a genie appeared right now, what would you wish for?”
He spoke in a quiet voice, as if mostly to himself.
Visions of endless piles of money, fast cars, fame, huge mansions.
“I don’t know,” I laughed. I sipped again. “Maybe a lot of money? Like, all of it?”
He chuckled, and then regarded me sombrely.
“Happiness, son.” He looked at the beautiful view and put an arm around me. He sipped his beer again, and tilted his head back, smiling in contentment. “Wish for happiness.”
I always hated that stupid lemon tree.
It would just sit there in the corner of the garden growing stupid lemons.
When the lemons were ripe they would fall from the tree and land on the grass. There they would sit and rot.
Yellow to green.
Green to white.
Solid to liquid.
Smooth to furry.
It was when those lemons fell from the tree that I hated them the most.
There I would be innocently strolling in the garden and I would see a lemon racing through the air.
It would hit me.
They were always the rotten lemons. My mom had instructed my brothers that they were not allowed to pick lemons off the tree and so instead they used squishy, rotting, smelly, mouldy lemons to torture me.