#WeekendRead Rachel Zadok's 'The Sum of Her Mistakes'

I wrote 'The Sum of Her Mistakes'  when I turned forty and was reflecting on all the things I had not done in my life, the person I had been and the person I now was. 

Photo by Michelle Attala

The Sum of Her Mistakes

I run the palm of my hand over the page to wipe away a layer of dust that is not there. The plastic film covering the photograph has yellowed, discoloured with age like an habitual tea drinker's teeth. Or it is my eyes, the vitreous stewed to murk my vision? I peel back the film, relieved the deterioration of my sight has not sped up overnight, and stare at the fresh-faced girl.

From within the frame of a snapshot, she smiles at me across time; the jaunty upsweep of feathers in her hat accentuates the tilt of her lips. The look on her face - expectant, hopeful - surprises me, and I contemplate it a moment before counting the freckles on her pale arm. I try to remember what has become of the chunky silver rings that adorn each of her twig-like fingers and both thumbs. Smoothing the plastic back over the page, I glimpse my own hand, embellished only by a plain wedding band and the ravages of sun and time.

On another page, in another photograph, the same girl squats on a balcony like a child playing leapfrog. Again, that look, though this time bemused and without the smile. I flip further back through the album, admiring the girl’s smooth skin, not yet spoiled by years of cigarettes and late nights, her angular hips her toned belly, not yet covered up by the grease of too many restaurant dinners. I picture her standing here in front of me, scrutinizing my life as I scrutinize her portraits.

 ‘Why did you never live in New York?’ she asks, unable to keep a whine of disappointment from her voice. ‘You were supposed to climb Mt Kilimanjaro,’ she says, flicking her brown hair, an admonishing gesture I remember from when my hair was long. ‘I can’t believe the snow on the peak has melted. How did that happen?’

‘You should stop smoking,’ I tell her.  ‘It’ll ruin your looks.’

‘Beauty fades,’ she replies with the arrogance of youth, ‘it’s a philosophical inevitability.’

‘Floss more, at the very least,’ I tell her.

‘I have great teeth,’ she says tapping a pearly white with her fingernail, ‘I’m twenty-one and I have no fillings.’

‘Yes,’ I agree, ‘but your gums will recede in your thirties if you don’t take better care. It’s a genetic inevitability.’

She raises an eyebrow, then points at the framed photograph on my desk.

‘Who are they?

‘My husband and daughter.’

‘You have a kid?’ She sounds surprised. ‘I’m never having kids. The world is overpopulated and totally morally bankrupt. Who’d want to bring another poor soul into this world?’ she says, ignoring the fact that I did.

She holds the photograph at arm’s length. ‘Your husband's a bit of a dweeb,’ she snorts, ‘not really the type I go for.’

‘No?’ I ask, bemused myself now. ‘What is your type?’

‘Doesn’t matter anymore,’ she tells me with a dreamy look in her eyes, ‘I’ve met my soul mate.’

I sigh. I want to tell her that he will break her heart and, when he does, she shouldn’t mope for two years because what they have is not real love. I want to tell her that there will be others, many more, but that she shouldn’t waste her time with them. I want tell her to pack her things and go to New York or Toronto or Santiago de Chile now while she’s still free and able. Before she wakes up and realizes that she is forty and half her life is done. Instead, I close the album on that faded hope, and return it to the shelf.

What am I, if not the sum of her mistakes?

Rachel Zadok escaped a career in advertising to write, which she has described as being a little like running away to join a circus without a safety net. She has written two novels: Gem Squash Tokoloshe – nominated for The Whitbread First Novel Award,  The John Llewellyn Rhys Prize, and the IMPAC award –  and Sister-sister nominated for the Herman Charles Bosman Prize,  The University of Johannesburg Literary Prize, and The Sunday Times Fiction Award. She writes novels and short stories as a form of self-torment; and articles, blogs and advertising copy for money. She also runs Short Story Day Africa. 

In 2015 Rachel was a Sylt Foundation Writer in Residence and the Rhine-South Africa Fellow.  She lives in Cape Town

'It's like listening to a piece of music for the first time.' The Art of Editing, 1

Seasoned academic and fiction editor, Helen Moffett is heading up the Migrations editorial team this year. She serves as a mentor to Efemia Chela and Bongani Kona and SSDA's intern, Catherine Shepherd. More information about the SSDA/Worldreader Editing Mentorship can be found here. In this series, we go in-depth into editing through a series of tips and discussions about the craft.

The Editor Gets Their Manuscript: Now what?

I know, I know, trees etc, but you must print out and read your manuscript (MS) in hard copy form as well as online. Keep a pen handy as you read. Scribble down thoughts and queries and make corrections as you go along. You don't have to be thorough at this point: you're going to work far more intensively and intensely online, but you'll find that you miss things online that you see on paper and vice versa.

But before you even print out, you're going to have to spend some time doing editing housekeeping.

• Open up the doccie and change the font (and font size) to one you can read with ease, and can imagine working with for the next few weeks. It's your eyes, you get to decide.
• Double line spacing isn't necessary if you pick the right font and size. I always change all my MS to one and a half line spacing..
• Every new chapter/story/poem must start on a new page. Use the new page command -- do not repeatedly hit the enter key.
• Some authors format their works (in Word) to death. If your MS has been heavily formatted, send it back to the author and ask them to remove all but the bare minimum.
• Search for any double spaces in the MS and replace with single spacing. The typesetter and proofreader will thank you much later on down the line. 

OK, now you can hit "print". 
 

 The next bit is one of the nicest things about editing.

Find a coffee shop or curl up on your bed. Switch off your phone. Read the paper version until you're done, making notes, but not to the point where this overtakes the experience of reading.

You don't have to commit to anything yet. You're at the courtship stage of editing, getting to know the MS, its voice(s). Listen carefully. By all means identify problems and start mulling over possible solutions, but right now, you need to absorb the cadence and flow of the voices in the MS.

It's like listening to a piece of music for the first time.

Your ultimate task as an editor is to become an editing chameleon (more about this soon), but for now, the MS never be this fresh again, so read with your internal ears pricked.

We're talking about editing short stories here, so this process -- paying attention to the internal voice of the story and the author's voice (these are not necessarily the same things) -- needs to happen with each story. Each story will need to be edited differently.
 

Worldreader is sponsoring the first SSDA / Worldreader Editing Mentorship Programme which is headed up by Helen Moffett. The fellows, Efemia Chela, Bongani Kona and Catherine Shepherd will also be contributing to the upcoming Art of Editing Series.

'I like to explore what the absence of love can do to a living being.' Akwaeke Emezi interviews Nana Nyarko Boateng.

Another Wednesday, another writer tagged! Writer to Writer, A Game of Writer Tag continues. Akwaeke picked Ghanaian writer Nana Nyarko Boateng. In conversation, Nana opened up about the personal nature of her writing, and having a foot in both camps - writing and editing. 

AKWAEKE: To jump right into the deep end, what parts of yourself do you put into your writing?

NANA: I am not sure how to answer this, I think for me, it’s been the parts that I hadn’t discovered yet or hadn’t fully accepted. So, when I write about a broken character, I all of a sudden realise that there are parts of me that are broken too. And when I write about a happy carefree character, I see in me how I desire happiness or the ways in which I have that level of happiness in my life too. You started with a rather tough question, go a little bit easy on me.

My mother waited for us by the door. She lived with eyes that only saw mouths and teeth of people. Every Sunday night, we lined up for her inspection –our powdered armpits and pepsodent-fresh breaths were cast in our show for her approval. We were eager to sing in chorus with the television set, “Captain Planet he’s a hero, gonna take pollution down to zero…” 

AKWAEKE: What are the themes that you find yourself most drawn to in your work?

NANA: I am drawn to finding the pieces of ourselves that exist in everyone else. I have an obsession with love.  I like to explore what the absence of love can do to a living being. I have written about sexual and physical abuse a lot, loneliness, mental illness, people who seem to be aware of something more than what exists in this physical realm. I have been told that the kind of images I create can be extremely disgusting. Well.

We had watched Captain Planet in our next door neighbour’s room until one day his colour television set went off right after the show’s signature tune and never came back on. The catechist’s room was always dimly lit; he never opened his windows except for the one that faced our shared bathroom. The day the TV died, he was reading a newspaper with his green torch light. He wore a harrowing frown as he circled words in the newspaper with his black pen. He had forgotten to force us to get on our knees and say the Lord’s Prayer. 

AKWAEKE: How does your role as an editor play into your own writing?

NANA: It’s a terrible jinx. I face my own work with a certain level of ruthlessness that can be paralyzing. An editor’s work really begins when the writer is done with several drafts and is ready to show it to a different pair of eyes. In my case, the editor is always here with the writer, interrupting the flow or just simply being impatient. Maybe, the only upside to this is that, the editor challenges me to do better. I have seen some breathtaking passages that naturally raise the standards for me. I can’t stand graceless, weak writing, particularly when it’s my own. So, when my work is not ready, I sit here and torment myself.

That galling prayer was the sacrifice we made if we wanted to watch his colour television set. We had always begun our prayers with the sign of the cross and he insisted that we thank Jesus for blessing us with the opportunity to watch television in colour. We had run out his room, that Sunday night, all six of us, like stray cats when the television died with a zip sound. 

AKWAEKE: What qualities do you look for in writing that you consider excellent?

NANA: I admire greatly the power of simplicity. When writers convey images, stories, events, feelings in a way that just can’t be overlooked, I pause and bask in it. I can appreciate as well what is presented in a complex manner so far as it works.

Also, because I am first and foremost a poet, I do like concrete words and language that has rhythm. If you make me see, feel, smell, taste the blood and the sunshine, you’ve got me. I do like humour too, a lot actually, particularly when it is used in a situation where humour isn’t usually seen.

We had entered Kwesi’s parents’ living room panting like dogs.  As we struggled for sitting space on the tiny living room floor, we knew we were too dirty to go elsewhere for comfort. We could have run to our bigger living room when the adverts were showing but my mother was most certainly not going to allow any sweaty kid in. 

AKWAEKE: What are you working on at the moment and where can we find your work?

NANA: I am working on a short story collection. I actually finished it a few months ago but I am having a hard time letting it go. It’s terrifying. I will set it free before the year ends, though, so help me writing gods.

You can find my work mostly on my computer, ha ha! Well, I have both poetry and short stories in several anthologies including Lusaka Punk and Other Stories, Rhubarb, A Publication of the Mennonite Literary Society and According to Sources: A Poetry Anthology. I think some of my poetry will appear in the Aké Review this year.

Kwesi’s parents’ had a black and white television set and that night it became clear to us that Captain Planet was to be watched in colour. So, the following Sunday night we bathed and smelled of Saturday Night Powder before 6.30pm, all six of us. Captain Planet was in red, white, yellow and green again but my mother made new rules. We now had to brush our teeth too if we were going to sing aloud in her living room.

On Nana's Bedside Table

I am reading Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi and I am re-reading A Squatter’s Tale by Ike Oguine.

Editor's Note: The text in italics is excerpted from Nana's short story, Small Holes.

Nana Nyarko Boateng is a writer, poet, and editor. Her poetry and fiction has appeared in several publications including: Lusaka Punk and Other Stories, The Caine Prize for African Writing 2015, Reflections: An Anthology of New Work by African Women Poets , Summoning the Rains, and Look where you have gone to sit: An Anthology by New Ghanaian Poets.

Nana has over a decade of experience working in diverse roles in communications as well as literary and media organizations. She has taught creative writing workshops in schools across Ghana and at the University of Lomé. Nana is the founder and CEO of Gird Center: A Writing, Editorial, and Training Services Company based in Accra, which supports writing and writers.

Akwaeke Emezi is an Igbo/Tamil writer and video artist based in liminal spaces. Born in Umuahia and raised in Aba, Nigeria, Akwaeke holds two degrees, including an MPA from New York University. The Miles Morland Foundation recently awarded her a 2015 Morland Writing Scholarship for her second novel The Death of Vivek Oji, currently in progress. Her debut novel, Freshwater, is forthcoming from Grove Atlantic in the winter of 2018. She can be found at http://www.akwaeke.com/. 

Interview by Akwaeke Emezi a.k.a. @azemezi

#WeekendRead - Nerine Dorman's 'Shame'

We are still slightly spooked from Wednesday which was the opening night of the 12th South African Horrorfest. The festivities continue with gruesome live musical performances, chilling film screenings and readings. Nerine Dorman curates the Horrorfest and its short story competition and anthology - Bloody Parchment. For Halloween weekend, here is an excerpt from her story of wild curs and barren landscapes.

“It’s a dead dog, for Christ’s sake, Thulani. I don’t know why –”

Thulani brings the car to a halt far too fast for the gravel road, and we slew sideways as we come to a standstill. I can tell he’s being stubborn from the way he juts out his chin. Mulish, I’ve called him, but I know better than to try engage him when he’s got his mind set on something.

With a sigh I follow him out of the car. I’ll get into worse shit if I don’t at least show that I’m making an effort to be supportive. And, ugh, I don’t want to handle a dead anything. I’ve seen enough roadkill at close quarters during the two years I’ve been dating Thulani. Every bloody time he encounters some unfortunate next to the side of any road, he insists we do the honourable thing and move the creature to the side so the cars don’t drive over it repeatedly.

You can tell a lot about people from how they treat their dead.

How about having some concern for the living first? I’ve retorted, only to be met by a scowl.

But in a way I have to admit he’s right. That dead cat or dog must’ve been someone’s cherished pet that would be missed.

The sun’s just past noon and beats down on us on this dirt road branching off the N1. Pienaarsvlakte is halfway between Hanover and Beaufort West, about sixty kilometres into the Great Karoo, and this time of day nothing living wants to venture out from the shade. The life has been bleached from what scrub remains.

No sheep in sight, though. Only this dog Thulani’s examining. What the hell is a dog doing out here? This couldn’t possibly be someone’s pet.

“It’s still alive,” Thulani says.

A sick feeling wriggles in my stomach and I allow myself to look closer.

It’s a typical hound, a township special, all long limbs, pointed muzzle and short tan coat. The creature’s lying on its side, one eye socket pecked clean and teeth pulled back in silent snarl. But it’s twitching, the ribcage shuddering with sporadic breaths. As my shadow slides over it, the dog emits a faint growl.

“What the fuck?” I step back.

Thulani crouches, reaching out.

“Don’t touch it!” I tell him.

He’s already resting his big hand on the animal’s head. The compassion in his gaze undoes me. Every time. He mutters some benediction in Zulu and carefully picks up the dog. I can’t help but notice how its hindquarters seem curiously detached as the body flops. Thulani places the animal down in the shadow of a small thorn bush and remains crouched next to it.

“We can’t leave it like this,” he says.

“It’s dying anyway.” Already I can feel my too-pale skin reddening in the glare. My lips are parched and even a mouthful of the tepid spring water I’ve left in the bottle in the car won’t do much to remove the traces of dust from the back of my throat. I bat helplessly at the flies that buzz around my head. There are always flies out here that tickle over lips or obscure vision.

When Thulani reaches for a rock the size of his fist, I know immediately what he means to do – a coup de grâce. Left hand on the animal’s flank, he raises his makeshift weapon in his right, and I hide my face in my hands and half-turn away. This is not the first time he’s had to offer mercy by dashing out some unfortunate critter’s brains; I know what to expect. But the sickening thud of stone on flesh doesn’t come.

The dog growls, Thulani swears, and I dare to peek between my fingers.

He’s jumped back, the rock discarded as he clutches his left hand to his stomach. Bright blood blossoms on his white t-shirt.

“What happened?” I ask though I know it’s not necessary.

“Damn bastard’s bit me.”

Thulani glares at the dog, but the thing lies completely still, as if this last action on its part pushed it past its limits. Not even the slightest movement of the ribs betrays life. Odd that no flies are buzzing around it – I’d have thought that they’d find the dog far tastier than me.

Now’s not the time to worry about that. Thulani’s been hurt and all the determination to do the right thing has left him; he allows me to lead him back to the car where I dig in my bag for a plaster.

“Ma’ll have antiseptic,” I tell him, but I don’t like the look of the wound. A canine sank into the soft flesh of the ball of this thumb. Not quite a case for stitches, but he’ll definitely have to go for a rabies shot. And soon. I want to groan and curse, but bite my tongue. There’s no way we’re going to find a doctor open in Pienaarsvlakte on a Saturday afternoon. That’s if they even still have a doctor I can drag away from the rugby on TV. I don’t even know if the neighbouring township has a clinic.

“I honestly didn’t expect it had the strength to bite me.” Thulani glances warily over my shoulder at the still dog.

“Leave it now,” I warn him. I don’t want to remind him of the half dozen other times he’s been bitten before. Thulani has a simple faith that it won’t happen again, that he’ll be fast enough the next time he plays Good Samaritan.

Nerine Dorman is a Cape Town-based creative, who specialises in design, editing and writing. Her short fiction has appeared in anthologies published by Tor Books, Apex Publications, Fox Spirit and Immanion Press, among others, and she even has a few novels to her name. In addition, she is the curator of the South African HorrorFest's annual short story competition, anthology, and literary event, and is a founder member of Skolion, a SFF authors' co-operative. She can be found lurking on Twitter @nerinedorman

#WriteTips: 4 Views - Onoh, Mulgrew, Davids and Otter

Nuzo Onoh

My number one editing tip is - Never do it all by yourself as a writer. The eyes can never see all that the brain can conceive. No matter how well you write, you can never pick out all your errors, as you know the story too well, know exactly what’s going to happen and therefore, see what your mind tells you to see.

As for writing, don’t assume you’re a brilliant writer just because your dearest and nearest or your egotistical self tells you that you can write. Raw talent, no matter how amazing, is still what it is, Raw. It needs thorough cooking to become palatable. So, take a writing course. It doesn’t have to be a degree. It will teach you the basic rudiments of writing and the discipline needed to stick to it and make your natural talent even more incredible. Good luck and may fame and success shine on all us slaves of the ink.

Nick Mulgrew

Write your first draft as you would an exam: quickly; just get it all down. Then, edit at a languid pace. The slower, the better.

When you edit, think deeply about how sentences sound when they’re read out loud, or in the mind’s voice. Consider rhythm. Avoid repetition. Simplify. This goes as much for prose as poetry.

Writing is a kind of fitness: work out every day.

 

 

 

Nadia Davids

Write. Put it Down. Leave it. Come back much later. Cut. Repeat.

 

Charlotte Otter

Leave as long a gap as your deadline allows between writing and editing. That way, your ego does not get in the way when it is time to cut the crap. The more crap you cut, the more the flawless heart of your story will shine through. If you start editing too early, your brain will try to trick you into thinking that the crap is flawless. And it never is.