Season of storms
an excerpt

Season of Storms: Prologue

When do you know that you are a writer? When your little sister would rather listen to one of your stories than have your mother read from a book. When you scare your great aunt by reciting the picture books way before you should be able to read, turning over the pages at the appropriate places. When you decide your own stories are more interesting than the ones in the books. When you read the book backwards to create new combinations. When you tell your first story. Or write your first poem.

Is this even a valid question? Do you ever know? Even now, with published books, interviews on your writing, articles on your work. The rest of the world (or at least, that small portion who bother to read South African literature) knows you are a writer. So why do you feel the need to know when it all began. It began in the beginning, once upon a time, a long time ago in a galaxy far far away. And so the story goes.

Yet, despite all this denial, there is a certain point at which the writer is born. Or created. Or breaks free of the cage of normality, of fitting in, of trying to be like everyone else. Or maybe that is just me. Perhaps other people manage to have quite normal, nice lives while also working as writers. Perhaps. None of the poets I know, or my friends who write fiction. But perhaps others out there are just like everyone else, they just write. But I don’t really believe it. Why would anyone put themselves through all this unless they had to. A gift? Sometimes I suspect a curse might be like it. But then, anyone who has read much mythology or classic literature will be able to tell you that gifts from the gods are always dangerous, there are always strings attached. In the case of writers (and possibly other creative types) the strings seem to be attached to ticking time bombs. Yet despite it all, our depression, our despair, our doubts and denial, despite all this we keep on with the writing. One word at a time.

I sometimes try to stop. No, I will no longer waste my time in the morning on morning pages. Julia Cameron can go jump in a lake. I will rather sleep for an extra half an hour, or read, or meditate. Or if I was really good I would exercise. Surely gym would do me more good than obsessing over all the same old stuff. Or filling up pages of trivial drivel about my day, how I am feeling, what I am thinking. I mean, who really cares. So I put away the note book, pack away the pens, intent on only writing “real” stuff. Stories I can publish, poems I can be proud of. But within a few days I find myself back there, pen in hand, pouring out my soul. It is like a drug.

Perhaps this is the cue, the clue. The diary. For what are morning pages but an elevated version of the teenage diary. Does anyone apart from writers actually keep a diary or journal once they have survived the teenage years. How many people these days even keep a diary then. No, now they all blog.

When I was thirteen I was given a diary for my birthday. Someone at least knew the stereotype. Or had recognised the nascent writer. Or, more probably, had no idea what to get and found it on a sale. Or figured it was a generic gift for a young girl. I don’t think they knew me too well, as it was pink and sparkly. So not me. Or perhaps they were concerned at my quietness, my serious nature and thought this frivolous concoction would lure me into the appropriate teenage attitude. Hah, it would have been better if they had bought me a basic black notebook. Not only would it have fitted the mood I was soon to descend into, a world of shadows and despair, from which I have never truly escaped. It would also have been more economical. The silly pink thing, with all its sparkles and glitter, seemed to assume a limited attention span (and limited vocabulary – the lines were so small that one or two large words filled it up) Once I started writing, I soon found myself hooked, pouring out words in a torrent. Frequently with ink smudged by tears. I raced through the book, filling it up within weeks. Pages and pages. Soon I had moved onto the basic black notebook. Then the A4 version. Must write more. And more. When I got insecure I used little books which I could hide away, writing in tiny script and censoring what I wrote. But eventually I got over that, and just went for it.

I still use the big black books, bought in packs of five from CNA. But at least now they are not symbols of my sadness. No, I cover them with wrapping paper, or make collages, sticking on pictures of my favourite actors or singers, or scenes from films. Or simply images I like. Now they are fun, marking my creativity, my ability to play. I have certainly come a long way. From when I was thirteen. When it all began. When it all ended. When I became a new person. A writer!