Margie's entry:
Have you ever been publicly accused of being a symbol of oppression, misery and murder?
I have.
Would you deliberately place yourself in a situation where this could happen?
I did.
The year was 1985 and the height of the anti-apartheid movement in South Africa. Far from home, I had just completed a residency in the small university town of Monmouth, Oregon, USA. It had taken a year-long search to find this welcoming community, during which time it had seemed that the whole world was against everything and everyone South African.
'First and foremost, be an ambassador for your country', had been the advice to me from the Rotary Foundation scholarship committee at my farewell luncheon. In the friendly Monmouth environment, this was not difficult. Now I was looking forward to formally presenting a programme depicting the natural beauty of my homeland to a gathering at the university. There was so much more to South Africa than meets the eye in newsprint. I would be a true ambassador.
Then the evening before the presentation my professor paid me a visit. His serious face told me he had come with bad news.
'A group of students are planning an anti-apartheid demonstration and you and your presentation will be the focus. You are the only South African at the university now and this is their opportunity to join forces with the world student body protesting against your country’s policies. We don’t know exactly what they are planning and we think you should cancel your presentation. It would be safer.'
Safer? A demonstration? I had seen enough of those in South Africa to fill me with fear. I would cancel. What a pity. I was looking forward to being an ambassador for my country, with its mountains and rivers, oceans, forests and deserts, rare plants and wildlife. The world knew little of these. How could they when the media focused solely on struggling people, brown, white, black, fighting for freedom, banned, banished, jailed. Brave, beautiful people many of them, resisting an evil power.
And I, a representative of my country was running away.
Cancel? Never. And so I came to be publicly accused by a group of demonstrators carrying aloft anti-apartheid placards. I gave them time, answered their questions as best I could and then asked them to respect the audience who had come to learn something different about South Africa.
After the presentation, an attempt was made to usher me out of the back door – the demonstrators were waiting at the front. I chose instead to meet them. We talked, heard each other, shook hands and parted. Was I still a symbol of oppression, misery and murder to them? I”ll never know.
Dianne's entry:
At a school reunion an old classmate, at the top of her nursing career, asked me what I did. I told her I was a writer and she replied: “Now why doesn’t that surprise me?” It surprised me though, somehow I didn’t think of myself as a real writer.
I’ve always been known as a scribbler, ‘good with words’. As a child I wrote plays. They seldom got finished, and rarely performed, but still I wrote them.
I’ve been lucky enough to have a couple of things published. A bit of a self help book, a short history of the country district where I grew up, a small collection of short stories about farm life in the 50’s. Not really that much; still a dabbler, still a scribbler.
It was enough though, to impress the trustees of the Literary Trust, who appointed me Writer in Residence for a 20 week stress (and rent) free period in which to write. The trust members were impressed with the idea of the full length play I suggested. They expressed excitement at the working title I’d given it.
I have completed my residency and tomorrow I address a group of Creative Writing Course students to tell them about it. Lessons learned, how the experience enriched my life, my writing skills, future plans. They’ve heard it all before. I’d heard it all before. I don’t know whether to give them that or tell them the truth.
The first days in residence were euphoric; space, financial freedom; heaven for a struggling wannabe writer. By the 10th week with no more written than “Such a scribbler. Scribble scrabble, dibble dabble,” I came to the conclusion that that is all I am: a wannabe and that I had to stop lying to myself. I either want to be a writer or I don’t. If I don’t, then front up to the trust and admit I’d stuffed up.
After looking that truth in the eye for several hours, I began to write. For the first time in my life I lost myself in what I was doing. The days passed, I did the minimum of ‘other’ work, and I wrote. When I got stuck I’d ask myself: “Well, do you or don’t you?” I wrote until the last day, lost in an experience I hadn’t known was possible. Whether my masterpiece succeeds or not is less important than that I completed what I set out to do, though first reactions to it are really positive.
I’ll tell the students the truth. Sometimes we stuff up, and sometimes we stop lying to ourselves. That’s when we can start to write.
Rosemary's entry:
Twenty weeks of solitude in such beautiful surroundings can do nothing but stir my creative spirit. My time here has brought me nearer to nature and closer to God. It has been a time of reflection and introspection. A time in which I have come to know myself better and feel compelled to confess the truth about my past.
It is with sadness and regret that I conclude that I do not have an original thought in my head and must admit to extensive fraud and plagiarism. I have painted for myself a character that was sadly based entirely upon fiction.
My first novel was not my own work, but a translation of an out of print book in Serbo-Croat. Strangely despite the translation of my book back into that language this is a fact that has not been picked up and I can only think that either my translation from the language or the subsequent translation back into that tongue was of poor quality, though thankfully this did not affect sales, the proceeds of which are now deposited in a numbered Swiss bank account.
I did not have the dysfunctional upbringing outlined in my autobiography. This is a total fabrication, a combination of stories gleaned from my early years working as a bookkeeper in a mental hospital. My mother was not killed in a bungled kidnapping and my father was not murdered by a gang on the New York subway. They led happy lives retiring to Spain and died through natural causes at a good age. My father was never involved in forgery or art theft and my mother did not earn a living running a brothel while I played in the back yard.
Until these last weeks, I had smoked no drugs and my escapades drug running by boat trips to Venezuela from Aruba were no more than figments of my repressed imagination. The closest I have been to hard drugs is paracetemol and the closest to Aruba was a weekend in Brighton. It’s true that I was partial to a small sherry, but quaffing Champagne with the stars at movie premieres is something I have yet to do.
I have thought about my next book. This will be the saga of a confused middle aged woman leading a spectacularly cunning double life. She later gives up everything to become a nun. Her path to betterment is marred by imprisonment for deception, but she ultimately triumphs with the help of the gullible prison chaplain, who believes her account of innocence and betrayal.
Prolonged periods of solitude may be bad for my mental state. I am looking forward to discussing this at the media interview on Friday.
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