C.S. Richardson's blog
C.S. Richardson, Best First Book, Canada and Caribbean
region for The End of the Alphabet
CS Richardson is a novitiate novelist and accomplished book designer. He has worked in publishing for over twenty years and is a multiple recipient of the Alcuin Award (Canada's highest honour for excellence in book design). His design work has been exhibited at both the Frankfurt and Leipzig Book Fairs. The End of the Alphabet has been sold in ten countries. He is at work on his second novel.
- 10 May 2008, Toronto
If a blog is a form of diary, and a diary a form of honesty, then consider this my first electronic confession. I had to look up “blog” in the dictionary.
The Commonwealth Foundation asked me, as a regional winner of their Writers’ Prize (the CWP as we shorthand it, the Foundation and I, we’ve become quite chummy) if I would be interested in writing a “blog” during the Foundation’s week of events and celebrations leading up to the announcement of the CWP Overall Winners in South Africa later this month.
Blog. Now this being the modern world, and me being a reasonably attentive resident therein, I have heard the word with alarming frequency. But like other words one hears with equal alarm—elegiac, perhaps, or text (as verb)—I have only a vague notion of what a blog actually is.
The OED illuminates: a form of diary. More accurately, a web diary. Really drilling down: a weblog. (Say it quickly and out it comes: blog.)
Right, I tell the Foundation. I’ll be keeping a diary then. Easy enough, happy to participate. When would you like my first entry?
They’re called postings, they say.
Like being named High Commissioner to somewhere? I ask.
No, they gently correct. One posts one’s experiences, memories, and general musings regarding the CWP week to come.
Post, I repeat. Like an entry in a diary?
Exactly. But on the web.
The web?
As in world wide, the Foundation clarifies.
Right, I say. I’ve heard of that.
So it begins. Over the coming week or so, I will be posting/entering/writing my impressions of the Commonwealth Writers Prize week. A week that begins at a shockingly early hour in Johannesburg on the 12th, meanders pleasantly through Cape Town for a few days, then culminates at the Franschhoek Literary Festival in the Western Cape wine country on the 18th.
An author’s note: To say I am honoured (if not befuddled in an Alice-down-the-rabbit-hole kind of way) to be included as a Best First Book regional winner in this year’s CWP would be understatement of the grossest kind. In the years it took me to write said first novel, not once did I imagine myself literally on the other side of the planet because of that novel; in a place I had never been, in a place I had heard both the best and the worst of, in a place I must see to believe.
And doing it all in the company of some of the world’s finest writers. Indeed: honoured.
So it begins. Or to paraphrase the King of Hearts—we shall begin at the beginning and go till we come to the end. Then stop.- Johannesburg, 13 May
- Cape Town, 15 May
- 16 May, Franschhoek Literary Festival
- 17 May, Franschhoek Literary Festival
- 18 May, Franschhoek Literary Festival
A thought or two, with no particular coherence and likely less relevance (due to 30 hours of travel from Toronto by way of Heathrow T5 to Johannesburg):
My first “foreign” publishing event: a reading/Q&A/reception in one of Jo’berg’s newer/feistier independent booksellers, Xarra. Having done similar events in my home country, I now realize (likely already knew it) that bookstores, and their devoted customers, are remarkably similar no matter where in the world they are. The lifeblood of publishing, the reason we (as writers) do what we do. Whether its war-and-peace in Bangladesh or love-and-hate in Melbourne or comedies-of-error in London. Seems publishing stands a bit ahead of the globalization curve. Twas ever thus. A terrific bookshop, a heart-warming event.
The Relevance of the CWP: very,thanks for asking. Having spent 25 years in publishing, and a few in writing, I think I can offer something of an informed opinion. And because this is a blog, I will. To whit:
The Booker: aka the ManBooker. Pulls the column inches, wears the big prize money pockets. Prestigious? Certainly. A test of merit? Hard to say. Judging has been called on the carpet of late (but then what prize jury suffers less?)
The Giller: in my country officially known as the Scotiabank Giller (an awkward yet necessary offshoot of sponsorship.) Prestigious? For fiction, the one to win in Canada. A test of merit? Surprisingly, yes. But recent shortlists have raised eyebrows amongst readers, if not the publishing community (but then, what prize doesn’t?)
The CWP: Prestigious? To a fault. Amidst a plethora of literary awards, the closest thing to a truly international prize. Merit? Judging by the longlists, the shortlists, and the regional winners over the past few years, a resounding yes. Jurists comes from a wide and diverse pool, and ultimate benchmarks are set not by the writer’s sex, or age, or subject matter (or even, surprisingly, their origins) but by the notion of a good story well told.
Tomorrow: more Johannesburg, more events involving books and readers. Lovely. One trusts the coherence will increase at the expense of jet lag.
Right then. Two days incommunicado, which I am informed flies cheekily in the face of blog etiquette. My apologies. (For explanation/excuse, please see earlier posting re my slippery grasp of blogs to begin with.)
When last we spoke, I was coming off two heady days in Jo-burg and a black hole of jet lag. Since then, I have managed to reset the body clock and now tick (more or less) in a South African time zone.
Yesterday (the 14th) found my CWP compatriots and I arriving in Cape Town, then quickly thrust into the world of academe. First stop was Westerford High School, a remarkable (and as word has it, time-honoured and accomplished) institution that sits in the lee of Table Mountain. Imagine six writers fortunate enough to be honoured by the CWP thus confronted (and as a result even more fortunate) with 150 students. It was, with little doubt, the highlight event thus far for my colleagues and I. To be in the presence of such unencumbered and enthusiastic minds was inspiring, moving, to say nothing of just plain fun. There isn’t an audience I’ve encountered at any reading I’ve done anywhere that couldn’t learn a thing or two about engagement and open-mindedness from the Westerford kids I met. If I could, I would bottle them like elixir and bring them along on my next book tour. A kind of built-in entourage/audience,/cheering section. I think the Rolling Stones do this with their tours. Perhaps not with high school kids, though.
Next stop was the University of Cape Town and a session with the Masters in Creative Writing program. As stimulating and challenging as the Westerford visit, if in a slightly more mature/regrettably more complicated way. After a short but heady discussion of whether a long short story is really a novella or whether a short short story is really flash fiction or whether a novel should be as long as humanly possible (and apparently, as messy), and a rather deflating glimpse into the world of South African publishing, we got down to it: Borges was a master, no matter the length. Hemingway was a master, no matter the length, and writing for the sheer passion of it is alive and well, despite the odds, in South Africa. At least at UCT. Long (or short) may they write.
Today began with a much-anticipated trip to Robben Island (just off the coast of Cape Town), and a tour of the prison that (apart from being a former leper colony and insane asylum) incarcerated Nelson Mandela for some 28 years. To be sure, the tour was one of the most moving museum experiences I’ve ever had. It wasn’t so much the physical structure of the prison (unremarkable) nor the bleakness of setting and weather (both inadvertently fitting) that made the visit so affecting. It was the tour guides: former inmates who had returned to the site of their darkest days, and with grace, humour, selflessness and one surmises no small amount of strength told the story of the island, the prison and their role in the formation of a better South Africa. It was a morning I will not forget.
From the sobriety of history to the hedonism of wine country: we finished today in Franschoek, an hour’s drive from Cape Town and a world away from everything. A small, well-appointed village is Franschoek, tucked in the mountains of the Western Cape. It is the site of the aptly named Franschoek Literary Festival, which will be hosting the rest of the CWP’s week. Apparently one can walk from one end of town to the other, and having done so (with a sip of wine along the way), one is put under some sort of weird spell and never leaves. Trapped one is. In a visible-all-year-round kind of Brigadoon. Minus the indecipherable Scottish accents and unfortunate dancing, and surrounded by vineyards as far as the eye can see.
A digression for this posting: something of a thank you.
It is a tired axiom that writing is a solitary pursuit, a bleak existence complete with draughty garrets, fingerless gloves, and meals slid under the door.
To be sure, writing begins as a solo act. One scribbles alone into the wee hours, one talks for hours to oneself, one never tells anyone what they’re up to behind the door, one frets, one worries, one rewrites the opening sentence a thousand times.
But soon enough (were this the theatre: somewhere just before the interval) an ever-increasing cast of players begin wandering on and off the stage. Family, friends, agents, editors, publishers, marketing wallahs, publicity handlers, booksellers, audiences. All in support of the lead, all intent on seeing the production through, rarely an arch-villain in the lot, perhaps a dance number here and there to lighten things up.
And when the curtain falls and the house lights come on, the book and its author have been coaxed, shoved and somehow transformed into literary shape.
In my case, the first supporting player to wander into my feeble little spotlight was my wife, Rebecca. Since I began writing seriously ten years ago, she has always been my first reader. Not a word leaves my writing studio until she sees it. Razor sharp, brutally frank and gently honest, she was the first person who ever said yes: I could write.
Had she said no (and she would have), no one would have read a word of my novel.
She is why I am here in Franschhoek. And that is why she (and our daughter Hannah, an equally talented actor in this production, specialising in deflating the author’s as required) is here with me.
Brushes with greatness I:
I once opened for Ian McEwan. A year ago, when “The End of the Alphabet” was first published in Canada, I was asked if I would share a reading stage with the man himself. Suffice it to say being in the same room, let alone on the same bill, with he who had written one of the finest novels of the past twenty years, “Amsterdam”, was akin to being the teenager in the garage band, Fender slung heavy and tuneless over the shoulder, then asked to open for The Beatles. I relished the evening with every rattling-knee, off-key fiber I could muster. Until…
Brushes with greatness II:
This morning I sat transfixed, listening to three writers I have traveled with over the past week: Lawrence Hill (fellow Canadian, aka Larry, CWP shortlister, author of “The Book of Negroes”), Karen King-Aribisala (Nigerian, CWP shortlister and riveting performer, author of “The Hangman’s Game”) and Steven Carroll (Australian to his marrow, CWP shortlister, author of “The Time We Have Taken”). I have listened to these masters of the craft over the past week, but not like today. Finally each was given the time to really stretch their reading legs and offer the audience (certainly me) a primer in how to write and how to write well. To say nothing of how to hold an audience, gently yet firmly, in the palm of one’s hand. And while all were clearly at the top of their game, Steven’s fearless reading of the END of his novel (something authors NEVER do) literally left me speechless. Until…
Brushes with greatness III:
This afternoon I found myself sharing the stage with a pair of South African greats (Kgebeti Moele, author of “Room 207”, and Deon Meyer, author “Devil’s Peak”) and Richard Ford, giant of American letters, author of “The Sportswriter”, winner of the Pulitzer Prize. We were gathered to discuss the topic of where real life ends and fiction begins. A heady conversation ensued, but all I kept thinking was that I had somehow now come full circle. A year ago I was doing sound checks with the author of “Atonement” and now here I was in South Africa sharing secrets of the craft with the man who’s name is regularly mentioned in the same breath as Faulkner.
Apply any analogy you wish, but today was like being a child -- invited at long last and against all odds -- to the adult table at the family dinner.
And so it ends. My fellow Canadian, Lawrence Hill, wins Overall Best Book for his masterpiece “The Book of Negroes”, and my newest friend Tahmima Aman wins Overall Best First Book for her own masterpiece “A Golden Age.”
But “win” is not the correct term. It implies someone loses. And that someone is decidedly not me.
I have spent arguably the most memorable week of my life. I have been wined, dined, feted, congratulated, complimented, applauded, asked after, sought after, welcomed with open arms. I have lived with a group of extraordinary talents, I have been asked to read my work, I have been asked for autographs, I have broken bread and discussed books with some of the most stimulating minds on the planet.
I have traveled to the other side of the world. I have fallen in love with a country I never thought I would ever see. I have met the friendliest, most open people, both the great and the common. I have eaten remarkable meals, tasted sublime wines, gazed on jaw-dropping vistas.
No, I have not lost. I have gained: the encouragement, the inspiration, and the knowledge, from those who know far better than I, that yes, I am a writer.
And so it ends. On the happiest, most contented, of notes.
CSR
PS: As soon as I finish this sentence I will be on holiday. Can’t think of a better place to be.
