Write, Right and Research. Part 1

A question for all my writer friends: Do you remember when you first decided to write a book?

For me, the idea of writing a novel struck with a sudden and stunning ferocity, a road-to-Damascus-type epiphany that had me wondering if I’d lost my mind somewhere along the safe and orderly pathways of my everyday life. I mean, there I was, one moment engrossed in an Elizabeth George novel, lost in a passage of her typically eloquent descriptive narrative and the next, jerked out of the story and nearly blinded by the thought - ‘I can do this.’  

By this, I don’t mean that I could write with anything like the genius of Ms. George, but that I could tell a story, hopefully, in such a way as to engage a reader pleasantly enough to get him or her to the last page. That was the idea and it wouldn’t leave me alone. By morning, I had the arc of story all mapped out in my mind and by 9AM I was at the bookstore, buying every ‘how-to-write-a-successful-novel’ tome I could lay my hands on. I learned quite a lot from those books, not the least of which is that, unless you’re writing complete fantasy (and possibly, even then), getting your facts in order requires some research. As Elizabeth George states in her book, Write Away: “It’s tough to make a place come to life unless you’ve been there and allowed your five senses to experience it.” Logical.

Except that I live in South Africa and I’d set my novel in the United States. Ohio, to be exact. Okay, I can just see my friend Haggis rolling his eyes and making gagging noises but I needed a state with the death penalty and yes, I could have simply thrown a dart at a map of the U.S. but it would have landed on Ohio anyway. (I tend to slice my golf swing, too.)

Research? That’s what the internet’s for, isn’t it? And besides, I’ve watched almost every episode of Law and Order. How hard could it be?

Ha!

Three paragraphs into chapter 1 and I hit the first of many stumbling blocks. For example, the internet has plenty pictures of the Wayne County courthouse but no amount of Google searches could tell me what type of trees are planted in the pavements surrounding it. What the internet could deliver was a fair number of email addresses of people in that county, so I launched an email fact-finding mission. I got zero replies. Not surprising, really. What would you think if you got an email from someone in Africa, asking for your help in writing a book? Exactly. Thanks for nothing, Nigeria.

The next step, I figured, was to try the personal touch. Telephone numbers are also quite easy to find, so I tried calling people who I though might be willing to help once I’d explained what I needed the information for. Ha, again. “You’re calling from where? South Africa? I don’t think so.” – clunk. All I got was a telephone bill set to exceed my mortgage. I tried one last call – to the sheriff’s department.

The receptionist answered and after a moment or two of silence, heavily laced with skepticism, (I could tell), she put me through to the Deputy Sheriff. I could hardly believe it. Not only was he friendly and understanding, but totally willing to help me in any way he could. Wow! We exchanged email addresses and I was back in the writing business. For a while, at least.

In no time at all I was getting an education in police procedures but deputy sheriffs are busy people, being second in command and all that, so there was a limit, I felt, on just how many questions one could pester him with. Despite large maps and pictures pasted all over my study walls, I still wasn’t getting a ‘feel’ for the place and my writing was flat and unconvincing. Either I was going to have give it up or go see the place for myself. The latter was a pipe dream. My rainy-day savings account didn’t hold enough for a foggy morning, let alone a round trip across the Atlantic. Then, a series of events changed everything.

I hate to use the word ‘miraculous’, it’s somewhat clichéd and wholly subjective but as an adjective, it comes pretty close to describing what happened.  

It began with an email from my insurance company advising me that a small retirement annuity had matured and asking me whether I wanted to cash it out or reinvest. The amount was surprising, even after tax. Enough, it appeared, to get me round-trip air ticket, economy class of course, and a stay in the cheapest flea-bag motel available but no money for food or car rentals. My hubby didn’t quite take to the idea of my sleeping on a park bench, no matter how romantic I made it sound. And though he offered to make up the difference, this was something I had to do myself. If it bombed, and there was no saleable manuscript at the end, I didn’t want anyone else to have thrown good money after bad.

One evening, while sitting out on the patio, trying to let go the idea of ‘reality research’ a thought almost literally slapped me over the head. A quick search of the internet revealed that yes, there was a Salvation Army branch in Wayne county. I dashed off an email, explaining who I was etc. and asking if they knew of a family who had a spare room available and maybe needed some extra cash. Twelve hours later I had a reply: “We have a two-bedroom apartment in our complex that you may use free of charge.” Okay. I take it back. If that’s not miraculous then I don’t know what is. God bless you, Major West! 

One last hurdle to go. Most American folk probably don’t know that it’s notoriously difficult to get a visa for the US and I was warned by several friends not to get my hopes up too far. But I did anyway. Having filled in the forms online, and received an appointment, I duly presented myself for the interview at the US Consulate here in Johannesburg. The attractive young lady who interviewed me took all my paperwork and checked boxes on the form in front of her. Then she asked me where I’d be staying. I told her and handed over yet more paperwork. “Oh,” she said, “Wooster. I graduated from the College of Wooster. What will you be doing there?” I explained about my research and her face lit up. “You’ll love it there. It’s a really great city.” And just like that, I had my visa. Now, I ask you, what are the odds that of all the people in the US Consulate that could have interviewed me that day, I get the one person who’s been to college in the very county of Ohio that I plan to visit? A small college, a big planet, and I meet that lady! I’m sure it didn’t hurt that I don’t have a criminal record or unpaid taxes – but still, that m-word haunts me.

And that was just the beginning of a truly incredible adventure. I was on my way to America, more excited than I can begin to describe. 

                                                     ***

So, my writer friends, that moment when you first decided to write a book. Do you recall it? Are you willing to share it? Please leave a comment, I'd love to hear from you. 

Fact, Fiction and Dead Crocodiles.

'Fact', the old cliche says, 'is stranger than fiction', and while it's doubtful that I'll ever write my memoirs, there are some experiences I've had along the way that should be shared, if for no other reason than that you get to understand why I'll be laughing all the way into my dotage.

In the mid 1970's, my (first, now late) husband was offered a lucrative job in Swaziland. We packed all our worldly possessions into a removals truck, which began its three-day road trip, and with daughters then aged 3 years, 18 months and 6 weeks, respectively, boarded an SA Airways Hawker Siddeley. No prizes for guessing why it was nicknamed the 'vomit comet'.

The town of Big Bend is about a half-mile upriver from this spot.

Upon arrival on the bumpy stretch of tarmac and huddle of hangars known as Matsapa airport we were met by the company's general manager (who 20 years later became my brother-in-law - but that's another story), we were bundled into a big Mercedes and driven off to our new home. Big Bend. So named as it nestles in a large curve of the Usutu River in the steamy-hot south-east of Swaziland.

Teeming metropolis it was not.
One post office, one police station, one petrol station and one general store, was about it. 

The company, Ubombo Ranches, (nothing to do with cattle, everything to do with sugar) pretty much owned most of it, including the village that housed about about a hundred (mostly white) employees, the sugar mill and vast stretches of sugar cane plantations. The black workers were housed in a compound some distance away. Ha! And I thought I'd left apartheid behind!

"Welcome to Big Bend," the exec said. What he should have said was, 'Welcome to the last outpost of the British Empire' or, more precisely, 'Welcome to the last bastion of British colonialism'.

With the exception of us 'Saffers' and a few 'When-wees' (Rhodesians, now Zimbabweans - God help them) the rest of the inhabitants were British expatriates (mostly artisans) who, judging by their descriptions of what they'd left 'back home', would have you wondering whether they'd had trouble finding a tenant for Buckingham Palace. To say that characters living in Big Bend were eccentric, would be putting it very mildly indeed.

As I'm sure you know, small, isolated communities tend to develop a culture all of their own. Big Bend was no exception. The salaries were inflated and labor was cheap, so everyone had at least two servants, usually three. Most of the wives didn't work and had far too much time on their hands. Salacious Gossip, Wild Innuendo and Company Politics were games everybody played - all of the time. The clubhouse, or more specifically the pub in the clubhouse, was the hub around which the social life in Big Bend revolved. The vast amounts of alcohol consumed there sure oiled the wheels of rumor, dissension and a lot of adultery, but also created some truly memorable incidents. One such event involves Murphy and the crocodile.

Now, on the off-chance that some of those Big Benders are possessed of a liver more robust than any medical examiner could give credence to and are thus still around, I'll refrain from using their real names. So 'Murphy' it will be.

Murphy was a small, somewhat rotund Irishman with a florid complexion and a mouth like a sewer when he'd had a few. He also had a pathological fear of crocodiles. Many a time I'd be in the pub after a round of golf, nursing a gin and tonic and catching an earful of whatever piece of gossip was the story du jour, only to hear Murphy sounding off about something or other. The more he drank, the louder he got, until someone would yell at him, "Watch it, Murphy, the crocs are going to get you." This usually produced a burst of profanity from Murphy, but he'd finish his drink and stagger off home.

I'd been in Big Bend a couple of months when reports came in of a particularly aggressive crocodile that was attacking the women of a nearby Swazi village as they did their washing in the river. Ubombo Ranches was requested to please deal with it. I think half the male population grabbed their rifles and went croc hunting.

The following day was a Saturday. We'd finished a four-ball better-ball golf tournament, which was no mean feat given as it was a mashee course with a clubhouse in the middle, roads running through it and numerous ball-eating flamboyant trees lining very narrow fairways. The pub was full that evening as we toasted our wins or drowned sorrows. Murphy, who'd been at the Guinness since before lunch, was as loquacious as ever.

I don't know how they did it - but they managed to drag a full-grown, 15-foot, Nile crocodile weighing nearly a ton, into the corner of the L-shaped pub without any of us seeing it. They'd propped its mouth open with a stick. I can' remember who the barman was that night, but he leaned over and gave Murphy the usual warning. 'Shut up or the crocs will get you." Murphy responded with his customary string of expletives. The barman pointed to the floor behind Murphy. Murphy turned and looked. What happened next has become Big Bend legend.

Murphy let out a scream, the likes of which I'd never heard before or since. He seemed to levitate upwards from his bar stool, arms and legs pumping the air before he caught hold of a brass support pole and took off running along the top of the bar, stepping on drinks, ashtrays, hands, heads and anything else that lay in his path, all the while bellowing like a banshee. Reaching the end of the counter, he literally launched himself off it, hit the ground, rolled, got to his feet and flew out of the door. He was still screaming as he disappeared into the darkness outside. People who then noticed the crocodile and thought it was still alive, took off in all directions. It was complete mayhem for a few minutes, until everyone caught on and calmed down. They were still laughing about it when I left Big Bend five years later.

It was six months before Murphy returned to the pub. He was still as rude as ever, but whenever someone told him to shut up or the crocs would get him, he'd look over his shoulder and give a nervous giggle.

Africa. You've just got to love it.

photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/arnolouise/2600765440/">Arno Meintjes Wildlife</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/">cc</a>

photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/panr/2364898062/">pandrcutts</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/">cc</a>

Night critters!

I've lived in Africa all my life, from cool and blustery Cape Town to the steaming lowlands of Swaziland. Venomous snakes, flesh-burrowing flies and spiders the size of dinner plates are all things that I've learned to take in my stride. While I may never be a fan of creatures with more than four legs, or worse, no legs at all, I do believe in the 'live and let live' philosophy. Okay, I shot a spider once but, in my own defense, it was the middle of the night, and I was alone in the sub-tropics with three small children, and the thing was huge. Leaving it in the bathroom, where it was, was not an option. Some time during the night, I just knew it would enter my bedroom and walk all over my sang-froid. Getting up close and personal with it was out of the question, though I should warn you, nine millimeter rounds make a real mess of ceramic tiles. And the later discovery that it was harmless, is not a mitigating factor in its favor. But I did get used to them. The spiders, that is. My children even gave them names.

Moving to Johannesburg, with its higher altitude and moderate climate, I thought that I would be leaving behind all things that slither, scurry, scamper up the walls or lie in wait in the laundry basket. Ha! I know, there's just no end to my naivete. This bucolic neighborhood, with its jacaranda-lined streets and wide, grassed sidewalks holds a horror that, even now, I shudder to think about. It's known around here as the Parktown Prawn, or 'affectionately' by some misguided individuals, as Parkies.

And no, they're nothing to do with seafood. They're king crickets, Libanasidus Orthoptera, if I may quote Wikipedia. But call them what you will, they're absolutely hideous! They come out at night, which is God's little joke because you can't see them until you switch the light on and the darn thing leaps at you. Yes, they jump. Erratically. To waist height. And if you scare a Parkie it will, mid-leap, deposit foul-smelling, black liquid feces, which no amount of cleaning will quite remove from your favorite rug. Stepping on one results in the same mess. I don't care that they're harmless. Just the sound of those scratchy little legs skittering around on the parquet flooring is enough to elicit what has become known as my 'Parkie Scream'. My well-fed and pampered Siamese is no help either. One look at a Parkie and it's game on, which of course, makes the Parkie jump around even more and sets off a chain reaction of leaping, shrieking and yelling to my husband to "Get the damn thing out of here!"

I'm not the only one. Most women here feel the same way. In fact, I have a friend who keeps a cupboard well stocked with hairspray. A long burst of spray, ignited by a cigarette lighter, makes a perfect flame thrower with which to crisp a Parkie. I didn't believe her until I saw the scorch marks on her living room carpet. I'd rather call my husband. I don't care if it's 2 A.M. Parkie eviction is an integral part of his marital obligations.

There are all sorts of rumors about the origins of the Parktown Prawn. The most common is that they escaped from a laboratory in the Parktown campus of the University of the Witwatersrand. Whatever. As far as I'm concerned, they could have been dropped on us by a bunch of misogynistic extraterrestrials. I don't care. One more of these hideous, hopping, hissing horrors and I'm getting the gun out. I'm territorial that way.