First Worlds

Landing at O.R. Tambo airport after almost a month in the UK, my pleasure at seeing wide open skies and bright sunshine deepened as I was greeted – or not – by the passport control woman. She was very busy, deeply engaged with her colleague in an intense personal discussion which obviously took precedence over my more itinerant needs. Having spanned three continents in two days, I thought I deserved a little of her attention. She did not. After an eternity, she grudgingly attended to me. I was glad to see that people still have their priorities right in this country. Communication amongst peers is certainly of more importance than dealing with mere travellers. After all, you never know where they’ve been.

This interaction was soon followed by another airport staff member shouting out “Number Four!” every time I asked him on which carousel the Dubai flight’s luggage would arrive. There were two flights arriving from Dubai at the same time and when I tried to ask him if it was the SAA or Emirates flight, he just shouted, with extreme aggression for added comfort, “Number Four!” I was most pleased to see that he too was conserving energy for more important things: getting over his hangover for example would have been a good priority judging by his alcoholically tinged breath. I resigned myself to a long wait and threw off my incipient exhaustion to consider the contrasts between England and South Africa.

In London, airport staff were scattered all over Gatwick with only one aim in mind: to help you. For example, on our flight over, I was in extreme distress, dashing madly through the vast airport trying to find my connecting flight with only thirty minutes to spare due to two delays on previous flights. The Gatwick staff didn’t have a clue how to deal with the situation properly. They should have taken a lesson from their South African colleagues. Instead, they ushered me and my daughter to the front of security queues and passport checks, and guided us through the nail-biting minutes and even let us onto the connecting flight after that airline had shut its gates. And they were pleasant about it too. Why, you’d almost think it was their job to help air travellers. How misguided of them. They could have spent their working hours far more valuably chatting to their friends. After all, it was nearly Christmas and there was a lot to talk about.

Once in the heart of the British countryside, the differences continued. Staying with family in Northumberland the recycling processes which they tried to convey to me as a matter of national importance took on the hue of rocket science. This was serious stuff and mistakes would not be tolerated. Paper and all its derivatives went into the greeny-grey wheelie bin outside the back door. Plastics and all its derivatives went into the browny-black wheelie bin outside the same back door. Bottles and glass containers had to be drained and washed and then placed in cardboard carriers to be taken to the bottle bank down the road. Organic matter was destined for another wheelie bin whose colour my mind had simply blanked out by then.

I thought nostalgically of our much simpler and more effective method of recycling back home. We put our black bin bags out onto the grass verges outside our homes with the rubbish neatly arranged in well-mixed piles of organic, non-organic and who-gives-a-damnic. And then we wait for the poorest of the poor, those who might have benefited from a social security grant had our hard-pressed government not been engaged in buying national essentials such as armoured tanks for our own good, you understand. These impoverished human beings come on bicycle and on foot to sort through the debris of our lives and reclaim it as their own. It doesn’t take long before the fag ends of our lives are scattered all across the pavements. Rubbish even the destitute reject are then clinically picked over by hadedas and neghbourhood dogs. It’s a far less complicated method I think and it’s much more “circle of life.” And of course it’s much cheaper too.

And then there’s London: more people per square inch than there are ants in the Kruger Park. And all of them trying to get onto the tubes at the same time as me. Who designed this system, I want to know? What made them think of tunnelling underground so that a network of trains can ferry you to anyplace in the city within a matter of minutes? Where’s the fun in that?

In South Africa we cater for our national need for human interaction by having the good old taxi system. In this way, people have much more fun. The taxis challenge every road user and passenger to test their wits on daily journeys as they break the rules of the road and of civilization as we know it. This innovative method of keeping passengers and other road users entertained does have a fairly dangerous edge, but at least we appreciate the fact that we’re alive. None of that quiet complacency for us. After all, wasn’t it Dylan Thomas who said we should meet our end with a bang and not a whimper? Or was that the Minister of Transport? I forget.

Whatever or whoever, South Africa makes you relish every precious moment that you are still breathing. Ah, it’s good to be home.

First published in Sunday Independent, 24 February, 2008.

Emma Thompson, Stephen Fry and Me.

So there I was sitting in the second from the front row of the Market Theatre in Newtown Johannesburg waiting for Emma Thomson and Stephen Fry to take an all day workshop on Comedy. Yes, Emma Thompson and Stephen Fry. In South Africa. And I was going to be in the same room. And I had a plan that was making my heart beat wildly.
It hadn’t been easy to get there. I’d just returned from Cape Town where I’d been flown by a producer to discuss turning two of my plays into an M-Net drama and a TV series that I received the press release about the workshop. Emma Thompson and Stephen Fry were coming to Joburg. The workshop was supposed to be about Comic Writing and there was something included in the press releases about the premiere of a film about Ingrid Jonker too. The workshop would start on the 13th Feb and would go on til the 14th and the premiere of the documentary about Ingrid Jonker’s life would be screened on the following Sunday night at Rosebank. It seemed too soon after my Cape Town trip and I was still broke after the Christmas drought and my scriptwriting lectures were due to start on Tuesday 12th Feb. But it was Stephen Fry and Emma! I’ve watched almost every film or TV series they’ve made. I couldn’t miss them.
But how could I afford a trip? Where would I stay? I don’t have anyone to stay with in Joburg now that Ian has sold his house. And I couldn’t bear to impose on anyone I didn’t know well enough. I couldn’t see how I could do it. But still, I answered the press release seemingly emanating from Ster Kinekor who organized the workshop at such short notice. Ever the optimist, I booked for the Thursday workshop when Emma and Stephen would be talking on comedy.
On Monday before the workshop I still had no idea where I would stay or even how I would afford the petrol for the trip. I felt it was all beyond me somehow. And then the phone rang and a sweet person on the line asked me if I would like an overdraft on my account. I told her she was an angel from heaven! I decided to increase my overdraft just enough to cover my petrol costs and two nights stay at the cheapest B and B I could find. And then I emailed the editor of Screen Africa to ask if she wanted me to cover the story for her publication. She said she would love me to write about it. This would cover the cost of my new overdraft. My cash flow problem was sorted out! Suddenly everything seemed possible again.
I left on Wednesday morning, found my B and B just off Jan Smuts Road and met a good friend for a late supper. We tired to ignore that we were surrounded by Valentine’s Day lovers drowning in each other’s eyes.
And then it was D-Day. I was in the Market Theatre in a seat second row from the front. After all, I didn’t want to appear too eager, although I was more than eager underneath my apparently calm exterior. Apart from being in the presence of the hallowed two and having to write an article for Screen Africa, I did have an ulterior motive: I had one of my best plays in my bag and was determined to give it to either Stephen or Emma to pass on to their agents. And how I was going to do that completely audacious thing made my heart beat three times faster than normal.
It was quite – I won’t say surreal – remarkable to see ET and SF in the flesh. They were accompanied by Greg Wise, ET’s dishy husband and his sister, head of the UK film council and producer Clare Wise, as well as the writer of the screenplay on Ingrid Jonker as well as maker of the documentary on her life, Helena Nonguera. And the strange thing was that no one sat in front of me in the front row. I had a direct line of eye contact to the revered ones.
People whooped with delight as their highnesses made their entrance. The Queen herself - the real one and not Helen Mirren - would have received no less an enthusiastic response. Malcolm Purkey, head of the Market Theatre, introduced them to the audience. And then the workshop was underway. Apparently, the prestigious panel had been attacked the previous day for being too "colonial" in holding court and "telling" the audience what they thought. All I can say is thank goodness I wasn’t there to see it. I would have died of embarrassment to hear these gracious and generous people accused of paternalism. To counteract the previous day’s attack, Emma and Stephen acted out scenes from Helena Nonguera’s screenplay based on Ingrid Jonker’s life and then asked for the audience to give them advice as to how to play the roles better. Two times Oscar winner, Emma, listened patiently while an apparently twelve year old drama 101 student lectured her ad infinitum as to how she could act better. I sank my head onto my chest and couldn’t help catching ET’s eye as I did so. I was mortified by the young girl’s arrogance. Especially as she was speaking such utter rubbish! Emma held her pose of rapt attention while the girl rabbitted on until the audience told her to shut up. After a brief moment of silence, Emma turned to the girl and asked her if she planned to be a director. The irony was huge.
Emma then continued. "All I can say to those of you who want to become directors, remember two things when you give advice to actors: 1) Keep it short and 2) Be practical." Amid hoots of laughter, she continued: "Sir Laurence Olivier was directing a young man who was completely lost in how to play his character. He came up to Sir Laurence and asked him what to do. Sir Laurence turned to him thoughtfully and after a long moment he replied, ‘Your character is very… hot.’"
And Miss Thompson and Sir Laurence left it at that. Masterful. All potential grade twelve directors in the audience were silenced.
Another cringe-making moment in the morning’s workshop came when pompous ex-academics began to pontificate on the life and times of Ingrid Jonker. Seven syllabic words abounded as the academic high up in the audience made us aware of her doctorates and accolades. I turned to see who was embarrassing me yet again, catching Stephen Fry’s eye as I did so. We shared an ironic smile. I wasn’t too surprised to see it was an academic who recently left UKZN and who was secretly referred to as Miss Lavish for her self important ways. I smiled even more. Emma answered the academic’s vague question, and Malcolm Purkey congratulated Emma on not using the words Post Modern or Post Colonial once! Another shared smile between those on the podium and me in the second from the front row.
Stephen and Emma re-enacted the same scene again, taking the advice from those less pompous advisors and turned it into a very moving piece. The scene was between Ingrid and her father. She was telling him she wanted to go to University and he was saying that girls don’t need to as they will marry and have children. Ingrid also mentioned in this scene that her mother slit her own wrists. I had said nothing until this point, swearing that I would only speak when I had something life-alteringly important to say. Now, all I wanted to say was that the line from Ingrid about her mother slitting her wrists didn’t quite ring true to me. It was too ‘on the nose.’ People spoke about all manner of random things and I kept trying to catch the eye of Craig Higginson, Literary Manager of the Market Theatre, who was chairing the session.
Higginson saw me near the end of the Q and A and said that he would take my question after the next script reading. I stated very strongly that I needed to be heard right then as it had everything to do with the section they had just done. "Please please please please," I shouted. And he relented. And so I spoke for the first time that day.
"I love subtext in a script," I said passionately. "And your comment earlier, Emma (she looked up surprised) about the woman saying to her husband at the table, ‘Pass the butter, dear,’ when she is in fact saying, ‘You have ruined my life,’ is meat and drink to me. I love finding the motivation behind lines of dialogue more than anything. And Emma and Stephen," I continued boldly, "I just love what your work, but my question now is for Helena, the scriptwriter." Helena looked very surprised as no one had spoken to her the whole day. "Helena, I love what I’ve seen so far but I’m just wondering about the whole idea of reality and interpretation. I know one should never let the truth get in the way of a good story but I’m just concerned about Ingrid being as blatant about her mother’s suicide as she is in the script as it’s written now. She states blatantly to her father, in a 1940’s repressive Afrikaner household, that her mother cut her wrists which is a direct contradiction to him saying her mother had died of cancer. That worries me."
At that moment Stephen Fry interrupted both of us by holding up his script and saying querulously to Emma, "Emma’s been reading that line wrong all morning."
Emma looked up very annoyed. "No I haven’t" she said.
"Yes you have," he continued. "Look," he said, holding out the script to her. "The father says of the mother, ‘She died of cancer,’ and Ingrid says ‘It was very sharp,’ and then her father asks, ‘What?’ and Ingrid replies, ‘It cut her wrists.’ You’ve been reading ‘She cut her wrists.’ That’s very different."
"Stephen’s version’s much better!" I shouted from my seat in the second row.
"My script doesn’t have the new line," shouted a wounded Emma.
It was a recently made change which Stephen’s script had and Emma’s script was still the old one. I spooked myself a bit realizing I’d picked up the single script change, made for the very reasons I’d objected to in the first place, in a four hour session. Emma still looked a bit miffed but looked at me thoughtfully.
I went on to discuss how much one should change one’s script to please a funder. For example a funder wants to sponsor my film about a real person but he wants me to change the ending so that the person who is supposed to be a martyr for his cause doesn’t die. Clare Wise went on to answer me by saying that you have to ensure that the funder has the same vision as you have. She spoke about the film United 93 which was made in Britain as the producers were sure they would be forced to make the plane not crash (even though it was about one of the planes hijacked on 9/11) just to make sure it had a Hollywood ending if they received funding from the USA.
I laughed and breathed again and watched the next session without saying a word, satisfied that I hadn’t made a complete fool of myself. Yet. I still had that script in my bag. And my heart raced at the thought of handing it over to the illustrious ones.
The afternoon continued with a so-called Comedy Workshop. Pieter Dirk Uys and Mark Banks joined ET, SF and GW on the stage and the session was chaired by Alan Swerdlow. The audience was full to capacity now with comic actors of great stature in this country. Tobie Cronje, Bill Flynn, Grethe Fox, Desmond Dube, David Kau, Irene Stefanoui, to name just a few were there with the cast of the new comic film Bunny Chow which has just been released in Toronto. The Bunny Chow cast sat in the front row and included Kim Engelbrecht and Kagiso Mtwewa. The afternoon was about comedy in general and I made extensive notes for the article which I kept having to remind myself I was writing for Screen Africa. I was embarrassed a few more times. And the eye contact continued with the now tired looking Stephen, while Emma kept encouraging some of the younger actors to come on stage and strut their stuff. Some of them were the cause of the embarrassment, it has to be said. I think I will say no more on the subject except to say thank goodness for Pieter Dirk Uys and Mark Banks. They showed their intelligence and didn’t make South African humour seem like a complete oxymoron.
Then Malcolm Purkey asked if any press were in the audience. Cautiously I raised my hand. Stephen then looked at me and said "A pox on the press!" with a wry smile. I shook my head at him and said a quiet, "Now, now, no need for that…" but he continued to smile and say rude things about the press. Purkey cleared the auditorium so that the rest of the press could come in, but I’d been there all day and just HAD to have a loo break. So I asked him to wait until I returned before he started the press conference. I know how monstrous the press is in Britain, and could never quite get over the viciousness of the Tabloid press in all the five years I was there, but I still felt a little wounded by Stephen’s comments. Especially after all those moments we’d shared…Shouldn’t eye contact count for something?
Anyway, as I rushed to the loo, realizing that the script hand over would have to take place as soon as possible after the press conference I felt abject fear. I knew it would be my only chance to make contact with people I felt such an affinity to, whose advice to young writers was exactly the same as that I give to my script writing students. And I had no idea how to do it. As I ran to the loo, I prayed to God, my ancestors, guardian angels, and any off duty positive deities who might have a free moment to help!! me!! As I went past one of the many Honours’ boards in the building my eye caught the name "Richard E." It wasn’t Grant but it made me think of him. Aha! I had it! I should tell Stephen that I know Richard E. Grant! Of course! That would be a point of contact. SF had cast him in his film Bright Young Things. I thanked the deities for their advice and concentrated on getting into a very full loo, and back into the auditorium in five minutes.
Once back in my seat, second from the front, Purkey prepared for the press conference. Cameras had been there throughout the day with telephoto lenses the size of small planets and now there were even more. Stephen kept looking at me and muttering rude things about the press with a wry smile all the while. Mics were used now for people in the auditorium and the first person who spoke was a young girl from 5FM. She asked Emma something fairly innocuous about what she thought of South Africa. I can’t remember her answer. I was by now rehearsing my opening line which I’d planned days before.
Then it was my turn. I took the mic and looked at Emma and Stephen who were literally cringing on the stage. I suppose they expected me to ask them about their sex life and whether they frequented toilets in the hope of finding rent boys. I don’t know. But this is what I said.
"Hi. My name is Janet van Eeden and I’m from Horse and Hound." I think Emma and Stephen must have thought I’d said a foreign name or something because they didn’t respond at all. But Greg Wise got it. He turned towards me and simply BEAMED! For the first time in the day, irony was coming from the audience. He got the reference to Hugh Grant’s character in Notting Hill when he poses as a journalist for Horse and Hound magazine. I felt encouraged.
I went on hoping that at least Greg would continue to get the irony. "I must say, however, that I have been deeply wounded by His Highness Mr Fry’s rude comments about the press."(Frozen cringing from ET and SF on stage, much beaming from clever and dishy Greg) "Especially as I am a full time screenwriter and playwright and do journalism only to cover my costs, having come all the way from the provinces to be here for this workshop. In this instance I am writing for Screen Africa, the national film journal for whom I write quite often, and which is the final word on film in this country. And so – (addressing Emma and Stephen directly now) – Emma and Stephen, I WORSHIP your work, but I’m going to ask Screen Africa-type questions now, and I’d like to ask Helena how she managed to get Clare to produce her film, and what the production schedule is like, and so on."
I went on to ask very business-like questions ofHelena and Clare Wise – only the second time in the day that they’d been addressed – and Emma and Stephen sat in stunned silence.
The rest of the press conference rattled on and I heard Fiona Ramsey (Ohmigod did she hear me say such silly things!?) and a few other familiar voices ask very unthreatening questions. Then it was over. Just before Purkey thanked everyone, Stephen thanked the press for not being like the British Press, and Emma then said that we should be congratulated for not being like the British Press. I told them so, I said with my eyes.
And then everyone was supposed to go home. This was it. My moment. Almost incoherent with fear, I remembered that I still had to take photos with my tiny digital camera. Okay, so that’s the first step to get onto the stage.
I pushed through the people who were all wanting to touch the cloak of the famous ones, and finally made it to Stephen. He turned towards me and beamed hugely. I told him that in Afrikaans my state of the art (not) camera is called a Mik en Druk – a Point and Press camera so I had to get really close to take reasonable pictures. He beamed like the star he is. And that’s when I took my chance.
As he was packing up his bag I said casually, "I’m a friend of Richard E. Grant’s."
"Oh yes, Richard," he answered warmly. "He’s from Botswana isn’t he?"
"Swaziland, actually," I smiled forgivingly, "but it’s easy to get them confused. And Richard is the person who first encouraged me to write."
"Is he?" he answered, still not completely bored.
"Yes," I said. "And look, there’s no easy way to do this, but I’ve brought a script I’d really love you to read. I’m sure you would enjoy it."
A little more wary now but still very kind. "Alright, as long as it’s not too long. I don’t have much time, you know."
"Oh no, it’s great fun and it’s a really quick read. I promise you’ll enjoy it. I’ll just fetch it then?"
Remembering to take Greg Wise’s pic on the way of course. I turned to Greg and said something deeply meaningful like "I think you’re just wonderful," to which he beamed as I snapped.
And then to Emma, who seemed to be having her ears pinned back yet again by another twelve year old girl. Maybe this one was telling her how to write this time? As I stepped towards her, Emma turned to me with what I think was relief. She also lit up and gave me 150% of her incandescent presence. She really is remarkable in that way. Also she’d spoken throughout the day about her feminist work, even when Stephen didn’t know what she was on about and told her to stop wingeing. But I related to it hugely. Now I said that I had to take her picture, and she gave me seraphic smiles. And then I spoke to her too. From the bottom of my heart.
"You are just iconic to me, Emma,".I said. "Really.Your work has meant so much to me over the years and especially your feminist work. I’ve really related to it."
She accepted my adulation with much grace.
"And," I continued, "I feel like such an arsehole asking you to do this, but I can’t see any other way. I’m giving one of my scripts to Stephen to ask him to read it and I wondered, if you thought it was good enough, if you would pass it on to your agents? I know it’s a really terrible thing to ask but I’m desperate here. I have a script for you too if you’d like?"
"Of course!" she said warmly. "Don’t worry about giving me another copy. I’ll get it from Stephen – I’m with him all the time - and I promise I’ll give it to my people…"
"Would you really?" I said, almost crying with relief now.
"Yes, I will. Promise."
And I think I thanked her and I remember giving my script to Stephen who said (a little grumpily now) that it looked very long and me telling him quite firmly that he could shoot me if he didn’t enjoy it and then getting Clare Wise’s business card before finally leaping off the stage. I left the auditorium as fast as I could to dash to the loo where I sobbed for a solid ten minutes.
I was so overwrought by the whole experience. And yes they could throw my script in the bin and yes perhaps they thought I was a complete idiot but I would never have forgiven myself if I hadn’t taken the chance. As my friend Ian said to me later when I sobbed through the re-telling of the whole story, it was a calculated risk, and I had to take it. And take a risk I did. It took me days to recover. And my work and the deities now have to do their bit.

PRESS RELEASE - EXPLETIVE DELETED

Written by Janet van Eeden, Starring Thomie Holtzhausen and Directed by Ian Roberts.

He loves his women. To death.

Hannes is a human firewall. The last white male in a corporation, he has to delete obscene or unsuitable email traffic. That’s how he discovers everyone’s secret desires. Including those of his boss – the woman promoted ahead of him. He worships her from afar, obsessed with finding out her secrets. She hardly notices him. But Hannes has a plan, and soon she won’t ignore him anymore.

“Janet van Eeden’s new one-man play Expletive Deleted is directed by Ian Roberts and features a strong and compelling performance by Thomie Holtzhausen. Hannes is a human firewall operating in the basement of a large company and his job is to screen outgoing and incoming emails for obscene material. While other members of the staff flounce past him with noses in the air, like the hated Lerato, Hannes’s boss Ketiwe is beautiful, charming and apparently modest. His mother instilled in him that he should look for modesty in a woman and Ketiwe is all this and more. He lusts after her. After all, she head-hunted him from his previous position where he was doing the same kind of work on Big Brother, a clever device used by Janet van Eeden to place the audience fairly and squarely in the know.

“When Ketiwe asks him to lift the firewall from her email, he does so with alacrity. Believing that he is preserving her interests, however, he checks the contents of her correspondence. What he finds does not go down well with him and his inner fury simmers.

“Added to his irritation, his overpowering mother is on the phone every hour or so asking him if he’s enjoyed the lunch she packed, did he remember his umbrella and what is he doing at that moment? When he responds with irritation, she bursts into tears. He is reminded of his long-held belief that if his mother had roused herself from her occupation in an adjoining room, his father might not have choked to death. He’s had enough of her. Then there’s Jakes in Human Resources who spends far too much time eyeing his boss. So he needs to be dealt with too. Thus, the simmering builds to an explosion.

“In Expletive Deleted, Thomie Holtzhausen has a vehicle well suited to his dramatic abilities and allows him to show his vocal strength and passion. This is a good script packed with interesting diversions.” Artsmart Review by Caroline Smart: 2006-07-07.

“A wonderful piece of writing, directing and acting. I thoroughly enjoyed it, more so as I so relate to it. If one didn’t know better, one would be surprised to learn it was written by a woman.” Brett Beiles, Head of Live Poets Society, LiPS, Durban.

“The play was very clever, witty and insightful. It could be about masculinity. There’s also lots of interesting psychoanalytic material too.” Doctor Graham Lindegger, Professor of Psychology UKZN.

“It takes some doing for an actor to hold an audience's attention on his own for an hour. Thomie Holtzhausen does this admirably as Hannes, a human firewall, employed by a gorgeous boss, Kitiwe, to screen employee e-mails for obscenities. He describes his infatuation over her, his needy mother and the accusations of sexual harassment brought against him by another beautiful co-worker, Lerato. This strange voyeurism results in both lust and distrust which finally push Hannes over the edge. Thomie Holtzhausen gives an outstanding performance with very effective changes of pace throughout the play, as well as pitch. This variation in delivery and levels of excitement cleverly illustrates his deteriorating state of mind - or is this the case? The play was written by Janet Van Eeden and directed by Ian Roberts. All three of them know their trades and a very worthwhile piece of theatre has resulted.” – MUSHO Festival online crit.

Expletive Deleted has just been seen on the main festival at the MUSHO! Festival in Durban at the Kwasuka Theatre, January 2007. It is coming soon to the Hexagon Theatre in Pietermaritzburg and will be at the Grahamstown Festival 2007.

All I Want for Christmas.

As Christmas approaches like a fake snow avalanche, I can’t help thinking what is this Christmas-thing all about? Is it about the religious ritual which seems to becoming more and more marginalized? Is it about being with family even though these occasions can end in acrimonious recriminations as festive cheer and beer loosen all inhibitions about past resentments? Or is it just about the presents?

The latter seems to have become the most dominant aspect of this annual regurgitation of cash as shops seethe with people ready to bare their teeth and fight to the death to get that life-altering bar of soap/aftershave lotion for Aunt/Uncle/Mother/Father. I must say that watching such blatant consumerism isn’t my favourite aspect of the human race, and I try to avoid being part of the manic crowd for as long as I can possibly hold out.

So this year I thought of giving presents which are not bought in the usual shopping malls. Now I’m not talking about the abstract nouns sprouted forth by beauty queens at pageants. You know the stuff: World Peace; Elimination of Poverty; Cures for Aids, a new wig for Donald Trump. You know that sort of thing. Those would be nice, of course. But I’m thinking along the lines of virtual presents: presents I could give to whomever I wanted if the only limitation was my imagination.

Let me give you an idea of what I’m talking about. If I could give anyone in the world anything I’d like, I go for a sort of Wizard of Oz theme to make it simpler. Firstly, let’s look at the scarecrow and imagine that we’re looking for someone who needs a brain. Oh yes, there are multiple contenders. Just think about George “It’s not about the Oil” Bush? Or Manto “Bring me my Garlic” Thsabalala? And the all-time classic, Jacob “I’ll just pop into the shower” Zuma? We are spoilt for choice. But the ultimate contender has to be the Government Department Official in charge of paying people whom I phoned earlier this year after not having been paid four months. She had no idea who I was when I asked her to look up my invoice. Finally she asked to which organization I belonged. I told her I was not part of an organization but worked as an individual. She asked how one spelt that. Not quite believing my ears, I spelt out each letter slowly but carefully: “I… N… D… I… V…I…” When I’d finished she waited a few seconds before pronouncing that she definitely didn’t have anyone by that name on her computer. Bless her. I am now thinking of having a pseudonym: “I. M. Individual.” It has a certain ring about it, don’t you think? No, there’s no doubt. She’s a definite shoe-in for the “Get a Brain” present.

Next I thought about the tin man and his lack of a heart. There were a million contenders for this one too. All three candidates above come in closely with their own personal heartlessness, most notably Manto “Let them eat Beetroot” Thsabalala and her callous lack of concern about the ARV roll-out. But the real contenders in this category must be the abominable child rapists, the reckless drivers who wipe out innocent people and then the criminals who’d kill anyone from a gentle housewife to a policeman on duty at his very own police station. Their callous disregard for everything once considered sacred makes them sorely in need of a heart. But I’m trying to be light-hearted this Christmas (pardon the pun). So this leads me to think that the best candidate for the person who needs a heart must be Tom Cruise. Remember how he thought his wife-to-be would be just peachy giving birth to their child without being able to utter a sound. A silent birth? Not even a single scream allowed from mother-to-be? Is he mentally deranged? No. I think he’s just the most heartless candidate. Especially after he’d said that post-natal depression does not exist. Umm. Perhaps he needs a large dose of female hormones instead of a heart? Well, in my virtual world I’ll give him both.

Lastly, the lion without courage award goes to me. I can think of other contenders, such as Thabo Mbeki about to address a rally with Zuma supporters. And also the Bafana Bafana team trying to make some sort of effort to reach our own world cup in 2010. But, selfishly I’m keeping this one for me. I need a huge dose of courage just to face the daily trails of life with all the above idiots in the world around me! Well, I can only dream, can’t I? After all, it is Christmas.

Life. Who Needs It?

I’ve been attending an Intensive Journaling workshop recently. It’s a method pioneered by Dr Ira Progoff, a Jungian psychologist who died in 1998. His method of journalling encourages one to examine one’s whole life history using a carefully designed procedure to make one aware of the importance of certain milestones and patterns in one’s life. The point of this method is to make one more mindful – a Buddhist term applied by the course coordinator – of one’s life and the decisions one makes or has made along the way. The reason I mention this workshop is that I had a blinding insight about life during this most revealing process.

Previously I’d spent days trying to avoid writing down ten important “stepping stones” on my path because most of these moments in my life were traumatic and almost all were not of my choosing. For example, the examples of the most outrageous fortune described by my stepping stones were firstly my parents’ divorce, then my hero-worshipped older brother having a breakdown after being sent to the army; next his subsequent ordeal in an appalling mental home; then his enforced return to the border and unsurprisingly his death which followed a few days later. That following year my father died. And a few years later my younger brother was killed in a freak accident. These were just some of the worst moments on a fairly bleak path. It was a bit of a shock to find that only one step came about purely through my own choice. I couldn’t help feeling that life had been truly awful so far and I wanted to shout, “Life? Who needs it?”

When I reached the point where I had to think about the one overarching image to describe my here and now, I remembered a moment from my childhood. I must have been about five or six. I was standing at the edge of the sea, facing probably either one or both of my parents, smiling happily at them. Being born and bred inland meant that my dad’s sudden impulses to wake us up at 2am and tell us we were going to the sea were the highlights of my childhood. Anyway. There I was paddling happily at the water’s edge, smiling blissfully at whomever, when WHAM! An almighty wave came up behind me and knocked me flat on my face. Now you wouldn’t think that I’d be surprised. Surely, even at the age of six, I should have realised that the sea has waves. But to say I was taken unawares is an understatement. I was mortified, horrified and extremely angry that the sea had snuck up on me in that way. Surely I deserved more respect, my six year old self thought. My pride was deeply wounded, and I don’t think I’ve ever recovered fully from that shock.

Now the reason I refer to this image is that it describes succinctly the way I’ve viewed my life since then. For some reason I’m still outraged and angered by the audacity of life’s waves to knock me over. And yes, I have been known to moan a little about the poundings I’ve taken. But the interesting thing about this method of journaling is that it requires that you engage with the image and explore it a little further. When I did this, I realized that I’ve been pretty damn stupid not to expect waves from the sea. Okay, life, if you insist. After all, only fairy stories promise a “happily ever after.” Yes, I’ve had more than my fair share of knocks. In fact, sometimes they’ve been devastating body blows. But I kept living my life waiting for the time when things would be just peachy and nothing would ever go wrong again. How naïve can one get?

So. A large learning curve has taken place. Almost as large as some of those waves. And what I’ve taken out of this workshop is that a) I have to learn to surf, and b) I have to keep my eyes wide open to watch that infinitely treacherous sea.

Hopefully by the time the next wave comes along I will be like Shaun Thomson facing a tsunami: looking forward to the opportunity of having an almighty ride… and perhaps learning a few lessons for future reference on the side. One can only hope, can’t one?

Meeting the Mentor.

“The second time I watched the movie, I tried to imagine a man who was maybe 6 ft 2 inches, nice-looking, graying hair, delivering the lines almost the same way and I realized there would be absolutely nothing offensive. Women are expected to wrap their request in a special package. On film sets male directors don’t have to do that. Female directors do. It’s the secret misogyny of our society.”

So says Meryl Streep in a recent interview about her role in the film, The Devil Wears Prada. Streep plays the role of Miranda Priestley, allegedly based on real-life editor of Vogue US, Anna Wintour. Watching the film before I read the interview quoted above, I was struck mostly by how demanding it is to be a woman boss, or mentor. I wondered whether some version of Streep/Priestley/Wintour’s approach might not be the right one to adopt.

Lecturing in scriptwriting part-time and working with students, I’ve experienced the phenomenon of being a mentor often. When the projects are big, such as a production to take to a festival, or a film to prepare for an MNet competition, the demands on the mentor are enormous. Not for the reasons one might imagine though. Working hard isn’t part of the problem and goes with the territory. But being a female mentor has inevitable pitfalls which I’ve discovered while manoevouring through this new – for me - territory. To get people to work with you, I’ve found one has to adopt a gentle, cajoling approach, much as Streep mentions the female directors doing above. If a woman is heavy-handed in her approach, she runs the risk of being branded a hard-hearted bitch. On the other hand, if she is too gentle, she runs the risk of creating a new step in The Hero’s Journey, which is not mentioned by Joseph Cambell and Chris Vogler, who documented this wonderful blueprint for storytelling - and for life, itself. This step follows quite closely behind the one Vogler calls ‘The Meeting of the Mentor’. It is reserved mostly for women and is called ‘The Kicking the Mentor up the A***’ step. Male mentors usually don’t have to deal with this stage as their natural authority, passed down through genetic evolution it seems, makes them automatically exempt somehow. But I wonder if I’m being naïve? I’m not sure. One thing I do know is that fairly soon after I have passed on pearls of wisdom and encouraged said mentor-ee to feel confident enough to spread his/her wings for a fledgling flight, ‘The Kick the Mentor up the A***’ step kicks in.

I realized about two large projects/journeys ago that necessity demanded yet another addition to The Hero’s Journey. Shall I call this step ‘The Mentor Asserts Her Own Bony (wishful thinking) Little A***’? Watching Meryl Streep’s performance made me think about this issue again. I realize how I’ve had to assert myself as a mentor to remind said fledgling that he/she can make it on his/her own but the truth is that he/she is not quite flying solo just yet. And the velvet-clad whip – as my latest mentor-ee and I jokingly call it – has to be implemented just a little, though with perhaps less force than that Devil wearing designer shoes. This approach seems to be working for me, and once that very important commodity – respect - is re-established, the mentor can again enjoy encouraging her fledgling’s wings to grow to full strength. In fact it won’t be long before she is able to watch with satisfaction as the fledgling takes his/her first solo flight across the barren desert of the real world.

But Streep is completely on the mark in her statement above. There are few women who can get away with being hard-hearted and ruthless for long. Thank goodness not many women in positions of power have granite hearts. But I assure you, sometimes - just sometimes – a woman will have to pull that whip out of its velvet bag and crack it. Just to prove that she can, if she so chooses. And only then will she be taken seriously.

A ROOM OF ONE’S OWN.

I am sitting in my writing shed, watching the mother of pearl bead curtain, do its mermaid dance in the gentle wind. Its tinkling reflections echo the notes of the Chopin nocturne playing on my CD player. I look around me, entranced by the beauty of my shed. I soak up the solid wooden walls and the paintings of women reading which adorn two of them. I’d saved an especially beautiful calendar I’d bought a while ago hoping that I would finally have ‘my study’ in which to place the prints. Fortunately they didn’t have a sell-by date. Two other walls are covered by posters of my plays. The pine desk blends into its wooden background, and all my favourite books are encased in a solid pine bookcase. Vases are filled with flowers and I revel in the fact that only MY things are in this room. You see, this is the first time, since beginning my path as a fulltime writer ten years ago, that I have had a room of my own.

Virginia Woolf was asked to speak about women and fiction at Newnham and the Odtaa (One Damn Think After Another) Society in Girton in 1928. She started her address by talking instead on an apparently unrelated topic. She spoke about the need for a woman to have a room of one’s own. She could not talk in general about the very few women writers who have been honoured by the opinions of society, she said, without stressing that “a woman must have fifty pounds a year (that was big money in those days) and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.”

How heartily I agree with her, almost a century later. I would go on to add that a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write ANYTHING of value! All the time I have been a writer I have worked from my communal bedroom, in the midst of children’s homework, husband’s socks, cats’ paw-prints, leftover breakfasts, musical instruments, someone else’s books, dirty washing and various other examples of domesticity. At some point some of these accoutrements adorned my so-called working space. Add a few heated arguments and the blaring of televisions and you have the full picture. My levels of frustration rose regularly as I’d clear my desk once again, and attempt to clear my room of people. My cries of “just imagine someone coming into your office/bedroom and holding a tea party on top of your desk while you are supposed to work,” are met by profound deafness. I wondered why I was surprised that it took so long to regain focus when I’d begin work each day. This work was of course interrupted often when people would drop in to chat and have a cup of tea. Working from home is an oxymoron in most people’s minds. “You don’t work, do you? You’re at home all day,” they’d say smugly. The fact that I have to earn enough to bankroll a number of schools, or feed a small third world country – the amounts are about the same – are not even considered.

And while I’m on the subject of working from home, it’s strange how one is considered very rude for turning down invitations to boozy lunches and for not doing your bit for the tuck shop gals because you work at home. I live with constant black looks being directed at me around the school car parks as I fetch my children between deadlines. I’m not considered one of those useful mums who ‘really contributes to the ethos of the school.’

Anyway, now that I finally have my own space I wonder how on earth I managed to make a living in such an inclement environment for so long. But there is still just one small problem. How will I manage to multiply those fifty pounds a year - especially in today’s inflation-ridden climate?

First published in The Sunday Independent, 1 October 2006.