An old teacher of mine used to say that one bestselling author was not a writer, she’s a typewriter. Well, that bestselling author probably didn’t even have to type her own novels, she dictated them to some underling or three who then had to deal with the mess and turn it into something readable. Of course my teacher was simply jealous of all the money this author was rolling in, boa and all. For he was just an underpaid lecturer. He was writing poetry that was sensitive and well crafted, in other words something that won’t sell like hotcakes, in a country that was still finding its footing after decades of dictatorship.
Next to me as I type this is one of my treasured books, John Berger’s And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief as Photos. I found it at a charity shop, selling at a ridiculous price — cheaper than a bottle of coke. This book makes me long for home, for people I grew up with, for those who made it clear that words do matter. Somehow.
I sit in my messy room, books and odd bits all thrown together, and hear guinea fowl calls in the dark. Funny creatures, these guinea fowl. During the day they run around chasing each other just for the fun of it, apparently, with no real direction (except “random”), only flying when they get a huge fright from something. But they must get a good kick… haha… those black, skinny legs. More fun than most other creatures, though their brains are no bigger than my baby finger.
Type as you think. Or no thinking at all. This is what happens. haha.