Cover reveal: DEATH AND THE AFTER PARTIES by Joanne Hichens

It is pure joy to share the cover of the forthcoming Karavan Press title with you. Without further ado:

‘If you have loved, lost or grieved … then this book will resonate deeply. Searching for a new place in her changed world, Joanne Hichens reminds us that especially in our darkest moments we need to embrace our vulnerability in order to find strength. Tender, courageous, compelling.’ 

– Tracy Going, author of Brutal Legacy 

Karavan Press books at The Alma Café Traders’ Market on 15 August

Karavan Press and Brink books

Writer and Karavan Press publisher, Karina M. Szczurek, will be offering a selection of new and second-hand books by Karavan Press authors and a few titles by her late husband, André Brink, as well as her own books for sale at the Alma Café Traders’ Market on Saturday, 15 August 2020, between 10:00AM and 1:00PM. Price range: R20 to R200. Part of the proceeds from the book sale will be donated to The Alma Café.

The Alma Café, 20 Alma Road, Rosebank, Cape Town.

For more info, please see: The Alma Café Traders’ Market, karavanpress.com and karinamagdalena.com.

 

Mignonne Breier’s comments on Breaking Milk and the ‘physicality’ of Dawn Garisch’s writing

Breaking Milk cover

I wanted to express what I find unusual and fascinating about your writing – which this book seemed to exemplify – and I needed to think about it. I know you talk about ‘embodied’ writing. I am not sure exactly how you define that, but having read six of your books now I am going to try to articulate what I think is the ‘physicality’ of your writing.

I think your writing takes one to the edges of human experience and tells us what it is like to be there. Your knowledge of the human body makes it possible for you to describe what one can barely imagine – being the mother and grandmother of conjoined twins in this case – and tell us what it is like, in a physical as well as emotional way. (Other examples: the relationship between Phyllis and the young boy in Trespass, and the ‘accident’ in Accident). Your writing takes one to the edge of what many of us have been taught to regard as acceptable subjects to speak or write about. You write as elegantly about urinating and defecating, sex and orgasms as you do about mountains and music and ideas. Breaking Milking also seems to be particularly well-researched, yet one never gets a sense of the labour that must have been involved. You write as if you were a cheesemaker yourself!

I continue to be a great admirer of your writing.

Dr Mignonne Breier is an author and academic based in Cape Town.

(Personal note posted with permission of the author.)

“Agency” by Sindiwe Magona

Sindiwe and Thembi

Thembi Mtshali-Jones is an international legend. Theatre Road, as the title suggests, is a book about the path, choices, hurdles, surprises and much more in Thembi’s life that have given us the actress she is today, an internationally celebrated icon. It is the first of what will probably end up a series of life stories about her. The book is a gift to South Africa and the world.

Thembi Mtshali-Jones’s life is a roadmap to the history of South Africa. When she was born, apartheid was one year old – barely understood by the bewildered ‘Bantu’ on whom it would be mercilessly inflicted for the next fifty years.

But Theatre Road is not an angry outburst about the evils and cruelty of apartheid. It is a gently-told story of a life, a very rich life. A life that happened because of the integrity of a family. Thembi is the embodiment of the saying ‘It Takes a Village to Raise a Child’.

Theatre Road depicts a life that has not been easy – not always; she has had a fair share of ups and downs, of loss, of missteps. But integrity, especially that of family, and a strong sense of self form the cornerstone of Thembi’s life: this is richly depicted in Theatre Road.

Thembi’s parents worked in Durban, where she was born. Black life being what it was then, they took newly-born infant Thembi to her paternal grandparents. She was barely a month old, still on her mother’s breast. She grew up in the village of Sabhoza where she was surrounded by the love and attention of her extended family and the caring, mindful attention of all the grownups in the village – when we still knew or remembered that a child is a child to all grownups, not only her or his biological parents. She was cradled in love.

The actress she has become is rooted in that rich soil. When challenges came in her life – as they do in all lives – her rootedness enabled her to not only endure those with fortitude but transcend them.

If there is one characteristic that shines through and through in the book – it is AGENCY. I love the book for that. It reminds me of one of my mottos: ‘If you do not like what you have become, who you are or where you are … M O V E!’

Nothing will move in one’s life unless that life moves.

To expect your life to change but do nothing is magical thinking. Thembi’s life may look like the stuff of fairy tales, but hard work, dedication, integrity have brought her to where she is today. Not dependency. Not chance … for when chance knocked at her door – it found her wide awake and ready to roll.

Theatre Road is a book that will inspire not only young people, not only aspiring actors and singers, but all who value their lives and know that whatever they may be doing … can be improved, made better, richer, more startling and more satisfying. For that is how we serve the world, how we fulfil our purpose on Earth … being the best we can be. Thembi Mtshali-Jones is all that … and more. Theatre Road captures this gem of a human being – umntu ngenene!

THEMBI_COVER_FINAL_LOWRES

THEATRE ROAD

(This piece was written for the promotion of the EB Homebru list, which has ended last week. We hope it will inspire new readers to embark on this incredible life journey of resilience and perseverance, evocatively portrayed by Sindiwe Magona in Theatre Road, the biography of Thembi Mtshali-Jones.)

UK publisher Holland House Books and Karavan Press to co-publish AN ISLAND by Karen Jennings

We are delighted to announce that Karen Jennings and her UK publisher, Holland House Books, have approached Karavan Press for the co-publication of Karen’s latest novel, An Island. We have been in discussion since Karen’s last visit in Cape Town and have now signed a publishing agreement. Karavan Press will publish the local edition of this exquisite novel.

An Island by Karen Jennings

Description

Samuel has lived alone for a long time; one morning he finds the sea has brought someone to offer companionship and to threaten his solitude…

A young refugee washes up unconscious on the beach of a small island inhabited by no one but Samuel, an old lighthouse keeper. Unsettled, Samuel is soon swept up in memories of his former life on the mainland: a life that saw his country suffer under colonisers, then fight for independence, only to fall under the rule of a cruel dictator; and he recalls his own part in its history. In this new man’s presence he begins to consider, as he did in his youth, what is meant by land and to whom it should belong. To what lengths will a person go in order to ensure that what is theirs will not be taken from them?

A novel about guilt and fear, friendship and rejection; about the meaning of home.

Karen Jennings with Karina M. Szczurek

Karen Jennings was born in Cape Town in 1982. She holds Master’s degrees in both English Literature and Creative Writing from the University of Cape Town, and a PhD in Creative Writing from the University of KwaZulu-Natal. Karen’s stories and poetry have been published in journals across the globe. In 2010, her short story From Dark won the Africa Region prize in the Commonwealth Short Story Competition. Mia and the Shark won the English section of the Maskew Miller Longman short story competition in 2009 and is now studied in schools. Finding Soutbek was her first novel. Her short story collection Away from the Dead was published in 2014, and her Travels with My Father – An Autobiographical Novel was published in 2016. Karen’s first full poetry collection Space Inhabited by Echoes was published to great acclaim in 2018. Last year, she published Upturned Earth, a novel set in the copper mining district Namaqualand, Cape Colony, during the 1880s.

Currently living in Brazil, last year Karen completed post-doctoral research at the Federal University of Goiás on the historical relationship between science and literature, with a focus on eusocial insects.

Karen works with the mentorship programmes run by Writivism and Short Story Day Africa, both of which promote writing in Africa. Her interests lie in colonialism, historically and in the lasting impact that it has had on the continent of Africa and beyond. She is particularly concerned with the quiet lives of the everyday people who have been mostly forgotten by the politicians, big businesses and the rest of the world. In this way, she strives to give the ordinary a voice that can be heard and appreciated.

Pamela Power interviews Melissa A. Volker for Go.See.Do.South Africa: “Shadow Flicker & Other Things”

I think I met Missy Volker, author of Shadow Flicker, on Twitter (quelle surprise) through author and publisher, Karina Szczurek where we bonded over our love of books and cats. I then met her IRL at Karina’s house and subsequently at the launch of my first novel Ms Conception at the Book Lounge where Missy was kind enough to paint my nails (yes, at the book shop) and mend a bra strap that decided to give up the ghost just before we began (it was an eventful launch). Missy has supported me on my writing journey right from the get-go and it gives me great pleasure now to return the favour – and not only because she is a friend – but because I really LOVE her writing. Her books could be categorised as up-lit – literature that uplifts and they are EXACTLY what people need to read right now.

Tell us about your day job and how it’s been affected during #lockdown. Also, any grooming tips for us like how to paint our own damn nails??

I’m a beauty therapist. I work from home, but we were closed in lockdown. The sector reopened on Friday but I decided not to open just yet as I work from home and have family members with comorbidities. Also the husband has set up his WFH office in my salon. Maybe it’s time to finish that pesky first draft? Grooming tips?  Always wear sunscreen and, if you decide to wax yourself, remember once it’s on there’s only one way to get it off. And it is not 123NOPE.

Missy-doing-my-nails-before-my-book-launch...

Continue reading here: Go.See.Do.South Africa – “Shadow Flicker & Other Things”

“The Storm” by Sue Brown

Earth to Mom_illustration

The storm arrived in the darkest hours and mingled with my dream. Lashings of wind and rain adding to the confusion of finding myself inside the house that homed us when our children were little.

I had returned to where I once was immersed in the day and night continuum of young motherhood. As if traces remained, curated within the walls. Where I might gather a lost time in my arms like a just bathed child who wriggles to be set free, runs off still rosy and damp and naked to play.

Until the current owners arrived home to find me intruding, and utterly mortified.

~

Yesterday, the barometer needle dropped to nine o’clock. Seemingly at odds with such a clear sky, and baby wavelets plopping themselves down in the pastel yellow bay outside the window.

The day had been uncommonly windless, only the discordant jar of an angle grinder cutting the atmosphere, the plume of red brick dust giving away the fact that air was moving in from the northeast.

~

Just after midnight the storm tunnelled through to this ledge where our house perches, as if blasting through a hole in the edge of the world.

Where I lay pinioned, blankets anchored by the heat-seeking weights of four cats like a tarpaulin to stop a pile of builders’ sand from washing away.

~

My mind orientated itself to this house, this time, this winter’s storm. To my son nine years dead so beyond my clutches, and my daughter alone back in Newlands, where the rain would be bucketing down too.

Scenes haunted of shack dwellers, miserably knee deep in sewerage-tainted, icy water and I shivered. Reminded myself that my daughter was in a brick home, and a capable adult now.

~

I unlocked my jaw, failed to unknot the scapula muscles, and contemplated how to turn over onto the non-aching hip with minimum disturbance to the cats.

The sharp vertebrae and musty smell of the ancient one. The full figure and spontaneous combustion purr of the middle-aged ginger at my back. The pert tortoiseshell teenager in her hyena onesie against my shins. The eight-month-old, sleek as a snow-white seal pup, snuggled where my top had ridden up to expose my belly.

‘Empty nest fillers’, my daughter observed.

~

‘Betty’s Bay is creepy!’ the writers’ group once concurred. I confessed that their ideal murder mystery setting was my bolt hole.

They imagine the reedy bowels of Malkop’s Vlei being dredged for the remains of missing persons.

I know that place by another name, Bass Lake. A long, wide, watery aisle that shimmers like the surface of a brim-full cup that is blown gently across. One that culminates in the inverted pulpit of a reflected Hangklip, while the original version looks on benevolently.

~

The mossy dip at the foot of the lake, secluded inside an organ pipe curve of reeds where unseen frogs click and clack, is holy ground.

Where a domed blue sky forms a cupola like the one we sat before in my late son’s school chapel, at his funeral.

~

‘Don’t you find that overhanging mountain oppressive?’ ask the writers of this counterpoint to my grief. This mountain whose indifferent gales have stripped me bare, and are strong enough to swaddle flailing limbs.

Here I box in the correct weight division, cannot inadvertently injure another, or traumatise sensitive viewers.

Safe in this house within the jutting pit bull jaw of this mountain. Behind salivating teeth that are the sharp rocks where backs of fishermen stand braced against stinging winds, rogue waves.

~

Morning writings here inevitably turn to molten thoughts of my son. Like the tannin-stained milk of the waterfalls that unfurl like ribbons from the mountain’s forehead, they run to the rocky cairn on the edge of the sea. Where we scattered our son and brother’s ashes at sunset on the tail end of just such a storm.

Ink pools too around my concerns for my daughter, whose surety in the solid state of this world was scattered along with our handfuls of his ashes, released low to the ground on account of the wind, on that day.

~

I paraded for a time as ‘the lady of the house’, for whom the man selling compost outside our Victorian Rondebosch home asked – spotting the imposter in me before I did. When my external and internal personas, like a couple falling out of love, increasingly did not recognise each other.

~

A farm girl never truly at home where buildings interrupted horizons, obscured sightings of the miniature red and grey building blocks of container ships that snail inexorably along that faint meniscus. That other shore on which a great shout of welcome goes up when we die, so say the hymns.

~

My belonging in this place is acknowledged in dots and dashes by a stoep light across the bay on a gale force night.

This place where morning mists can obliterate the line between the heavens and the earth. Mute the outside world. Make null and void unspoken rules of conversation ‘making’, and the window dressing of ugly grief to keep the suburb’s insides feeling smug and safe.

I am silenced here. Held still by the collective gravity of a universe of stars overhead. Relieved to be insignificant, superfluous within such vastness.

~

For two full nights and days the storm raged, and this third morning has dawned across an overfull, labouring sea. A stiff breeze bullies clouds that drag their heels across a deep blue backdrop, and arcs of rainbows wax and wane in the gaps.

Seized by a great urgency I pull on shoes, jacket and scarf, stumble across the beach to my son’s cairn – the best place to watch giant rollers heave their way towards the sand.

To watch salty dragon-breath whipped from their crests, caught up by a cold sun and transfigured into iridescent, tumble-turning beach balls. And to hear a twelve-year-old’s throaty, exultant laughter in the air.

June 2020

On New Year’s Eve of 2010, Sue Brown’s twelve-year-old son, Craig, was diagnosed with a rare brain tumour. In the turmoil of the time, Sue instinctively turned her hand to writing. In 2017, six years after Craig had lost his battle with cancer, she published a memoir, The Twinkling of an Eye: A Mother’s Journey. She lives with her husband and their daughter in Cape Town. The family spends as much time as they can at Craig’s Cabin in Betty’s Bay. Sue continues to find hope and solace in the written word. Her new book, Earth to Mom: Personal Essays on Loss & Love, is a tribute to her son and the indelible mark he left on his family and friends.

Earth to Mom is about to reach bookshops. If your local bookshop does not have a copy, please ask them to order one for you: Protea Distribution will be able to assist all booksellers: orders@proteaboekhuis.co.za. The book’s ISBN: 978-1-990931-92-5.