Today I review Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Half of a Yellow Sun. Hope you enjoy. Continue reading [VIDEO] Book Review | Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Half Of Yellow Sun
Like most—maybe all— writers, I learned to write by writing and, by example, by reading books. ~ Francine Prose ONE Size For my birthday I got myself the cheapest Amazon Kindle in the range—the one that doesn’t have all the touch-screen related bells and whistles that might confuse my student budget—and the first thing I was pleased by was its size. This makes it easy to carry around as it can slip without difficulty into anything from a clutch to a back-pack. Writers will love it because this feature will allow you to use any free time you have to brush … Continue reading Seven Reasons Every Writer Should Have A Kindle
It felt as though I had been sitting in the car for hours. My eyes fell to my wrist-watch and registered that fifteen minutes had passed since I’d left her side. Only fifteen minutes. It felt like it had been hours since she’d planted a cool kiss on my shoulder. Days since she’d driven a soft palm into my rear. Weeks since I’d felt the sweet moisture of her inside. Years since she’d whispered my name sweetly into my ear. Decades since I’d stood outside on a doorstep contemplating whether or not to knock on the door. The more I … Continue reading Bargaining (Part 1)
This is my first attempt at a fictional piece for the internet. I haven’t done much editing. Or plot-planning. I wanted to focus on the language for this one. Allow it to tell the story. Feedback would be awesome.
The Grandmother was standing in the doorway. Her fists were planted on her hips whose girth forced her elbows to jut out in an awkward manner. From where she was seated, The Niece could see the slow up-and-down of her chest — could imagine the old woman’s lungs expanding hungrily as she took huge gulps of the room’s musty air. For some moments The Grandmother did not speak. Instead her eyes were all over the room. First they darted from wall to floor then from the night-stands to ceiling. Then they crawled slowly over the inanimate inhabitants of the room – for they were so many, piled up in corners, flung over headboards, crowded on every above-ground surface, hanging over closet doors. Her eyes drank in the layer of desperation that seemed to cling to each of them. The Niece had imagined that The Grandmother had planned to speak as soon as she arrived. She imagined that the opening of the door, the positioning of hands on hips and the darting of eyes around the room had been actions that were scripted by The Grandmother as she walked up the steps to The Niece’s room. Actions that would be immediately followed by some words. But she instinctively got the feeling that this part had not been on the itinerary. The slow sweep through the room carried out completely by her eyes had resulted in something neither of them expected. With every part of the room that The Grandmother’s eyes went over her face changed.
When she had first arrived, and The Niece suspected even before that, she had had the face of a fighter. An expression that made it clear she had little patience for foolishness. The Niece’s hand had instinctively flown to her back as she recalled the childhood beatings that often followed such a look from The Grandmother. But the look on The Grandmother’s face was no longer that of The Grandmother that had beaten her all those years ago for stealing sweets from a tuck-shop. This expression was one The Niece had seen only once before. At The Grandfather’s funeral three years ago. Hopelessness. It dawned on The Niece that The Grandmother may have underestimated the gravity of the situation. She may have been told details by The Step-Mother but clearly she had needed to see it for herself to truly understand what it had done to The Niece lose everything. When The Grandmother finally spoke her voice was raspy and quiet — decibels below the level both women were accustomed to. To the room, she whispered,
“How long have you been living like this?”
I’ve been busy. That’s what I say when it suddenly occurs to me that I haven’t written in a while. When a follower of my work asks why Siyanda hasn’t written in a while those words are the ones t hat roll off my tongue as easily as coins into a drain. And, most of the time, they are true. In fact, all of the time, they’re true. I am busy. However, Iunderstand that when one has a commitment to introducing a new habit into one’s life –in my case, writing– one must learn to make time to do it consistently. In … Continue reading Making Time to Write
Choices Life is nothing but a series of choices. Everyday we’re faced with a million and one things to do. And most of us have some sort of a choice. It is easy to make choices if you’ve got little interest in the long-term consequences of the decisions you make on a day-to-day, hour-to-hour, moment-to-moment basis. In fact it is almost effortless. If you’ve got no fears and no hopes and no dreams and no desires and no hang-ups from your childhood and no issues with your parents and no pressure from society and no judgment from your peers and … Continue reading I chose to write