TIP FOR SEPTEMBER: FIND AWE

Tripping over translation, Chekhov’s Gun, and Other Things I Learned This Week

Translation is entirely mysterious. Increasingly I have felt that the art of writing is itself translating, or more like translating than it is like anything else. What is the other text, the original? I have no answer. I suppose it is the source, the deep sea where ideas swim, and one catches them in nets of words and swings them shining into the boat … where in this metaphor they die and get canned and eaten in sandwiches.

Ursula K. Le Guin, Dancing at the Edge of the World: Thoughts on Words

The bookish world is wonky enough without things getting lost in translation. Among the myriad Threads fistfights this week, everyone is in an utter flap about their writing being flagged as AI, but I say: calm your tits and write, darlings.

We are still some way from the Singularity (that much-discussed point amongst conspiracy theorists at which AI and human intelligence supposedly go off on their separate evolutionary adventures) and I rather suspect publishing will come up with a perfectly sensible way of dealing with the AI question long before then.

Possibly a little box like this on the submission form, rather like the warning on a packet of groceries:

THIS PRODUCT CONTAINS NUTS

AI assistance: ☐ none ☐ low ☐ medium ☐ high

My best advice is to have nothing to do with AI at all while writing your manuscript. And, anyway, AI wastes water. There are better things to do with your gigs. For example, I learned this week that “I found my people” or “I found my tribe” can be offensive to Black people. It’s imperative writers become aware of problematic phrases and words as the global decolonizing of literature evolves. Publishers now employ Sensitivity Readers to review manuscripts, who are briefed to flag words and phrases that may be culturally insensitive, outdated, stereotypical, or offensive to modern readers. Thing about things you may be saying without awareness of the potential damage. Categories Flagged by Sensitivity Readers:

• Identity and Representation: Slurs, misgendering, deadnaming, or outdated terminology regarding race, gender, and sexuality (e.g., using “transgendered” instead of “transgender”). [1, 2]
• Ableism and Health: Idioms that rely on physical or mental differences in a negative way, such as “blind-spot,” “blindsided,” or “brainstorm”. [1]
• Cultural Appropriation and History: Everyday phrases with painful or racist historical roots, such as “grandfathered-in,” “off the reservation,” or “lowest on the totem pole”. [1, 2]
• Body and Appearance: Descriptive words targeting weight, physical traits, or age that can perpetuate harmful tropes (e.g., modifying older texts to remove subjective judgments like “fat” or “ugly”). [1]

For official guidelines on respectful phrasing, consult resources like the GLAAD Media Reference Guide or the AP Stylebook.

A late-night Thread chat also taught me that “out of pocket” doesn’t mean someone hasn’t got any money, viz: “I can’t come to the concert because I can’t afford a ticket; that swindle of John’s has left me disastrously out of pocket. So sorry, do hope you a smashing amount of fun.” (English people) Versus the Americans, on the other hand: “I WON’T BE IN TOWN BABE CAN’T COME I’M OUT OF POCKET FOR ALL OF JULY. GOING TO BE AT OUR YACHT ON LONG ISLAND SOUND THAT WEEKEND, MY DIARY IS VERY BUSY.WISH U WERE HERE MWAH X”

Language: it’s a minefield, and it’s best to stay off the subject of America and mindfields this week. Or bombs. Or guns in the hands of evil men. Better stick with what I know, like Chekhov’s gun. Chekhov’s gun is the literary equivalent of not putting a loaded pistol on the mantelpiece in Act One unless you intend to shoot someone with it by Act Three. In other words, if you make a point of showing us something — a red scarf, a missing key, the oddly specific mention of Auntie June’s swimming certificate — the reader quite reasonably assumes it matters. It needn’t become a murder weapon, but it should do some work. Why did you make us notice it?

It’s one of the highlight sections of my weekender retreats: once you understand Chekhov’s Gun and the 5 Stages of Freytag’s Pyramid, you will fall into a natural rhythm of editing your writing while you write. It’s a weekend immersion with lots of beach walking and silence between learning the brass tacks of the book world at ground level, without a degree in English literature. You can even bring your dog, for dawn beach meditation meanderings.

One of my favourite local authors, for herself as much as her masterful writing craft., AUTHOR ZELDA BEZUIDENHOUT was kind enough to acknowledge me in her latest book, and it’s always such a great privilege to work with her. But ffs, Tsjechof??? Dostoevsky was also involved in something weird in her last novel, the fab psychological thriller Die waarde van stil bure. What if an Afrikaans character was Charlie who ate chakalaka all day?
I caught up with Zelda last week, with news just in that her latest novel, Mei en alles daarna, has sold out in its first three months on the shelves and is going on to a second print!

ME: HOW DID THIS BOOK FEEL DIFFERENT FROM THE OTHERS? ZELDA: It’s definitely the most personal book I’ve written so far. And that, in a way, made it the most difficult book to write. I guess you could call it “faction”, but certain parts are one hundred percent factual, such as the emails Juna exchanged with The Heritage Portal. Those are my actual emails, and I used them verbatim. At times, the lines between story and reality became extremely blurred. The day I pressed the send button, I felt an enormous relief. Not because the project had come to an end (as we know, there’s always more writing to do once the first editor’s feedback arrives). I was relieved as it sometimes felt as if the book was writing me, not the other way around. My hair started falling out during the three months of the most intense writing. I had a physical reaction to telling the story. This has never happened to me before.

ME: WHAT ARE YOU UP TO NOW?
ZELDA: I’m taking some time off to read other writers’ work. I have a mini TBR tower of Pisa on my nightstand and in every corner of my house. A non-reader cannot be a writer. I grew up in a house without books and misspent my twenties and thirties working myself to a standstill as an advertising copywriter. I was a freelancer for most of that time, and there was very little time to read. No work no pay, you know?  I’ve never really made up for all that lost reading time.

ME: WHAT ADVICE WOULD YOU GIVE OTHER WOMEN WHO ARE TRYING TO FINISH THAT FIRST DRAFT?
ZELDA: It’s never going to feel complete or good enough. Just send the damn thing. Give your editor something to work on.
ME: I PARTICULARLY WANT TO TALK ABOUT TAKING TIME TO WRITE FOR YOURSELF.
ZELDA: Some of my writer friends can work in any environment. They can balance a baby on their hip while constructing the perfect sentence using a crayon on a Checkers till slip. I need to be alone, and it needs to be quiet. I don’t even listen to music while I write. So I’ve started selfishly taking three-month chunks of writing time for myself without feeling guilty. I’ve negotiated a usufruct agreement with the owner of a tiny cabin in the mountains near McGregor. I know it sounds idyllic, and it is. I go there with my dog Walter, and it’s just the two of us. Not another house or human in sight!  I spend my days writing, hiking, searching for firewood, and making simple meals on a two-plate gas hob. It’s heaven, and I do believe it unlocks the creative brain to awe.

AWE, now that’s a word has been following me around this week. I was talking about it with another author, actually. And I suddenly thought: when was the last time you felt awe?

I guess us South African proofreaders have to be on their toes for words like awe because it looks rather misleading on the page, hey?

“Yoh, man!” — spontaneous amazement.

“Eish!” — astonishment, disbelief, exasperation; wonderfully versatile.

“Jislaaik!” — old-school South African shock or amazement.

“Hao!” — incredulity, usually accompanied by a facial expression.

“Bliksem!” — stronger and considerably more colourful astonishment.

And then there is “Aweh, man!” — which is something else entirely. The lovely little word you throw into that really lekker catch-up when you are saying goodbye. A catchword for taking something that exists somewhere beneath language and trying to haul it into words, as Le Guin describes it so beautifully: I suppose it is the source, the deep sea where ideas swim, and one catches them in nets of words and swings them shining into the boat …

Perhaps that is what writing is, you sommer maar haul up the awe wherever, however, you can.

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