Yesterday I signed as completed my own project of editing, and then posting, a daily 500 words from a draft story I wrote during lockdown. The point of the exercise was to force myself to keep working on the third draft of the not-yet-ready novel lurking on my computer.
The effort was way more than I’d bargained for, and so was my appreciation of anyone who took the time to look in – thank you!
What did I learn from the process:
huge respect for fiction authors, especially those who commit themselves to long, long periods of solo endeavour without knowing if anything tangible (ie an actual book) will ever result from the process;
double that respect for those struggling to fit such writing in with the demands of young families, or caring responsibilities, or full time jobs, or all three … or maybe just one or two;
walking away from my own writing for as long as possible is really helpful;
the terror and joy of having a reader, or even readers;
the power of a daily deadline;
the relief of finishing;
WordPress.
I cannot claim to be a WordPress expert, but the platform was straightforward and helpful. My next project is to see if I can work out how to turn the draft book into a podcast.
“Hello. Is a lady called Simidele there?” The voice of an older man cuts down the line.
“Fred?”
“Simidele?”
“Yes. Marybelle called to tell me that you’re both coming over to see your daughter.”
“Correct.”
The strength in Fred’s voice amazes Simi. He does not sound like the old man with the wavering cough, who she last saw wrapped in blankets on the lodge verandah. “You sound well.”
“I am well. We’re going to stay with my daughter in Rotherhithe. May we see you while we’re in London?”
“Of course. When?”
“Two weeks time.”
“I shall be in my shop, working on our new project.”
“Ah. A new project?”
“To raise funds for that school – the one near the lodge that got hit by the landslide.”
“Ah …” says Fred.
Simi hears hesitation, and pauses her enthusiasm. “It’s a good idea isn’t it?”
“Well … it’s a generous idea,” Fred replies.
“But?”
“But, perhaps we need to fund our own schools.”
“Yes, but surely after the cyclone …. don’t you think you need some help?”
“Of course, but we must be the helpers. Zimbabwe is rich, and we know how to build schools.”
Simi frowns. “But …I thought … I mean … things didn’t look great even before that cyclone. Now there’s all the damage?”
“I agree, but if everyone keeps fixing us, our leaders will keep robbing us. That’s the problem. Anyway, what if we came over there and started building schools?”
Simi laughs. “Are you serious?”
“Yes,” says Fred.
“But … you wouldn’t have to. We’ve got plenty. I think we can manage.”
“There you go. That’s where we need to get to.”
Simi feels her excitement flattening. “So what then? What can I do? How can I help?”
“Help one of your own schools, while thinking of us.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And, you could always give us lunch?” Simi hears the smile in Fred’s voice. “Shall we say the last Wednesday of the month? Leave plenty of time to fix the world.”
“It’s a deal,” says Simi, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice, despite the squashed plans.
“Not sure what time we’ll arrive. I’ll telephone when we get there.”
“Perfect. And you’ll meet my assistant and new designer, Lola. Kaftan Shop. You’ll find it on the internet.”
“I look forward to it. Best greetings to you both. Goodbye.”
Simi puts the mobile back in her pocket. She looks at Lola and sees that she is struggling not to laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
Lola’s reply tumbles out, each word grinning. “You. He was the soldier, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well … I could sort of hear him. Made you listen.”
“And?”
“Sounded like he didn’t want our help.”
“Well, I don’t know if he knows ….”
“Makes sense to me. He’s not going to want your charity.”
Simi feels a flash of impatience. “You didn’t see what a mess it all was out there.”
“No. But I know my old school needs help. Our library books were so ancient …”
“Huh.” With a swirl of kaftan Simi turns away from Lola’s mirth, and stands looking out through the front entrance, arms folded. She sees that it’s raining outside, and that Joe and his dog are now huddled together under the same plastic mac.
“What are you going to do with Marybelle and the soldier when they’re in London?” Lola asks.
“I have no idea,” Simi replies, quietly.
Marybelle in London – that’s going to be a whole other story.
“Okay.” Lola shrugs, and bends down to pick up her fallen pencil. “Nothing on Instagram.”
“How’s the design going?” asks Simi, coming close enough to peer over Lola’s shoulder.
“Not bad,” says Lola, flipping the page over to one that is fresh and blank. “I’ll show you when I’ve done more.”
Simi sighs, and goes back to her desk, her head tumbling with thoughts about Marybelle and Fred, and seeing them both in London. She is excited, but afraid to be excited at the same time. She cannot believe that they will actually be in her city. The feeling is the same as when she thinks about her trip to Zimbabwe – she is buzzing that she went, but in London feels so far removed that at times, she doubts she ever did. Her hand is the only tangible proof, and now, the memory of the morning’s call which seems as fragile and disconnected as her own state of mind.
That trip. That cyclone. Made me rethink everything. Life. What is it? What matters? What doesn’t matter? Does this matter? This shop. Ten years of my life. All this fabric. All my clients.
She looks around the shop from kaftan to kaftan, corner to corner.
“You okay?” Lola asks. “You look a bit … a bit … somewhere else.”
“Just thinking. I thought I had all the answers. That the Kaftan Shop was important. But are we good for people? I mean, maybe we’ve been selling the wrong way round. You know all this ‘you must look beautiful. Buy this. Buy that.’”
“Isn’t that how shops work.”
“But, is it good for us? That place, Zimbabwe … nothing was perfect. Sometimes stuff wasn’t even there. I mean the basics – shops like we know them, roads like we know them. The lodge was great, but the in between stuff. But nobody complained. They just got on with it. They’re survivors. I went to bits. So that’s what I want to find – what I want to sell. How to live. How to stay really alive. I want to wrap whatever it is into each kaftan. That being alive. Being part of something.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I think I’m talking about what you’re talking about. Stories. I want every kaftan to have a story. Have a soul. Where it’s from. The cloth. The community. So the buyer loves it. Looks after it. Passes it on.”
“Okay … ,” says Lola.
“And people can bring us their cloth. Old fabric. New fabric. Tell us their stories. Then we make the kaftans. Make them beautiful. Make them alive.”
“Okaaay … ” says Lola, chewing the end of her pencil, as she considers her boss in the grip of this strange new excitement.
“This is going to be the Kaftan Community Shop. Your new kaftan, your design for those children, is going to be at our new opening. So are Marybelle and Fred.”
“But you don’t even know when they’re coming …”
“They will …”
“And what are we going to do with all this fabric we’ve already got?”
“Find out where each roll came from.”
“Really?” Lola’s eyes pop with dread.
“I’ll do it,” says Simi. “You design. We’ll …” Simi feels her mobile buzz again.
The Phraser 