My Year in Books - 2019

I’m ashamed to admit that this year I didn’t read as much as I would have liked. Life does take over, I suppose. Better to have read something than none at all, right? So, here is my 2019 book list starting with the latest to be read:

10. The Wedding by Nicholas Sparks

What does it take to win the love of your wife?

It was the day after Christmas when I found myself craving a bit of romance, and there was only one guy to satisfy my needs. Nicholas Sparks has the knack of transporting me to an idealistic world. A world in which I wish to reside. A world that, quite frankly, few ever get to experience. That world, I sometimes call it, a place of bliss. In this tale, the author does not disappoint. I always love Nicholas's simple and yet sophisticated way of writing. A story about a husband who successfully rekindles her wife’s fading love for him. I was mesmerised by the husband’s creativity in making his wife fall in love with him all over again. How effortless, once he had made up his mind to win her once more, the process became compared to when he didn't care. I was enthralled by the way the writer made references to my all-time favourite, the mother of all romance stories - The Notebook. The story took me on quite a journey, and I found my spirit soaring. Tears dripped from my eyes. And I fell in love with love. Indeed, Nicholas knows how to deliver just the right concoction for the romantic at heart, and what a perfect finish to my reading year. 

9. An American Marriage by Tayari Jones.

 "A black man, in the wrong place at the wrong time, will find retribution meted out swiftly and unquestioningly."

Had someone not Tweeted about this book, I would not have discovered it. Winner of the Women's prize for fiction, this story pulled at my heartstrings, to say the least. Celestial and Roy, a newly-married couple, are on the verge of realising their American dream when it is cruelly snuffed away when Roy is wrongly accused of rape by a white woman and ends up incarcerated. Heartrending and unfortunately, a poignant reflection of the plight of the black family and our society in general. Bound by their love, the newly-married couple is determined to make things work. They send letters back and forth to each other, and this is how the writer tells the story. Through the characters’ correspondences, which I thought was quite creative, we delve into each character’s head and glimpse into their feelings, attitudes, fears and motivations. The book delivers themes that spark passionate conversations about the black family, love, betrayal, abortion, the relationship between the black man and America's police force and more. As one can expect, there is always conflict, a twist or two in every story worth telling, but I did not anticipate the ending. Being an idealist and a hopeless romantic, I imagined the couple making it despite the challenges of being pulled apart by time and distance. Such is life, I guess. *sigh*

8. Slay in Your Lane: The Journal by Yomi Adegoke and Elizabeth Uviebinene 

The book delivers exactly what it says it is: The Black Girl Bible. Black women and girls do face a lot of challenges. We are misunderstood, labelled as angry, and sometimes find ourselves at the bottom of the food chain in other areas of life. If you are a black woman in need of some motivation, this is the book you will want to read. The book also gives real-life accounts and testimonies of those who have ‘made it’ in life. It demonstrates how to navigate societal prejudices, how to attain the right level o education, how to get employment, and how to simply to get ahead in life. A great read, but difficult to swallow in some parts as I found myself reliving some of the harsh realities of my life as a black woman living in Britain.

7. Queenie by Candice Carty-Williams

Dubbed by some as the black Bridget Jones, I found this book funny, gripping and a compelling read. The writer uses light-hearted language to depict serious issues. She explores her Caribbean family, and even though I am from Zimbabwe, I can identify with her experiences in matters of life in general, love, race, relationship break-ups, disappointments, societal attitudes and misconceptions about certain groups of people and family. Told in simple language, humorous and yet compelling way. I concluded that the writer's aim was to enlighten, teach, inform as well as entertain and Candice did just that. 

6. Washing Black by Esi Edugyan

I was drawn to this book because it was nominated for the Booker Prize, and most people were raving about it. In the opening pages, Washington Black launches the horrors of slavery at sugar plantations in Barbados. But he does not dwell on slavery. Instead, the author drifts towards the experiences of the free young slave who is chosen to be the helper of his master’s brother. As they explore their relationship and adventures together, Washington Black discovers that he is talented. He soon embraces life as a free man. A man, perhaps, seen as an 'equal to the white man'. I don’t know what to make of this story as the ending left me craving for more, wishing it was more. Something else. Oh, well. 

5. The Kiss Quotient by Helen Hoang

This #ownvoice romance novelist delivers a classic tale about Stella, who is an ambitious, intelligent, autistic young lady. Stella's mother keeps nagging her about finding a boyfriend. She wants her daughter to be 'normal', I guess. In the end, the sequence of events drives Stella to hire a male escort to show her the ‘ropes’ of love and sex in preparation for her real man. Now how many would do it I suspect, but hey, whatever works. An energetic, light read, a little bit predictable but enjoyable nonetheless. I am always drawn to heartwarming stories where love prevails.

4. Sycamore Row by John Grisham

This book grabbed me by the neck right from the beginning. A timber tycoon decides to hang himself from a sycamore tree as the title suggests and we soon discover that his handwritten will leaves a significant part of his fortune to his black housekeeper, not his children. You can imagine their horror. What causes even more of a stir is that another will written before the suicide rewards the children quite handsomely but excludes the housekeeper. The writer of the will was on Demerol, and this begs the question – did he have ‘testamentary capacity?’ As always, Grisham delivers a compelling legal case and I for one, love not just a good murder but a stirring courtroom drama where you sit at the edge of your seat, rooting for a character and praying for justice to prevail. 

3. The Good Immigrant by Nikesh Shukla

“If Africa was a bar, Zimbabwe would tell the story of how it fought bouncers to get inside.”

You know why I just had to slip that little excerpt in there, right?

Different writers, one Zimbabwean, of course, write unflinching essays about what it's like to live in a society plagued by racism and prejudices, among other things(Britain.) Just like the book, Slay in Your Lane, the book requires one to have nerves of steel for it takes no prisoners. If you can swallow some harsh truths of life, then this enlightening book is the one to pick. 

2. Her Last Move by John Marrs

I love a good murder! And the darker, the better. After reading the blurb, I was hooked. DS Becca is chasing a killer. The killer is watching her every move and is always a step ahead. As bodies continue to drop like flies, Becca's life gets in the way, and she has no choice but to seek help from experts in other fields. As the drama unfolds, one is taken on an adrenaline-pumping adventure. And Mr Marrs doesn’t disappoint.

Besides the books I’ve listed above, I also read Becoming by Michelle Obama,War Room by Chris Fabry (again), A Time to Kill and The Rain Maker by John Grisham and The Foundling by Paul Joseph and Fronckzak Alex Tresniowski. 

Okay, so none of my reads made Obama's list this year, who cares?! 

Here's to wishing you all a Happy New Year filled with many opportunities to read! 

  

Finding My Writing Voice

Stephen King says, ‘If you don't have time to read, you don't have the time (or the tools) to write. He is right. Nothing fires me up to write like reading a good book. 

I reckon writers, seasoned or burgeoning, will do well to read others and to explore all kinds of writing styles and genres. There are authors whose works have inspired me and informed my appreciation of the art of writing over the years. Authors that include Bryce Courtenay with his African tales, Tess Gerritsen, the former surgeon who draws from her medical experience, Christian author Chris Fabry, Maya Angelou, Chinua Achebe, Alice Walker, Naomi Alderman, to name but a few. 

But writers who want to grow and expand their horizon will understand that it is not enough to just read a good book. They should sit down and write, for it is only through the practice of writing that one gets to explore their thoughts and feelings, experiment with the various writing styles, and ultimately establish their own unique writing voice.

My writing has evolved over the years. Finding my writing voice has been and still is. The process can span for years as one seeks to perfect and establish their uniqueness in the writing world.

Even though I cite other authors in some of my writings and find their works intriguing, I relish being able to create original content of my own: a quote, a poem, a blog, an article or indeed a novel. 

I like to depict my own version of life as I draw from my own experiences, choose my own words and expressions. Over the years, I have discovered that writing is not so much about the words or phrases I use, but rather the way I use those words to depict the world around me that give character and authenticity to my writing. 

My kind of writing's exact nature should provoke, in my reader, specific thoughts and feelings. This way, the reader experiences what drives me and explore my heart and soul.

My experiences are my most significant resource from which I draw knowledge, wisdom, and understanding. I am a product of my own interpretation of the world. How I embrace, receive and digest my experiences determines the ‘product’ which is my message to the world. The end-product, which becomes palpable and tangible in all my writings 

My voice is the rhythm, the tone and the vibe the reader gets when they absorb and digest my works. It is that uniqueness in quality that separates me from other writers. It is writing in a way that does not seek to deceive or betray my personality or what I represent. When, in an instant, a reader recognises that vibe and uniqueness the second, they open my book to read. 

As a reader, I tend to gravitate towards certain books. My mood and needs at the time often determine which book I choose.  I also want a voice to appeal to my senses and to speak to my soul. Therefore, developing and establishing a reliable voice as a writer is your gift to the reader. It is your unique voice that gives the reader the motivation to pick your book over another. And the only reason a reader will keep coming back for more is the satisfaction and the established chemistry. In other words, they are getting, from you, something unique that no other writer can provide. When this kind of familiarity begins to happen, a writer can claim to have established their authentic writing voice. 

I am a versatile writer. I weave a blog is not the way I write a poem, an article or a novel. I derive pleasure in exploring different writing styles, offering different perspectives to diverse audiences. I should delve into uncharted territories and continue to evolve and not remain stuck in my comfort zone. I should be able to let loose and allow myself to explore the strange realms of imagination and create works of art. I am a writer, after all. 

But moving from my personal experiences and letting my imagination soar does not, in any way, take away my authority as a writer. If anything, stretching my creativity will take me to new and greater heights and allow me to develop facets of my character that I never knew existed. Not only do I extend my appreciation of the world at large and grow as a human being, but I also discover a new potential within me. This process of expansion, if I allow it to happen organically, believing in my powers and letting my personality shine, could be the unveiling of a ‘new self’. The self I was meant to become all along.  

And perhaps, just perhaps, I get to become the kind of writer the world has been waiting for all along!

Things That Keep Me Awake At Night.

Image courtesy of the internet

Sometimes it's the cold or the heat. Easily remedied by peeling off a layer or two of my covering, the hot water bottle or... 

On other days all it takes is a nagging word. That careless whisper among friends. A derogatory phrase or statement that unintentionally spills into my ears. I am not in the habit of eavesdropping, but I cannot 'unhear' the words spoken about me or to me. I spend minutes, hours, mulling as I try to decipher their meaning. The intention. When answers fail me, I remind myself of that all-important doctrine which says, I am the master of my thoughts. I have the power over my reactions. I choose what I entertain. So, I let sleeping dogs lie and drift off to sleep.

Sometimes it is the near-misses. Words I could have said to change an outcome. The missed opportunity. That wrong turn I made. If only I could undo it all. What is done is done, I finally let the harsh truth sink. It is only then that I begin to feel the weight of my eyelids.

Image courtesy of the internet.

Occasionally it is the hefty bills. Those red letters the postman keeps tossing through the letterbox. That pile I have not dared to open. The endless phone calls from the lender. As if one reminder is not enough. Don't they know that threats and final warnings will not change my circumstances overnight? That if wishes were horses, I would be buying their electricity and gas company? That I will be the CEO of the most magnificent bank in the world? Yeah, tell that to my sleep.  

Excitement. Joy. Superimposed upon worry. It could be the pains of motherhood. On the one hand, my heart bursts with pride to see my children grow. As time shifts them from one stage to the next, I hold my breath and hope they are learning what they need to learn. At night I break into a cold sweat when I imagine the world in a few years’ time. The time when they will have to fend for themselves. When I am no longer around? I pray I am a good role model. That I have done enough, doing enough. For now, I am glad they are sheltered in my bosom. But I worry the world will soon swallow them up. Things are constantly changing. Wherever they go, messages and indoctrinations are continuously being injected into their brains, subliminally or otherwise, through the internet and other channels. I hope and pray that our preparation will prevent them being tossed out to the sea. Or that when that happens, they can find the strength and courage to swim back to shore.

There are times when I lie awake at night planning and plotting. It’s not what you think. It usually starts with the panic that comes with the realisation that I have wasted the entire day, my whole life. As the guilt of hours spent watching the marathons of Scandal and Autopsy on Netflix rips through me, I go into full-blown panic mode. How could I let the precious hours go to waste without filling a page or two with inspired words, perhaps a bit of editing? My dreams will not materialise out of thin air. At which point I spring from my pillow and compile a comprehensive list of all my deserving accomplishments. Don’t get me wrong. I am grateful for the little things. After all, ‘gratitude shifts your energy and brings you more of what you want.’ I toss these platitudes around to quell despair. I give myself a pep talk - Bertha, you deserve to rest. You deserve some ‘me’ time. After all, you completed a chapter yesterday. You saved a life at work. Now, that is a good compromise, don't you think? 

Sometimes during the small hours of the night, I wrestle with my raging mind. How it shows no mercy by dragging me to back to yesteryear. Back to my roots. Those earlier times when my parents still roamed this earth. Before death snatched them away. As I lay my head on the pillow and squeeze my eyes shut, I swear I can see my father smiling at me. I can hear his laughter and smell his snuff which, even now, still tickles my nostrils and almost makes me break into a violent sneeze. 

The yearning for my mother's gentle touch also disturbs the night's tranquillity. I long to hear her sweet voice egging me on. Slowly, the fond memories turn to horror. As reality sets in, sweat and tears drench my nightgown and my pillow. I stare at the ceiling. There is nothing to see except darkness. Nothingness. The void left behind makes my heart jolt with grief. My chest tightens. Sometimes I can feel it being pulled sideways as if by the surgeon's retractor. God, why? Why torment me with such memories if there is nothing I can do to turn back the clock?

There are some moments during the night, which quite frankly, I could do with a pick and a shovel to bury ghosts. Relics from the past. Those friends and lovers with whom I have parted. Why open that Pandora's box if it only curtails my sleep with things that no longer concern me?  Thanks to social media, all it takes is a tap and a click to glimpse into someone's life. Poring over pictures and comparing. How the heart rests when one sees the bulge around their nemesis's waistline. One can't help but notice the banger sitting in their driveway. Hurray! My life is better than theirs. I have a cuter husband. The lies we tell ourselves when we succumb to such whims. I suppose it is human nature to wonder. But I would like to think that such nights are sparse and far in between.

I wish you all pleasant dreams. Come back soon. 

Take care!