Walking through the halls of a big publishing firm, the first thing that will strike you is the books. Books everywhere: stacked on shelves, counter-tops, desks, spilling out of drawers and jammed into untold boxes leaning precariously against the walls. Once you’ve realised that no, you haven’t walked into an alternate universe where the streets are paved with countless copies of last years’ The Girl on the Train clone, you’ll notice the people. The sea of white, middle class people who have the power to decide which voices get heard and which will molder away in obscurity.
As I stuff two years worth of accumulated junk into a giant suitcase, ready for my next big move, the question of nationality has hit me with full force. It’s something I’ve thought about for a while, but now that I’m moving to the the country of my forebearers, it has taken on a greater significance.
What is my nationality, how deeply am I affected by it, and is it even important?
To the guy who climbed up onto my hostel bunk, whispering “I want to give you pleasure” while telling me to take off my clothes…
Sometimes I write things. Most of it will never be seen.
*art by Eden James
What if I told you there are people, people who look just like you and me, who have the knowledge to open our eyes to whole new worlds. You’ve probably over-looked them, seeing nothing in their outward appearance to suggest the secrets just below the surface. They are the silent footfalls in a quiet store, the cryptic glance over a computer screen, the soft rustle of pages of a book you can’t quite make out.
Phew, November’s come and gone and so has nanowrimo. Although 1,667 words a day is not a crazy enormous task, there were definitely days that were a lot more work than others. Especially being at uni all day (so many exams!) and then working well into the evening, the last thing I felt like doing was being creative and writing a novel. Blegh.