Writing about writing
According to the novel citizen, the writer wields raw and tyrannical power, killing characters irresponsibly and driving them towards tragic ends without giving those characters the chance to tell their stories the way they want.
WHICH name do we give to the act of writing about writing? I mean like when a character in a novel mentions or is reading a real novel by a real author. Ok, let me give an example from Tendai Huchu’s “The Magistrate, The Maestro & The Mathematician”. The Magistrate’s daughter Chenai is reading “Harare North” and she asks her father this question: “Dad, if this guy cannot be bothered to learn proper English, why did he write a novel?” I can bet a few bond notes, I am sure when she asked that question, she had just read this paragraph:
“I walk on the white line with suitcase on my head. Nothing can hit my head. I feeling like umgodoyi - the homeless dog that roam them villages scavenging until brave villager relieve it of its mis- ery by hit its head with rock. Umgodoyi have no home like the winds. That’s why umgodoyi’s soul is tear from his body in rough way. That’s what everyone want to do to me, me I know.”
So while reading Huchu’s novel and you come across this reference to “Harare North”, what do you do next? If you are an avid reader who enjoys literature, you will look for a copy of “Harare North”.
So back to my question: Which name do we give to writing about writing?
So far the book that is refusing to leave my head because of its narrative style and storyline is “Famous All Over Town” by Danny Santiago. Do you want to know why? Read this: “The sun was shining on my face. Nobody had answered my prayers for rain. I lay there asking myself ‘What next. What next?’” What I know is that in this fictional project I am waking on, which features this grown up and retired Red Robot security officer with a penchant for voluminous books like “War and Peace”, I will make reference to “Famous All Over Town”. Probably the retired security officer has a copy in his room where books are competing for limited space with his wife, kids and vazukuru.
When you allude to another novel in your novel we call that intertextuality.
The thing is, people converse. So books converse as well. They talk to each other. They praise each other. They make fun of each other. They create parodies of each other. The Zim dancehall youths know this style very much. They make songs speak to other songs. The result is aesthetically interesting and enriching!
It’s not just reference to a text that builds intertextuality. Sometimes, it’s reference to an author. Ignatius Mabasa refers to Memory Chirere in “Imbwa Yemunhu”. He even refers to Manfred Hodson Hall at the University of Zimbabwe. Who wouldn’t want to read such a book?
Intertextuality is the basis of postmodern thinking. The idea is that everything has already been written and there is no big idea to write about really. But that cannot stop us from writing. We can even create more beautiful literature by amalgamating many of the ideas of intelligent writers who have written before us. Just imagine a text that is more like an assemblage of Charles Mungoshi, Dambudzo Marechera, Yvonne Vera, NoViolet Bulawayo, Brian Chikwava, Pettina Gappah, Memory Chirere and . . . probably myself. Wouldn’t such a text make a riveting read?
What I am trying to say here, which, unfortunately, is not reflected in the heading of this small discussion, is that a writer, or anyone who dreams of becoming one, should be a reader. All the examples I have given here demonstrate how these writers are very serious readers. Part of the reason why a lot of mediocre stuff is being churned out is the reluctance of writers to read. There are certain clichés that one expects writers to know by now. But I am not surprised when I encounter several pages of clichés in one text, especially where evidence shows that the clichés are there because the writer thinks they have come up with something new and special. I am not surprised because not reading widely is very common these days.
But writing about writing reaches its most interesting level when a character passes a vote of no confidence on the writer. Ignatius Mabasa experiments with that in “The Novel Citizen” (Writing Free, 2011). One, cold winter morning, as the narrator is shuffling to work, he sees huddled figure on the pavement and assumes it’s one of our street denizens. Because it is cold, the narrator offers the street denizen his jacket. But the street denizen refuses and tells the narrator that all he wants is an opportunity to tell his story the way he wants and not the way the regime of the writer wants.
According to the novel citizen, the writer wields raw and tyrannical power, killing characters irresponsibly and driving them towards tragic ends without giving those characters the chance to tell their stories the way they want. So the novel citizen has escaped the novel world to come and tell his story to the world, to warn the world that the story they would read when the writer finally publishes his novel does not reflect the wishes of the novel citizen.
The writer’s inordinate and tyrannical control of novel citizens is not, according to the escaped renegade, a sign of power but of weakness:
Most writers are weak. They can’t stand being challenged by the characters they think they have created. They want control. There is no democracy in novels - we are victims of the pen-wielding writer because through the pen the writer has the power to determine what you say, even if it is not what you wanted to say.
For me, this was a masterstroke by Mabasa. This was a satirical evaluation of the undemocratic tendencies of the writing process itself. After reading the short story, I asked myself: “How on earth did Mabasa think of this?” But then, the Irene Staunton-edited collection, “Writing Free”, in which we find Mabasa’s short story, is all about imagining outside the box. That is what “writing free” is all about. I think Mabasa’s short story successfully paid homage to the title of this collection.