i never studied journalism. i never went to rhodes or uct, never spent hours discussing kerouac or the nuances of post-structural literary theory as it applies to Apartheid-era writing. but i knew i liked writing. i was making up stories as soon as i conceived of the ‘I’ and as a kid would spend hours in front of the mirror dialogueing different characters (now i just leave off the mirror…).
i studied design when i left school because i was ‘good at art’ and my parents thought graphic design was the sensible thing do. studying english wasn’t even on the radar because what career could be forged from that? right? (actually, considering the pay, they weren’t far wrong.)
when i got back to sa i muscled my way into the magazine industry because it seemed easier than warring out a novel alone that i was sure would end up another dusty bookshelf filler in a dusty second-hand bookstore.
if it even got so far as to be printed on actual paper.
i imagined rejection letter after rejection letter drifting down from the lofty heights of a faceless publisher’s desk and falling like bricks on my little, fragile sense of self.
funny that i thought magazines would be easier.
i’m considering writing that book now.