TRISH NICHOLSON completed one of our creative writing courses in 2010. She recently won the Flash500 Writing Competition out of entries from 16 countries for her story, 'Runnin' the River'. Her story will be published in June. 

NATALIE MADDIGAN recently completed the Magazine Journalism Course and has already had two parenting articles accepted in Little Treasures magazine. What a fantastic achievement!

 JO HEDGES completed the Magazine Journalism Course in 2010. She recently wrote to say that she has had an article accepted by Weigh Less magazine, Outdoor Adventure and Quad SA magazine, as well as Bike SA.

Congratulations to all of you! This is a true testament to the fact that it can be done.   

GRADUATES

Well done to these students who recently completed their Writing College course:

• Alison Nortje passed the Basics of Creative Writing Course with merit
• Anne Cook completed the Write a Children's Book Course with merit
• Anton Nahman passed the Write a Novel Course with distinction
• Bernard Mackenzie completed the Travel Writing Course with distinction
• Caroline Greyling passed the Write a Novel Course with distinction
• Caryn Ross passed the Writing for Social Media Course with distinction
• Celia Becker passed the Travel Writing Course with distinction
• Chantel de Vos passed the Magazine Journalism Course
• Chelsea Haith completed the Short Story Writing Course with distinction
• Constance Kawelenga completed the Magazine Journalism Course with merit
• Dalene Hillicks passed the Basiese Kreatiewe Skryfkursus with distinction
• Daubert Vermeulen completed the Write a Novel Course with distinction
• Eleanor Talbot passed the Basics of Creative Writing Course with distinction
• Erika Grosskopf completed the Skryf 'n Roman Kursus
• Francinah Mashabela completed the Introduction to Poetry
• Fungisai Murugweni passed the Writing for the Web Course with merit
• Gillian Gilbride passed the Travel Writing Course with distinction
• Hettie Coetzee passed the Basics of Creative Writing Course with merit
• Ilse Watson passed the Basiese Kreatiewe Skryfkursus with merit
• Janette Stratton completed the Basics of Creative Writing Course with distinction
• Jenny Bertelsen passed the Basics of Creative Writing Course with distinction
• Karin van Zyl passed the Basiese Kreatiewe Skryfkursus with distinction
• Karina Steffen passed the Copywriting Course
• Kelly Maasdorp passed the Writing Coach Course
• Leila Wreyford passed the Magazine Journalism Course with merit
• Lorraine Aronson passed the Copywriting Course
• Marcio Goncalves completed the Write a Novel Course with distinction
• Mary Ann Soriano completed the Writing Coach Course with merit
• Minako Tokita passed the Basic Grammar Skills Course with distinction
• Natalie Maddigan completed the Magazine Journalism Course with merit
• Nomonde Madubula completed the Writing Coach Course
• Prisha Bhoola passed the Writing for the Web Course with distinction
• Sally Patterson completed the Magazine Journalism Course with merit
• Stanley Rorke completed the Magazine Journalism Course
• Tania Esmeyer passed the Magazine Journalism Course
• Wanita Fisher passed the Copywriting Course
• Willemien Jansen completed the Basiese Kreatiewe Skryfkursus with distinction
• Yael Barham-Smith passed the Short Story Writing Course with distinction

"Thank you. The course was great, and I have definitely grown and learnt a lot. Thinking about doing the Advanced Course now. Having a tutor is great. Leonie is a fantastic mentor. She is tough, on the ball and incredibly knowledgeable." Stanley Rorke, Magazine Journalism Course, April 2011

"I've had a very positive experience with the course - I enjoyed it very much and learned a lot as well." Janette Stratton, Basics of Creative Writing Course, April 2011

"Writing a novel was one of the biggest dreams I've ever had and SA Writer's College made it a reality. You made me challenge myself and in turn, I found an endless pool of creativity within which I never knew existed. I would recommend SA Writer's College to anyone who is serious about writing. Even to those who already completed their first manuscripts. You will be surprised what you will learn in the novel writing course. Once again, thank all of you at SA Writer's College! You guys are amazing!" Daubert Vermeulen, Write a Novel Course, April 2011

"I thoroughly enjoyed the course and Carina was an amazing tutor. She answered all my questions, gave constructive feedback, was encouraging and really helped me to improve my writing and get the maximum out of the course. I really enjoyed the course, learned a lot and it met all my expectations." Willemien Jansen, Basiese Kreatiewe Skryfkursus, April 2011

"Yvonne was excellent. She really knew what she was talking about and I held her opinion in high regard throughout. She was also very efficient at coming back with module feedback or to answer any queries. I was very impressed to have a Qantas Media Award winning journalist as a tutor." Natalie Maddigan, Magazine Journalism Course, April 2011

"Alex Smith was an absolute joy to work with. Her feedback was both extremely encouraging and honest. Her guidance was truly amazing and essential for me to learn everything there is to know about the wonderful world of novel writing. The fact that she is a published writer is great because we as aspiring writers get the sense that she understands all our fears and thus is able to help us through it. Thanks to her, I have found the right avenue for my writing aspirations. I wouldn't hesitate to recommend this course to anyone who asks." Marcio Goncalves, Write a Novel Course, March 2011

"Ginny is an excellent tutor. Her kind comments help you to correct your mistakes whilst still encouraging you at the same time. Despite her huge portfolio, Ginny manages to make you feel that you too could someday be successful. I have learnt so much from her. I started off just wanting to see if I could write and now I am submitting every story I finish. Overall, the course was excellent. Good value for money!" Yael Barham-Smith, Short Story Writing Course, March 2011

"This was a very worthwhile course to do. I would like to recommend it to anyone who is interested in taking an English Language correspondence course. My lecturer was really patient and very competent. Her feedback was very thorough and explained in an easy-to-understand way for improvement of my writing. Her advice was very helpful." Minako Tokita, Basic Grammar Skills Course, March 2011

"Working with Alex Smith has been an absolute pleasure. The insights and suggestions have proved invaluable and each assessment gave me energy and motivation to get stuck into my novel again. Alex has an incredible way with words and can even turn the negative into something intensely motivational! This was a fantastic course and I enjoyed it immensely. The biggest draw-card was the one-on-one tutoring from my mentor, which was incredibly helpful, positive, honest and motivating." Caroline Greyling, Write a Novel Course, March 2011

Congratulations to Eleanor Talbot from South Africa who is the winner of last month's My Writing Journey competition. Eleanor wins R1000.00.

The next My Writing Journey competition closes on 30 June. Entries can be sent to Nichola Meyer at nichola@nzwriterscollege.co.nz.

Entry is open to any newsletter reader from any country. 

The Writer in the Closet - by Eleanor Talbot

I'll be honest. I don't really consider myself a writer. John Steinbeck is a writer. Cannery Row is so effortless and quiet that you can hardly feel yourself reading it - it is as if you are sitting in a comfy chair with someone telling you about a set of lives been and gone. By comparison I am simply an individual who possesses the ability to hold a pen. The hope is that one day the light of the Almighty, if she's out there, will shine down upon me and I will be blessed with the gift of story. But as I plod though my wee writing exercises it sometimes feels like I must be kidding myself. People like me don't become writers. So to save myself any embarrassing conversations, I don't say a word of my creative pursuits to anyone except my nearest. If I do happen to get a small 20 word article published one day, then I can jump out the cupboard and yell, "Surprise!" to the rest of the world. Until then, this is my guise as the writer in the closet.

I have been jotting down ramblings of a nondescript nature for years. But my writing journey only properly began when I came crashing down to earth with an ungraceful bump. My partner is a fancy editor at a major newspaper and I gave him something that I had been working on for close on a year to read. Because of my sweaty toil, I was as anxious as I was shy to show someone. I had emailed him a copy of the thing and waited patiently for him to make a time to sit down and go over it. It was a usual Sunday morning with the chaos of sticky children climbing the walls making me wonder if nature really is all that wonderful, when he announced that he would have a quick look at my story. I plonked the toddler in front of The Evil Television to keep him from setting the house on fire and plugged the baby with a pacifier. Partner sat at our dining room table reading while I perched in my hokey rocking chair watching his every move.

Pursed lips, intent look. He seems interested. That's good.

Whoa. He's looking down at his T-shirt. What is he doing that for when he has my story in front of him?

No. It can't be!

Yes, yes he is actually licking his finger and rubbing a mark on his shirt. How is this possible?

Don't say anything. Just keep quiet. People do all sorts of things when they are absorbed in things. He probably has no idea he is doing it.

Now he has put his head in his left hand in a... bored way. Hold on, I am sure I did that when I was reading that Swedish spy novel and that was a gripping read. Doesn't mean a thing.

"So how is it going, love?'"

Foraging in beard, turning bottom set of teeth over top lip in a sort of mock English bulldog way. "Fine, still not finished."

What was the dog look about? Should I be concerned?

"Ok. Can I get you anything?"

"Um, maybe some tea. While I read."

You get the idea. They say that you can tell a lot of what people feel by their body language. And it turns out that is pretty accurate. At one point I thought he had fleas because he was scratching so much. Things were not looking good. The first thing he asked me was what my 'target audience' was. Naturally this sent me straight into a blind rage. As you do.

"What do you mean my target audience?" I barged at him. "People who can read perhaps?"

"I just mean it looks like you are pitching this at a certain audience and I am wondering who you think they are."

"You hate it. You think I am useless and I should give it up."

"No. I didn't say that," he moaned. "You should never have given this to me for an opinion."

"Well, I didn't expect you to be talking about audiences!" I shrieked sending the baby into a tonsil-vibrating yell. "I wanted to know what you thought of the story!"

"Well," the pause was longer than two heartbeats. Maybe three. "I think it has potential. But it needs... work." 

 Read the rest  

NICHOLA MEYER has been the principal of The Writers' College (SA Writers' College, NZ Writers' College and UK Writers' College) for the past seven years. She has a background in lecturing at secondary and tertiary institutions. She's also a journalist specialising in parenting and women's issues for several magazines, including O, The Oprah Magazine, Femina and Baby & Me. 

In this interview, Trish Nicholson lures Nichola from behind-the-scenes to pick her brain about the nature of writing.

Trish: Hi, Nichola. I'd like to jump straight in with the obvious question. Can writing really be taught? As someone who has set up a successful online writing college, what are your thoughts on this?

Nichola:  That's an interesting question, and there are a few sides to the answer.

I believe any art form can and should be taught. Great painters apprentice under a master; musicians study their instrument for years before they stand on a stage; most well known novelists have studied writing. Every field of expertise requires training and development. Writing is no exception.

There are, of course, issues around how writing can be taught. Most would agree that sitting in a class absorbing hours of theory is not going to give you the results you want. You have to practise your craft, over and over. You need someone focusing intently on specific writing skills: your sentence lengths, your style, structure, content, and the logic in your writing. Your teacher needs to point out to you, again and again: "Here you have used dangling participles four times in one paragraph. Get rid of them. You're using passive voice. Throw in active verbs. Here are five clichés." And so on.

Writing is a craft with a specific skill set that can be learnt, honed. Finding your voice as a writer is a different matter; usually a personal journey accompanied by not just a little pain and frustration.

Finally, there's the question of "Can writing be taught to anyone"? And here the answer would be, almost anyone. It really depends on how far the writer is willing to go with the training. It was Stephen King who wrote in On Writing: "...While it is impossible to make a competent writer out of a bad writer, ... it is possible, with lots of hard work, dedication and timely help, to make a good writer out of a merely competent one." 

T: I think many writers would agree with what you say, and the point made by Robert McKee in his classic on writing, Story: yes, you can write a story without going into the theory - even a good one - but to write consistently good stories you have to learn the craft. But the Writer's College has students from different countries. Does this pose additional problems for teaching?

Our journalism students have society's best interests at heart. Here are some extracts from their recently produced work - definitely worthy of publication.

Excerpt from "Go on - rock the boat!" By Constance Kawelenga (Magazine Journalism Course)
 

Its 16.35 pm. Pam has a slim red leather bag slung over her shoulder and is about to dash off for home when Martha, her boss, pulls the classic: "Hey Pam, I know you're on your way out, but could you just check this for me so I can send it off tonight? I really want everyone to read through it before tomorrow's meeting."

Gritting her teeth, Pam can feel the usual resentment rising. It's not fair! Tomorrow's meeting was booked a week ago, so why should she suffer the consequences of her boss' lack of planning?

Fantasizing about a couple of well-placed blows to Martha's rather aristocratic-shaped nose, Pam nevertheless manages to force out: "Sure, no problem"; her downcast eyes hiding her irritation.

By the time she is done checking, it is thirty minutes later and the afternoon traffic has well and truly set in.

To say that Pam does not like confrontation is to make the understatement of the decade. For her, self-preservation is synonymous with retreat. She can detect a classic confrontation a mile away, and with the dexterity of a trained boxer, ward it off before it gets too close. She has learnt to spot the classic aggression signals in the other party: the raising of voice, agitated movements, the widening of eyes, change in posture - and she has mastered the optimal cave-in point to a fine art!

Excerpt from "Supersizing our youth: Sweet sixteen and what next?" By Micharn Pollock (Magazine Journalism Course)
 

Bieber fever broke out before Justin's pimples did; eight year old Romeo Beckham's sunglasses designs put us in the shade and teenage fashion fundi Tavi Gevinson is teaching Vogue about vogue.  

Friedrich Nietzsche once said "He who would learn to fly one day must first learn to stand and walk and run and climb and dance; one cannot fly into flying." This does not seem to be true today. Jaden Christopher Syre Smith, son of Will Smith and Jada Pinkett Smith is an American child actor, dancer, rapper, songwriter (breathe!) and hit fame at only eight years old. Gevinson began her fashion blog at age eleven and a year later she partnered with the London-based Borders & Frontiers to design and sell her own t-shirt.

Most people work their whole lives towards moments like those. Everything has been fast forwarded and it's no wonder we are turning into a group of middle-aged adults who feel like failures if we haven't yet paid cash for that loft in New York.

"No one wants to be average, so everyone is trying to outdo each other. People are speaking about their business plans and I'm like hell, I haven't even finished first year," says Gabbi, an eighteen year old student.

In the past six weeks our Travel Writing students have taken us to new and exciting locations both across the seas and in our own backyard. Take a sneak peak at some excerpts from their writing.

Excerpt from "Boere, Brits and Bazaar Battles" by Bernard Mackenzie (Travel Writing Course) 

Once a year the Riebeeck East NG Kerk Bazaar brings Boere and Ingilsmanne together for a tjop, dop and a council-of-war; and culminates in a clash of tactics in a scrap for homemade wares and tasty goodies in the kerksaal.

The Boere gave the Brits a rough time in the Anglo-Boer War and a visit to the NG Kerk Bazaar in Riebeeck East showed us why. The orderly, patiently queuing English buitelanders were no match for the locals' guerrilla tactics; tactics similar to those of their shrewd and adaptable ancestors.

Extended family units had split into smaller commandos and scouted out the bazaar venue earlier, peeping through windows and identifying key areas of assault. Information was gathered, analysed over a beer and a curry-bunny and battle plans were formulated.

Excerpt from "Modern City, Ancient Art" by Gillian Gilbride (Travel Writing Course)

If a white board is the perfect canvas for a painting, then the desert may just be the perfect canvas for building a city. Dubai, with its tallest tower, indoor ski-field and Palm island has certainly met that creative challenge.

Although outwardly modern in appearance, Dubai has strong traditional roots and a revered traditional art form - Arabic calligraphy. What place does this ancient craft have in Dubai's modern city of today?

Gillian Gilbride trails the calligrapher's pen around Dubai to find out.

Mohammed sits cross-legged. Poised in one hand is his reed pen dripping black ink. Pressed under his other hand is a camel-skin leather parchment. He wipes his brow, cautious that the sweat on his forehead does not stain the page before his pen does. His hand is steady though, sturdy with the knowledge of his masters. Years of practice culminates as the black ink pools at the tip of his pen. The proportion and line of the stroke must be exact, or else the parchment is ruined.

Who is this Mohammed? Is he real? And does he exist in Dubai?

 Simon Goodwin ruminates on the vagrant who lives on his steps (Short Story Writing Course)
 

Dan was a quirky feature of the building. He seemed to bother no one, so he was left to his devices by day and by night, at the left hand edge of the wide stone step outside our building's front door.

He left no mark behind, no mess of debris, when he went wherever he went when he was not camped out there. He could be gone for a week or more and then, in the evening, coming home from the library or from a restaurant, you would see a pile of clothes hunkered on the step, and know he had returned.

He never begged from us, the tenants. He touched his cap in deference to each of our comings and goings and then smiled at us as we passed. When he slept, which he often did, he never snored or drooled, he would just be still and hold his eyes lightly closed and withdraw deeper into his layers of woollen overcoat and scarves and fleece.

So Dan lived, just inside our collective peripheral vision. I was mainly attracted to the area by its crime statistics. They were unusually low and stable in a city of rising violence. My parents were nervous at my move and were always insisting I called them each night to let them know I was home safely. The rest of the city seemed overrun with the homeless and gangs and drugs and dirt while our little corner was quietly flourishing. Dan was an inconsistency, but one that stopped at the guilt we felt for living clean. He was an adornment, the spray-on dirt to our under-used SUV.

I was lucky to get an apartment in that block. I had to rush home for my chequebook and get back to the realtor's office before she closed. She told me she had several other interested parties considering the matter keenly and I had better get in quick. I believed her.

It was too good an opportunity to miss, this little oasis of calm in the middle of a city seemingly on the brink of civil unrest, if you believe what the tabloids were spouting. Although it wasn't just the tabloids, it was friends who had been held up, colleagues, acquaintances. Everyone knew someone who had suffered violence at the hands of the city's unimpressed and impoverished underclass, or had been a victim themselves.

The windows of our apartments had no bars, the stairway no graffiti, the halls no smell of urine. Dan, sleeping out on the step was just our toe in the mudded waters of the city's currents. 

Sally Ann Fisher deals with an isolated woman. (Short Story Writing Course)

 As she sat in her armchair in front of the dying fire, Isabella clenched her fists. Alone in the house, she looked across to the heavily curtained windows, the rich, red brocade long since faded to the colour of that dull, sad, washed out pink so often favoured by old women. As her body strained to detect the sound again, Isabella absentmindedly wondered if she too would eventually succumb to the lure of the faded pink cardigan. God forbid.

 There it was again. Closer, bolder. She wasn't scared; she was filled with rage. What else would she have to do to ensure there was absolute silence when the night dark descended?

She had arranged to have the perimeter of the house completely stripped of any sort of garden. She wanted nothing to feel it had a claim on her house, or her attention. Not a bird, not a rodent, not a neighbourhood cat - and certainly no human being; especially a human being. Isabella Gordon had not had a meaningful conversation with another person in almost five years.

She had always been particular with whom she shared her time and her thoughts, but now she shared them with no-one. Well, there was Dan, but those stilted, awkward exchanges of words didn't really count as connection. Far from it. They were painful for both parties. She kept them to a minimum.

At 45, Isabella Gordon was a beautiful woman, sharp and quick witted. She daily smirked at the irony of that. What point being quick-witted when the only witnesses to that were the walls and furniture she moved around each day? It amused her anyway. Never vain about her looks, she did admire her intellect. ...

... Isabella reached for the candlestick on the side table to the right of her chair. She slowly lifted it onto her lap, reassured by the weight and coolness of the family heirloom. Heavy enough to cause injury, cold enough to keep her focused on what she would do next.

Kirti Ranchod gets into the mind of a wife who has become a doormat. (Short Story Writing Course) 

Why does he want me back? Probably because of Leila. She is beautiful. She has just turned four months now and has learnt to smile when she sees me. She gurgles soothingly even when asleep as if she is having the most indulgent, contented dreams. 

When I first heard that I was going to have her I was deliriously happy. Kieran and I were ecstatic initially, but it now seems to be so long ago, in an imagined magic, faraway land but without the expected happily ever after. Kieran's doubts and anxieties soon tempered my delight and seeped into my skin. I could do nothing right. I was eating too much or too little or not healthy enough. I was working too hard but not doing enough for him. I was using my pregnancy as an excuse to get fat and lazy and be self-indulgent but not taking enough care of his unborn baby. I wanted too much, was too needy and yet he hated me spending time with my opinionated friends and family.

I realised that he was only doing this because he cared about my health and Leila's health. If he didn't care he wouldn't notice what I was eating or be concerned when I got home late from work or get upset about the time spent away from him. Right? That may be the reason he wants me back - he knows about all my imperfections and carelessness and wants to protect me and Leila, because he loves us that much...Right?

Excerpt from her final scene, by Eleanor Talbot (Basics of Creative Writing Course)

Marc clacked his way to his side of the bed, buttoning down his pyjamas. He would have liked a pair of fleecy slippers - the ones where the wool bulged out the top, but Franny wouldn't have it. Unhygienic and filthy, she had snorted, producing a pair of shiny leather slips-ons.

"Damn pregnancy weight," sighed Franny. "Boot camp push-ups for three weeks and nothing."  

Cold sheets squeaked as Franny rubbed the lumps beneath her baggy nightdress, screwing up her scrubbed face.

 "Boot camp?"

"G.I. Jim," said Franny. "Channel 154."

Marc looked at her over the top of his glasses and picked up one of the books from the neat pile on his bedside table, all in the theme of war.

"It doesn't help that I have constant interruptions - either a colicking baby or a mad barking dog or -" she paused for emphasis, "both."

"Hmm," murmured Marc, stealing a glance at his spitty miniature in a small frame on the stark wall.

But what a little prince he is. Which reminds me, I really must spend a day looking at the role of dogs in the modern day military. Definitely unexplored territory.

Franny took out the tape measure from her bedside table and began her daily measurements: first hips, then middle then thighs. Marc sighed and turned his attention back to his book. His latest obsession - The Battle of Hastings - had him brooding as to how he was going to represent the cavalry. Should he import the horse figurines in from Austria? Generally the Austrians did a much better job in terms of the realism of the models than the Chinese did. But with meticulous painting, many of the tonal flaws could be eradicated, he reasoned, thinking of cost.

Excerpt from her final scene, by Janette Stratton (Basics of Creative Writing Course)  

Professor Lambton followed Teri as closely as he dared. He could see her wonderful hair moving in time with his breath and smell her shampoo. Murmuring "Behold, thou art fair," to himself, he leaned even closer. Too close. He knocked her backpack and she staggered. He tried to catch her by the elbows, but she was already out of reach, flowing down the stairs in a fluid, loose-limbed rush that he couldn't hope to emulate. He fancied himself in good shape but he had never been an athletic man, preferring intellectual pursuits to sporting ones. He persevered though, drawn on by her hair and the glimpses he caught of her hips swinging down the stairs.

By the time they reached the ground floor he was blowing hard and could feel runnels of sweat on his cheeks and neck. He was wearing one of his good shirts, the one with the snaking blue paisley pattern, and he hoped the colours would conceal any clammy patches. Teri hurried on outside, forcing him to rush after her. "Teri, wait. I just want to talk to you about your last essay. You make some fascinating points about Shakespeare's sexuality and I thought we might discuss them over coffee at my place. It'll be warmer there."

"Thanks for the offer Professor, but I have to go. I'm meeting friends." Teri peered around her.

He wondered what she could find so interesting about the courtyard. All he saw was the concrete barbarism of the Arts building, the grey paving stones that some philistine of an architect had thought would enliven the courtyard, and a few benches that no one ever used because of the winds funnelling around the Arts building. Even the water feature was predominantly concrete.  

We are thrilled to announce the winners of our 2011 SA Writers' College Short Story Competition.

1. The overall winner is "The Tokoloshe" by Hannah Green

2. The runner-up place is awarded to Shelley Blignaut for her story "Watching Sunsets We Never See"

3. In third place is Jessica Liebenberg's story "Final Disposition" 

Anamé van Zyl's "Notes on a Narrative of Becoming (Possibly Nitrogen)" was in fourth place and Venisa Chinnasamy's "The Brick House" was fifth. A huge congratulations to all of you.

The following writers receive an Honours Award. Their stories stood out for being both enjoyable to read and well written.

Congratulations to... 

• Catherine Jarvis for "The Residents of Wendell Court"
• Gomotsegang Motswatswe for "Painted Sorrow"
• Chelsea Haith for "The Colour White"
• Janine Egan for "Stones in his Bed"
• Tom Szendri for "Migrants"
• Carla Lever for "A Part of It"
• Cullan Maclear for "Listen"

This year was a bumper one for entries: we received 262 South African stories for our national short story writing competition. The theme was "moving on" and stories centred around forgiveness, death, grief and second chances. Some of the stories moved us to tears!

Because of the quantity and quality of the entries, the selection process was exciting, but also more challenging than ever with so many excellent stories jostling for top spot. Read the judges' comments and you will note that each judge seemed to have a favourite, with no winning story enjoying all the limelight.  

Here are excerpts from our top five stories.
 

"Tokoloshe" by Hannah Green

I never meant to hurt Amy; let's make that clear from the start.

I did what I thought was best for my child. Isn't that what we all try to do? And if it doesn't work out the way we planned, well, can we be the ones to blame?

Four months ago, Amy and I left the harsh, fast-paced city of Johannesburg for the promises and potential that Durban held. It was hard to leave our home but there were too many memories and too few jobs for me to stay. Within a week of being retrenched, my disillusioned wife kicked us out. Amy's mother would fight to keep the house, but she wanted little to do with her eleven year old daughter. That's when I made the decision to move on.

With Amy in mind, I phoned my uncle Koos, reminded him of various favours owed and organized a new job and a place to stay before we arrived in Durban. The garden cottage I was promised turned out to be a hastily renovated domestic workers quarter from the pre-Apartheid era. The two bedrooms, bathroom and open plan kitchen-living area were so dark and cramped that a fresh coat of paint and a couple of rugs couldn't hide the harsh concrete beneath. I was disappointed, but I couldn't afford better so we tried to make it work.

I'm not sure when the trouble began. In hindsight, the warning signs were there from the start.

Read the full story here. 

'Watching Sunsets We Never See' by Shelley Blignaut

I seldom get impatient with him, but today I am. Today I am tired, cold and miserable. Mr Z3 zapped me again and pretty Miss Toyota Tazz ignored me.

I sigh.

"I am blind not deaf, you know," he says and guilt rises like bile in my throat. "It will make you feel better. It will take your mind off the cold." I am reminded that he too can feel the cold. Sometimes I think that his lack of sight blinds him from the rest of the harsh realities of life. I lean on my hands and feel the icy bridge railing sting my elbows though my thin jersey. The tall buildings loom down at us like grey tombstones blotting out the sun. The grey clouds form a low ceiling and the air is rank with pollution. The cars are not moving underneath the bridge and it makes me think that we should be down there.

It would be a good time to be down there. People are always tired on their way home, more likely to give you something to get you away. But utamkhula wants to be up here, watching the sunset that he cannot see.

The cars snake along the long length of the grey road and wind their way up the hill to their big garages by the sea.

I try to look for the people.

It is always easier when I see people. But all I can see is old Sara with her thick lip and arm tucked underneath her shirt, hoping that some stupid driver would feel pity for the one-armed lady. She gets it worse than we do, if the drivers don't feel pity for the blind old man they are definitely not going to feel it for the tik addict weaving in and out of the traffic with a badly disguised fake deformity.

"It's beautiful," I start and I watch how his face relaxes. "The sun is low in the sky and it has streaked it so that it looks likes those jam cakes that mama makes, a layer of berry jam, a layer of strawberries and a layer of yellow sponge." He laughs.

Read the full story here. 

'Final Disposition' by Jessica Liebenberg

Jacob lay still, staring up at the white ceiling. He hadn't moved for a while, and had begun to wonder if this was by choice, or if it was because he was unable to do so. The doors to the room whirred open and The Man entered.

'Mr. Bennet. Have you made a decision?'

Jacob eyed The Man suspiciously. He was a strange apparition; his meagre amount of hair was combed all to the left side, with pink scalp shimmering through. He wore tight jeans over which his sturdy belly hung like an overinflated balloon, giving the impression that at any moment the buttons on his shirt could shoot off, pinging in the direction of Jacob. The overall effect made The Man look much like a potato roped into a clean white sack.

The Man had pulled out a clipboard, and growing impatient, he shot off another question.

'Mr. Bennet, have you decided where you are going?'

Jacob scrunched his eyebrows together like a worm curling into itself before it extended and propelled forward.

'To Heaven...?' Jacob suggested cautiously.

'I'm not sure we discussed that option,' The Man replied while taking the pen from his clip-board and sucking on the end of it. He looked absentmindedly over Jacob and out of the window on the opposite side of the room.

'Is that the one in the Free State? Because you know, you can claim only a limited amount on your policy for transportation costs.'

'So Heaven is too far?'

'I could check for you.' The Man took the pen from his mouth and wiped it clean on Jacob's bed sheets before scribbling a note on the page in front of him.

'Notes on a Narrative of Becoming (Possibly Nitrogen)' by Anamé van Zyl

A grad student with half a can of beans on his flannel shirt (why is it quirky for an overgrown drain on his parents' savings to wear his pyjamas to the library but cause for intervention when I do it?) complimented me on my beard this morning. If I were still permitted to keep razors in the house, now would be the time to get rid of the ursine mess.

Dr. Call-Me-Michael-Please-We're-All-Equals-Here (But-One-of-Us-Does-Get-to-Tell-The-Other-What-to-Do) recommends that I reread my own work to remind myself that there is a reason for me to go on; my talent. What he doesn't understand is that my mildly successful "extraordinarily enlightening" debut, Dostoyevsky's Keeper ("a post-modern ballad of the solipsistic slide of a tortured mind into unchecked banality") is absolutely painful for me even to look at. Not because it reminds me of her. Not in that way. She hated it. (It's funny how she called it morbid, called me morbid. You know, in retrospect. Because of what she did. It's not the type of thing I'm recommended to laugh at, but it is funny. Old-school ironic, at least.) It's because of the cover art. It's awful.

The whole process of getting the thing out there was at that critical design stage when everything happened, and God knows I just couldn't have cared less at the time. But if I'd known that she'd do it anyway, and that they'd gone and devised this monstrosity with which my only complete novel would be associated for all eternity? Well, I'd have checked my e-mail every now and then, maybe spent a few hours away from the cold exterior of her bedroom door (when she'd slam it, I'd go sit next to it, caress it like the back of her hand. I think in those last few weeks, maybe her door became her hand. With it she certainly spoke a peculiar and effective brand of sign language).

'The Brick House' by Venisa Chinasamy

Sanna had received a letter from the Council. Another batch of low cost houses was finally constructed. All Sanna had to do was turn up at the Council offices with the deposit and sign for the house.

The previous time she'd saved enough cash for the deposit for a brick house, her teenage son had gone and squandered her hard-earned money on fancy inzigubu. This time she'd hidden her savings in a hole under her makeshift bed. And told no one about it.

Earlier this morning, while he'd gone to the bathroom, she knelt down, jabbed her fingers into the ground till it gave way and retrieved the tin can. After counting out the notes twice she tucked the wad into her bra and headed for the Council offices. "Sanibonani!" she boomed at everyone she walked past. The spring in her step could not be missed.

At last! A brick house of my own. She smiled to herself.

The queue at the Council offices moved like a half-asleep tortoise. At intervals Sanna stood up and stretched, a smile pasted on her face. Three hours later she waited her turn still. Officials went off on their tea break and strolled back three quarters of an hour later.

His shirt struggling to remain buttoned, an official waddled into the booth. Too many long tea breaks, thought Sanna. He twitched his eyebrow, beckoning her to approach. She greeted him. He did not respond.

Has fear of the unknown stopped you from turning to freelance writing as a source of income? Here are some articles that may change your mind:

Beyond Print Media - The Market Online

Freelance Rates - How much should you be charging?

Closing date (late deadline): 20 May 2011

• Lightship International Literary Competition 2011

Closing date: 30 June 2011

• Bridport Award

 Closing date: 30 June 2011

• Cinnamon Press Writing Awards

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• Fish Short Story Prize (2011/2012) 

Closing date: 30 November 2011

Is your writing aimed more for your local readership? Entries to country-specific competitions can be found on the bottom right-hand corner of our individual home pages:

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