Cornelia Fick's Blog

My book of short stories will be free on Amazon from 5 to 9 October. I wrote this collection of short stories during the MA Creative Writing course at Rhodes University. I found the experience exhilarating and explored different ways of telling a story, which is evident in this collection.

Below an extract from Akere, a fantasy. The meaning of Akere in Africtionary: a word used in Setswana and Yoruba languages. In Setswana it means “isn’t it?” or “is it not?” while in Yoruba, it can mean a diligent person, a small frog.

“You were watching the mating dance of the deer-men. They had formed two lines with their antlers held high. You noticed that their white and tan hair lay flat on their bodies. Kick-kick, shuffle-shuffle. High jump. Forward, backward. Side to side. Their hooves, polished for the occasion, reflected the light from the blue haze of the fertility goddess, a statue of a mother and child. The air was filled with cologne from their musk glands situated under one of their back hooves.
Your eye fell on a tall one. His antlers had many branches. When he danced, his hind leg muscles rippled. You saw that he could probably run fast. He was so taken up by the movement that his loose lips peeled back to reveal the tough membrane of his top gums and uneven lower teeth. You were amused. Your eyes met and then he was dancing for you alone.
Later his loose lips fulfilled its promise of being a good kisser. Then Jessie appeared. She sat down at your table, uninvited, drinking, staring at him from under her lashes until he felt the heat of her gaze. Her unmistakable offering entrapped him. Glancing from a maybe to a sure thing, he was in a quandary. And then he was gone.
Amid the merriment you were sad. You had lost your suitor, your best friend and part of your motherland. You noticed that there were no flowers in the occupied territory. Then you remembered that the deer-men ate the grass, plants, flowers, buds, twigs, stems and the leaves. When food was scarce they ate the bark off the trees.”

I found my confidence as a writer on this course for which I’ll always be grateful.

If you’d like to read my collection please click here

I recently did a course on postgraduate supervision and now have my first creative writing student from a local university.

I have come to the realisation that, being an introvert, I’m more suited to be a writing coach than a lecturer talking in front of large groups.

I intend to mentor and guide writers who are already working on a particular project, and require assistance to complete the project.

My bio:

Cornelia Smith Fick has a PhD in Creative Writing from the University of the Western Cape. She is a South African writer, poet and editor. Her debut collection of short stories Eye of a Needle: And Other Stories originated from the MA in Creative Writing at Rhodes University. She worked as editor of a primary health care magazine and as writer for Takalani Sesame (radio and TV). Her poems and stories are in local and international magazines and anthologies such as New Contrast; Kalahari Review; African Writers magazine; Experimental Writing: Volume 1, Africa VS Latin America; Soho Square V, Bloomsbury; Spelk and Atlanta Review.

Below an extract from the slave novel I’m editing. I’m sending out queries to agents and so far I have collected a number of no’s. Although I finished the novel in April 2023 I have waited a while to get back to it due to my husband’s illness and death.

The novel is set at the Cape of Good Hope (17th Century) during a time when the language of choice was Dutch so I have provided a translation in brackets.

The Cook worked under the oak tree on Verkeerdevallei braiding a riem (rope). He was on loan for the day. Anke used the influence of a family member in the VOC (Dutch East India Company) to wrangle access to company slaves when Meine needed extra hands. The Cook wasn’t sure if it was legal but it was not his concern. He saw Amberike when he worked here, which gladdened his heart.
In Meine’s absence – he had gone to a neighbouring farm – Egbert and Anke sat on the veranda, drinking coffee.
Since the Cook had not joined Egbert in laughing at Arrie when they met earlier, tension had come between them. Whenever they met Egbert stopped to glare at him. The Cook thought it best to pretend not to notice and usually walked away. Even now he was sitting with his back against the trunk of the tree, invisible in its shadow.
Mankbeen sang where he was busy sweeping the yard with a broom made of tall grass. “So early in the morning,” He loved to sing. He was always humming and warbling, doing a little jig when no one was looking. The words didn’t matter; he would choose a phrase and sing it the whole day. He had been doing it since he arrived on the farm, since he had been sold away from his mother. Countless whippings could not cure him. He simply seemed to forget. “So early in the morning.”
“I’m not going to tell you again. Keep quiet!” Anke said.
She rose, went into the house and came out with Meine’s best whip of hippo hide. She flicked it across Mankbeen’s shoulders. He uttered a howl.
Egbert said, “That’s right, show him how to behave. Singing is against the law.”
Before he could think the words came out of the Cook’s mouth. “That’s not true,” he said and bit his bottom lip. Working on Meine’s farm afforded him the privilege to watch over Amberike and he had just risked that by correcting a slave owner.
Egbert head snapped back. He jumped up. “Who asked you?”
The Cook thought of explaining what he meant, that it used to be a law but was no longer one. But he recognised the folly in that as Egbert strode towards him, his blue eyes flinty.
“Forgive me, Seur. I wasn’t thinking.” The Cook lowered his head.
“Be careful, sour face. All you Eastern slaves are the same; you have no respect, always running amok (wild).” Egbert wiped his brow, it was a sweltering summer. He looked at Anke. After her exertion she was breathing fast, her bosom going up and down, fine beads of sweat on her upper lip. He forgot his duty to punish the insolent slave.
“It’s so hot. Let’s go inside,” he said to Anke.
Anke dabbed at her wet bodice with a lacy cloth. “I have cheese and lemonade.”
“What type of cheese?” Egbert’s tongue briefly touched his lips.
Anke smiled coyly. “You’ll see.”
She went into the house followed by Egbert.
The Cook had learned not to have an opinion about what the masters did. He turned to Mankbeen. “What’s that song you’re always singing?”
Mankbeen had resumed his sweeping, sniffling loudly. “Meijnheer? (sir)” Mankbeen sometimes muddled the difference between how to address an older slave and how to speak to a master and often thought it better to err on the side of caution.
“It’s always the same tune. The words change but it’s always the same tune.”
“My mother used to sing it to me.”
“So you sing to forget but also to remember,” the Cook said under his breath.
“Meijnheer?” Mankbeen put his hand on his back, rubbing it like an old man.
The Cook looked at Mankbeen’s tattered shirt. He judged the boy to be about eight, maybe ten. Not that age mattered. Nobody cared about your name or your age. “You can call me Mustapha. Have you ever heard of Allah, the most glorified?”
“Does he live here?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes, Allah is god, the only god, and we are his subjects.”
Incomprehension shone in the dark eyes. The boy wiped his snot on his sleeve and started singing again.
The Cook returned to his work on the rope. His back itched. It had healed but ropes of excessive skin had grown out of the wounds. They bulged like snakes under his shirt. He scratched gently there where he could reach and pressed his back against the tree.
He’d befriended Mankbeen to convert him by telling him about Sheikh Yusuf who was banished to the Cape in 1694. He admired the determined cheerfulness of the little fellow. Why this morning he was singing “It’s such a good day,” on a cold, rainy winter morning. Still using the same tune and with such gusto.
“That was a good song, my friend.” The Cook slapped Mankbeen on the back, and rewarded him with a warm smile.
The Cook rarely smiled. There was nothing to smile about. He had had five owners, all irascible men determined to break the spirit of all those around them; self-proclaimed gods who brooked no opposition – not from slave, wife or child.
He was attracted to Mankbeen’s spirit, how did he do it? He had lost his mother, and his previous home. Heaven knows what happened to his mangled leg and still he found reason to sing. The Cook was in need of such brightness.
“I want to teach you how to defend yourself,” he said during a lull in the singing. Ever the pessimist, he saw no reason not to prepare the youngster for tougher times. Slave men were tempestuous.
Mankbeen stood eagerly in front of him.
“Make a fist. No not like that.” The Cook put away the rope he was braiding. “Let me show you. Now, hold up your hands, like this.” Mankbeen was beside himself with excitement.
“Put your one leg back to steady yourself. No, that’s not working. The other leg is too short. Just stand firm. Now punch, punch. You’re a natural.”
Mankbeen did a little jig, punching the air.
The Cook saw Egbert and Amberike returning. “Get back to work. That was your first lesson.”
Mankbeen skipped away singing “I am a fighter na-na-na.”
The Cook suppressed a smile.

I’m busy editing my historical novel, The Buried Chameleon, to send to a literary agent –if I can find one. The milieu in South Africa has changed since I wrote the novel. A year ago we faced corruption and a million problems, but now, since the President of the United States weighed in on a domestic issue, the mood is different.

For those who don’t know he gave an executive order to stop all funding to South Africa for 90 days until the perceived persecution of white farmers is investigated. He invited them to immigrate to America.

My daughter works with those infected by HIV/Aids and she said they only had funding till the end of January to continue their work.

In the current climate my novel about slavery set in the Cape of Good Hope (17th century) may not find a soul brave enough to publish it.

As I was editing my novel I came upon this line: They sold their children yet Kaatje, when given a choice, opted to remain a slave.

That got me thinking, why? And the strongest reason I could come up with was fear of the unknown. As a slave life was uncertain, you never knew when you may be sold, leaving behind family and friends. Your destiny was beyond your control.

So to be faced with a choice (for the first time in your life) must have been extremely stressful. Leaving a familiar life on the slave master’s farm to venture beyond its borders, which was forbidden before, was terrifying.

To choose the familiar was easier. It meant giving up your newfound freedom which, having never tasted it wasn’t difficult. Choosing the devil you know and all that.

But that mind-set was then transferred to future generations.

More than three hundred and fifty years later, when given a choice for a new democracy, the inhabitants of Cape Town – which was built on the foundations of the Cape of Good Hope – still voted for the off-spring of the slave master after being cynically courted by their political leaders.

Now these offspring want to declare the Cape as an independent state, co-opting the slaves’ descendants. Familiar? Yep. Fair? I’ll leave that for you to decide.

The greatest enemy of any writer is self-censorship, especially if you are not aware of it. If you have grown up in an oppressive society, it’s tentacles reach so deep into your psyche that you can write within the confines of what it tried to teach you: who you are in relation to the governing system, for a lifetime and never realize it.

For example, due to a medical problem I have lost my sense of smell and in the descriptions of scenes in my stories I tend to leave it out. I could only remedy that by making a conscious effort to add it in.

Similarly in an oppressive society you may write about your people in the milieu of their oppression. It is easy to do that because it is “true to life”. Such a vibrant vignette may appeal to those who power the governing system, and you may be celebrated – everyone loves to vicariously experience the lives of the have-nots.

But is that worthwhile? Have you not failed yourself as a writer?

If I bring this scenario back to my country South Africa, it’s like writing with a small apartheid tokoloshe sitting on your shoulder. (Surely in the age of Google I don’t have to tell you what a tokoloshe is.)

However, if you vibrantly describe your community and take it out of your imposed isolation, adding the context in which it exists, the story gains depth. You may not gain so many admirers but the ones you gain are the ones invested in change. And do you really want to pander to the skapies (sheep) in your country who resist change?

I lost my partner recently. It has contributed to my struggle to get back into a regular writing routine. Writer friends have forwarded calls for submissions of short stories, flash fiction and poetry, urging me to write as part of my healing process.

But my writing output has gone into a temporary freeze. His death has grown into a huge mountain blocking everything in front of me, and, although I’m not ready to visit this subject, it has obstructed other forms of writing.

What to do?

One friend, a fellow student from a creative writing course at a local university contacted me, asking me to send flash fiction for an anthology she’s editing. I dutifully studied the prompt, wrote the story – and then I couldn’t email it. I had to admit to myself that it was terrible.

I know I should get back to writing. I feel the compulsion to, yet there is this mass of grief blocking my road. Because I’m not inclined to write about what happened (it included trauma), I tucked it away into my box of future writing projects, and tried grappling with fiction and poetry.

I have always been the type of writer who keeps a distance in my writing, rarely adding details of my private life, aside from snippets that sneak their way in. (I marvel at those who have their whole lives revealed for public scrutiny).

Now, having failed at fiction, I tried poetry with better results, or so I thought. I find that I can access my inner thoughts and feelings easier in the writing of poetry than in fiction – even if it causes great discomfort.

But usually, after writing a poem, I edit myself out with the belief that a writer’s duty is to try to turn private agony into some form of art and not just dump it on a poor unsuspecting reader.

Slowly I’ve come to the realization that I have to jump over this hurdle if I want to achieve any of my writing goals. So I’ve settled on memoir but without the details which has led me into the exploration of the lyric essays, poetry and mythology.

At present I have no idea what that is going to look like but at least there is a glimmer behind the mountain. Or is there?

Now that I’m older I’m sometimes approached by a young writer looking for a “mentor”; or trying to sell his or her books. And I’m always faced with a dilemma: do I tell them the truth, hoping that they’ll use it to fine-tune their craft, or do I praise them and move on.

I remember myself as a young writer when any criticism felt like a condemnation of my whole existence, my talent and my work. It felt like a mini death.

Now that I’m older and more familiar with death I know that it was an exaggeration. Death has no gentle brushing of the ego only a final crushing.

I therefore tend to start this mentoring process with praise while I assess the situation. How fragile is this person’s ego? Can he or she handle criticism? No one wants to be the cause of destroying another’s desire to write.

Yet I’ve blundered into a situation where the writer was so upset and basically told me to bugger off but in the gentle terms of “you can block me”.

Finding myself in this worst case scenario I’m overcome by grief. What do I do now? Do I perform the gently suggested but violently desired request to block this dear writer?

Being human I want to retract all criticism and re-assert the brilliance of the piece. But then I have to deal with my inner sense of telling the truth, so I flail not knowing what to do.

I may wander into the realm of justification. Does this writer not know that criticism is to be expected? I read somewhere that a writer is like a boxer who expects not to get hit when stepping into the ring.

My own experience in the boxing ring has been abysmal. I have never liked criticism but I have “progressed” to a sort of truce. First I go through all the hurt feelings and anger but don’t respond. (I have yet to suggest that someone should block me!).

After having my fill of self-pity I venture out of the cave to wrestle with the criticism. Does it have merit? Does it advance my story?

I then apply the criticism I’ve decided is valid while considering for a second and third time all the others.

To get back to my experience of mentoring, it’s a good idea for any writer to join a writing group or workshop to improve their writing. Exchanging viewpoints on a particular piece can be beneficial and strengthen the work.

Sometimes you are so close to your story that you cannot see the wood for the trees.

Have you encountered a writer who casts you into the abyss for criticizing their work? What advice would you give to such a writer, or is it best to just praise and move on?

Memoirists, essayists, poets: don’t miss this chance to win a publishing deal

Dear friends,

My book, Eye of a Needle: And Other Stories, will be available as part of a promotion on Smashwords for the month of July as part of their Annual Summer/Winter Sale.

This is a chance to get my book, along with books from many other authors, at a discount. Click on the link here to buy. Please share this promo with friends and family, or forward it to those you think may be interested.
Thank you.

When one is depressed you fall into a slump that takes a push of some kind to lift you out: a visit to a therapist or dear friend, a change of routine or holiday, or just a stern conversation in front of the mirror. The latter is my go-to method. I use my first name, second name and surname in this important conversation.

The longer you stay in this temporary collapse the more difficult it becomes to get out. But what if you fall into a writing slump? I’m in such a rut and for the life of me I don’t know how to get out, despite a few projects with urgent deadlines needing my attention.

I have always prided myself on meeting my deadlines and now it’s a struggle. I put off writing until the deadline is staring me in the face and then I hastily attempt to get the work done. Not the ideal way to work, as anyone will tell you.

There is a lot of advice on dealing with writer’s block (Google). I have perused some of them but they are not for me. All of them look a lot like work – at a stage when I’m disinclined to work. What I need is a magic wand to wave with no effort and hey presto a miracle: I’m free of this dark cloud.

If you have any suggestions on how to get rid of writers block without breaking one’s back please let me know.