On its own merit…judging a book

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booksThey say you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but we all do. Don’t you? Well I do, more often than not. And I don’t get to walk into book stores much any more, but I love book shops and I can remember spending so much time in Water stones, (our first Christmas in England 2007), so engrossed in all those books on display -judging covers – that we (me and my daughter) missed the coach to London!! Our first coach trip, on our own, to London! We had to wait another two hours for the next one!! Anyway, this is to say that I just love looking at the covers and trying to tell how interesting a read they would be. I think I bought The Pirate’s Daughter, by Margaret Cezair-Thompson. And I thoroughly enjoyed that read! So yes, I judge books by their cover a lot. I will advise against judging books by their movies though!

And in my opinion, just as books should be judged by the cover, so should the contents be judged on its own merit.
Force Ripe is no “To kill a mocking bird or Angela’s Ashes nor is it Jayne Eyre. And I don’t claim to be no Harper Lee, Toni Morrison or one of the Bronte sisters.

Force Ripe is not a piece to show off no intellectual writing or intelligence. It is not a thriller with John Grisham plots, twists and turns, nor is it a fairy tale with a “happily ever after” ending. Force Ripe is what it is – the story of a little girl, of her experiences, during an important historical era. It portrays, among many themes, the way it used to be, growing up during the days when “doors were never locked and the road was my playground.” It takes the readers into Lee’s life, in her village, and with the use of sensory images, paints very vivid and memorable scenes of: her Mammy’s biasness towards her brother, as we see in this excerpt from chapter one.
“Eh eh! What taking you so, Peeya!”
Mammy spit out Peeya so hard, some of she food pitch out from she mouth with it. I don’t even know what Peeya mean. I used to wonder if is somebody who does pee in bed. But I does not pee in me bed. Mammy never call Rally names like that. She does call him Beta. And when she say come Beta, it does come out soft and nice – like sweet potato pudding. But she does spit out Peeya, just like she does spit out coconut husk from she mouth – after she suck out all the milk from it. She does spit it out just like she does spit out nuts, after she suck out all the sugar from the sugar-cakes.

It shows Lee’s bond with her father, even though his visits were brief and sporadic. It takes the reader into the Rastafarian commune and, for example, demonstrates the many uses of the coconut tree and its product.  ‘Once I hear Daddy say, “You see this coconut? Jah make it specially for Rastaman”.  It also shows us a child’s experience of the revolution and how Rastafarians were treated, and offers a very palpable taste of Lee’s emotions, her fears and shows us how she copes.

Force Ripe is a voice. The voice of this little girl, Lee. Her voice through her experiences, from her perspective. It is what it is. Her story. It does not try to explain, demoralize, take sides nor cast any blame. And it certainly does not call for any actions. It has gone through all its phases of trying to conform, fit in with what you learn you should and should not do, how you should and should not write, especially as a new and inexperienced writer. And it is certainly not forced ripe, because it has matured and is now confident to use and own that voice.

judge book

Press Release..

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 GRENADIAN AUTHOR PUBLISHES FIRST NOVEL: Force Ripe

B&W01Grenadian Author Cindy McKenzie publishes her first novel after working on it for several years. The book is  entitled “Force Ripe” and is written from the perspective of, and in the voice of Lee, the main character. Lee  takes the reader on  her journey from her first memories of life in a Rastafarian commune, through foster care  and her subsequent reunion with her mother when she is a teenager. Lee draws from images, characters,  stories  told and historical events, to weave a beautiful portrayal of a little girl’s survival and an important part  of her  island’s history.

The book makes liberal use of Grenadian creole dialect and local idioms, adding to the authenticity of the  characters. Themes of immigration (barrel children), the extended family structure, Rastafarianism, The  Grenada Revolution, amongst others, hold special appeal for a wide audience, especially readers with an  appetite and longing for more Caribbean literary works.cover pic01

“I have been on a long, lonely journey of learning and healing. I have matured along the way and so has Force Ripe. I feel proud of this achievement and ready for where it will take me – on the next journey.”

Cindy McKenzie was born in the northern parish, St Patrick, Grenada. Her first years of education started at Miss Redhead’s pre-school, continued at the St Patrick Roman Catholic School and later the St Joseph’s Convent, St George. She is the mother of three. She has lived in the UK briefly and currently resides in Confer, St George, with her husband and daughter.

Force Ripe is available for purchase on Amazon –  For more information, please visit Cindy McKenzie Author on Facebook.

Contact: Cindy McKenzie
Phone: 1 (473) 414 6737

Email: Cindymacwrites@gmail.com

 

On the road to publication – my journey

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Where do I do I start – when I first started penning this story or when I started dreaming of getting published? I don’t think I can type fast enough or have enough time to go back there, but all I can tell you is that this has been a long, lonely and very expensive journey for me. And it has not finished as yet.

As I am nearer to the end of that road- the one to publication of Force Ripe, I feel I can now share a bit of that journey with you- where it has taken me, who I have met along the way and where I am now.

When I completed the first draft of this book, I christened it Celestial Shades. I chose this name because of the many evenings I spent sitting on our veranda with my mammy and papa, watching the sun gown and the brilliant shades of every colour you can imagine, painted in the clouds. I wrote with no experience, no guidance, except for that burning need and that voice which kept jooking me to write this story.

I started writing what came to me in my journal, as it came to me. Then I took a basic computer class, and started my two finger- attack on the keyboard. I tried to impress, using the thesaurus with maximum regularity, in search of words I didn’t even understand myself. I wrote the way I though it should be written. And when I finished the first draft, I felt so pleased with myself for this huge accomplishment, I printed my hundred and something pages and made a journey to The Bench, to see my friend Marcelle Toussaint and entrusted her with my baby. Then I proceeded to look for a publisher. I googled Caribbean publishers and clicked on Ian Randle publishing, in Jamaica. I printed two copies, copyrighted one by registering it and mailing it to myself and mailed the other, to Mr Randle. Well to cut this very long story short, Mr Randle gave me some very helpful comments and by the time I heard from him, I knew exactly what he meant by going “back to the drawing board”.

And that’s exactly what I had to do because in 2005 (well I told you this has been long in the making) a house fire melted my computer to a heap of plastic and though I had a copy on a CD, I lost all my revisions! So back it was really back to the drawing board for me. And that was when I decided to take my first writing course and a few followed. But the rest is most definitely not history. I have learnt so much and I am still learning lessons- self teaching, creeping, stumbling, falling and pulling myself up again, discovering, developing and spending.

It’s very ironic, how I started spending at same time I signed up with a publisher! But that piece of history I rather not go into (in case it is used against me in the court of law). In fact I have already been threatened with a law suit. But back to the spending- I paid for the book jacket design (done by a Grenadian) the first few hundred dollars dent in my savings, a trip to the UK for proposed editing purposes, with promise of reimbursement (hubby paid, no reimbursement received). Lessons learned, especially the one that says everything with time, so I remained patient. But is one lesson I did not learn, because I kept paying. Because as a writer, especially a first time inexperienced one, who wants to fulfil that goal of being read, seeing your work on the shelves of book stores. Ursula K Le Guin said, “The unread story is not a story. It is little black marks on a wood pulp. The reader reading it makes it live; a live thing, a story.” And so one is prepared to do almost anything it take, make big sacrifices. Well I did.

The submitting and getting rejected came next. But I can’t boast of any JK Rolling experience, because I only submitted to a handful of select publishers and literary agencies, Peepal Tree being one of them, after very regular recommendations. But the next sacrifice was almost an entire month’s salary (in pounds sterling) to Conerstones Litarary Agency to have my work read, assessed and a written report. I must say that this report was very thorough and very helpful with the subsequent revisions.
Yet even after several revisions, long breaks and life happening in between, that niggling doubt that my writing was not good enough still remained. So against my principles and common sense I paid a creative writing teacher more than I even made in a month- even after working every extra hour I can grab- to have my work assessed once again, help me improve my manuscript. And a trip I will never forget.

This editor did not do written reports, so it took a trip to London, getting lost on my drive to Peterborough train station, (luckily my son was with me for company) almost missing my train to Kings Cross, six hours, at Waterloo Station, going through the manuscript and taking notes. Then, emotionally drained and head full to the brim with more doubts than ever, that I would ever get this manuscript right; I somehow managed to make my way from Waterloo Station to Peterborough station without too much hassle. But my drive from the train station to Morton, the little village where I lived, was a very stressful and tense one.
I was alone. It was dark. And I had never driven that route in darkness before. That thirty five minutes drive took all my concentration, focus, keeping my eyes on the busy dual carriage way, reading road signs, counting the exits- careful not to take the wrong one, like I once did when one wrong turn pelted this little small island, country girl into a four-lane dual carriage way with traffic zooming pass me at lightning speed!! So I focused on the road. I even had to switch off the radio. And listening Heart FM in the car was one of my special treats, something that relaxed me. But no radio could relax me that night! With iron grip on the steering wheel, my foot of the ex, and I held all the anxieties of getting lost, the writing stuff, the challenges of revising, all the doubts about me thinking I was a writer and could actually publish a book, I tensed up in my neck. So by the time I pulled up safely in front of #5 Primrose Close, I could barely turn my head. My neck was locked stiff! I had never been more thankful for a safe journey home.

Later that night, I eased into bed, although it was warm under the duvet, I felt cold with a little bit of anger as I looked at hubby, nice and cosy in bed, while I was stressing!
But the spending did not stop there. Because after several phases of revisions, I felt confident and brave enough to employ the use of the Creole language, inject some pure dialect into my text, for authenticity. But another few hundred pounds later, I was back to square one, because of my lack of confidence in myself as a writer.
And I could go on, because it still did not stop there. Especially since I took the decision to self publish! But that is Part II, for another blog. And am sure get the picture, right. And you will understand why I will not be able to give away, for free, several years of hard work, investments and sacrifices.

And of course I want to be best seller, reach an international market, but if Force Ripe is able to reach just the local audience and our Caribbean Diaspora, that would fulfil one of my goals.journey03

Mango season

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mango season I just finished sucking two little mango Julie, thanks to my neighbours mango tree and the fact  that they never bother with it much. Just two you know, even though is mango season and mango spoiling some places- only flies and congeries feasting them. I wish I could sit down and lick up a whole wash-pan (wash basin) everyday, but I still find myself having to ration the few I does get, because my daughter love them even more then me.

When I was a little girl, when mango in season we living in the garden, under mango trees. Whole day we liming in the garden until they call us to come and eat, but we bellies always full of mangoes. We had two mango Julie in the garden and the Mango Row – the boundary between our land and the neighbour’s land. The mango row stared up by the road, with a mango Flim- a long juicy green-skin mango that even nicer when you squeeze it up to make tuturups (soft, runny), followed by three mango coot that nobody studying unless mango scarce. Then the mango starchy- small, sweet and clean to eat. After the starchy, was the mango sour-sweet. That was my favourite because were the prettiest mangoes in the Row- sunshine yellow with red, purple, green spots. And couldn’t have been more aptly named, because you could bite into such juicy sweetness that soon turns into the most mouth-watering, teeth edging sourness you ever tasted, by the time you get to the seed. I used to collect them just to look at them. Then more mango coot, making more mess on the road and the ravine at the bottom of the land.

There was a coconut row along the mango row too, and we cashew, guava, golden apples, damson, oranges , manderines, plums – because Papa planted every fruit he could get hold of. And people never used to have to buy mangoes like now. So when we get tired with the mango row, we used to go up the road in mango Warwood, in Mr Georgie land, or the Palrie by Uncle Maurice.
So yes, is mango season now, and all I seeing is flies and congeries and not enough mangoes, unless I go by MNIB and force myself to buy some of them Force Ripe one they have there.

But hear nuh, me and my son just planted two mango Julie in the garden, and when I tell him I want one in the front garden, he reminding me of all the mangoes falling and the flies and congeries they gonna attract. And I had to let him know that I have no intension of letting any mango fall and spoil. I can’t wait for maturity. How long they does take again? Because I does see some little little mango trees bearing fruits when their branches not even strong enough to hold leaves! But all I know is I not letting NONE spoil. Cant wait! I turning down all pots when they start, and is mango stew, chutney, jam, mango cheese. I making mango pie and all! And when they too soft- mango juice and smoothies. I might even have a grandchild or two by that time, so we could full up we wash pan and sit down on me green bench under the Neem and lick up mango till we get shittings!! Haha. No siree, no mango Julie en spoiling on my front garden.

 

On the writing thing again… them rules!

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stone  On The 10 Commandments for writers 

I was looking through my Writers Diary 2013 and bumped into a little piece I wrote, based on an    article I must have read on The 10 Commandments for Fiction Writing. I might have posted it a  while back; however I just wanted to revisit it a little bit.

But really, there are so many rules when it comes to writing!! Rules about how many words you should write daily. How quickly you should write. To revise first draft or not to. About POV, characters, dialogue. What you should write about, should not write about. How, where, when you should write. Don’t do this. Don’t do that! Oh, you must do that! Bloody hell!! How does one keep up?
I say, for every rule, there is someone, somewhere, who has broken it. Stepped outside of that constraint; scathed that wall, climbed over that fence, jumped into that unknown territory or into their own territory, which lead to new discoveries.

Creativity is the key. It is essential. I say tell your story as only you can tell it. As Anne Enright ( Irish Author whose novel The Gathering won the 2007 Man Booker Prize) said, “Find a place to stand.”

I agree. You will search, try to copy what the others do–the greats and the ones who make those rules. I tried some of them myself! The daily journal entries; which went from daily to as and when something was worth writing about. The putting aside written work , to brew – I found very useful. Show not tell!  And sometimes the telling is unavoidable, but worth the effort in showing. After my first review and report on Force Ripe, from Corner Stones Literary Agencies, I laboured on my revisions, searching for every scene where I needed to Untell and Show instead ; by creating a scene- for example in this excerpt from my unpublished novel Force Ripe 

Sunday morning, and outside bright and hot;  just as if the sun have a special shine.  It cover the whole of Celeste with a bright, happy kind of glow. Is the kind of Sunday that does pass nice and slow and put people in a good mood –  cooking their Sunday food; taking it easy; sitting down a little bit. Laugh a lot.  The kind of Sunday for bathing outside in sun- warmed water and children playing shop under the house – weighing up dust, sand, flowers and all kinds of things, on leaves, with stick scales and stone weights – to make mud cakes with bougainvillea icing.  Then laze about under mango trees, belly full and niggeritis taking over, until the sun give them chance to play in the road.

Or by using dialogue – another excerpt from Force Ripe to illustrate –

“What wrong with you Millie? What we do you? What we do you, you hate us so! Your own grandchildren! Eh? Your own flesh and blood! What we do you?”

Mammy look up at me mother. She sucking she cheeks–in and out, in and out–like a little mullet.

Papa watching he hands in he lap. He mouth open.

“I come from your daughter. The Only daughter you have. The ONLY chile you make! She what make me! The same daughter who take up all she children up in England, and leave me here.  Me Alone she leave behind, for you to make see trouble! You tink I forget all the trouble you make me see?”

And what a time consuming but rewarding challenge this was!

In the end though, it always boils down to what works best for you. So I say, when you find that place, that space, where someone said must have a door! I disagree, unless that door is metaphorical. Quarantine Point is one of my favourite writing spots. If it is a room with a door, make it a place where your smell resides, your pen only fits into your hand, your elbow has eroded a spot on your desk and your bottom has carved a comfortable mould into that cushion. Make it a space where no one else will find what you do,when you stand there. No one else will see what you see. So only you will see the way the lizard on the Neem tree corks its head as it scopes you out- perhaps wondering why you crowding its space. Only you will hear the dew drops falling onto the AC unit outside the window and get on all fours to lick that fragrance rising from the tarmac with the heat, after the light drizzle. Feel the presence of danger as cold bumps raise your skin. So only you know the taste of your lover’s skin and how that whiff of cigarette mix-upwith Davidoff’s Silver Shadow Attitude didn’t just arouse you; but it sucked your inverted nipple out of hiding, hardened their flatness into little peaks and rippled crazy sensations from your core!  Oh boy…getting carried away here! Where was I again?

Yes, back to finding your place. I was just standing in mine for a while there! I say when you do find it, make it your space. Plant your feet in it. Set your own rules and work with what works best for you.

“There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” Leonard Cohen

Break the rules. Find that crack. Let your light in.

 

This migration thing…and barrel children

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barrelRecently I bumped into this article on a short film, Auntie, by Lisa Harewood – http://www.commonwealthwriters.org/caribbean-barrel-stories-barrel-children-lisa-harewood/ – telling the stories about the effects of migration on the ones left behind and who steps in when migration separates parents from children. I just wanted to share this article with you- , and add my take on it, especially as this issue is featured in my unpublished book, Force Ripe .

As Lisa said, “every family has a story”.
When I was growing up, it was the norm for children to be brought up by grandparents, aunties and uncles, neighbours, or whoever offered to take care, while parents, usually mothers, went abroad to work , seek a better life, send home parcels, money. And in many cases barrels, crammed with clothes, toiletries and food stuff. I didn’t know then, but later in my life, I discovered how things like the sugar, rice and flour soaked up the sweet, soapy fragrants of their travel companions – and so you ended up with perfume sweetened tea, oats porridge tasting like toothpaste, Palmolive fragrant dumplings and Irish Spring bread. Tide or perhaps Breeze flavoured rice and peas.
My brother and I were left in the care of our great-grandparents.

An excerpt from chapter one of Force Ripe.

“All of us in the kitchen: me, me brother Rally, Mammy and Papa. Mammy is we great-grandmother but Papa is not we real great-grandfather. We don’t know we real great-grandfather. We don’t even know we real grandfather. But we lucky, because we have a real nice Papa.

Mammy and Papa living together long. Mammy say me and Rally living with them since we mother go in Aruba – three years now. Mammy say I had three years when she go. Rally had four years. Sometimes Mammy does say, “You doh see all you mother doh even want all you? You en see how she leave all you and go!” Mammy say she go and look for greener pastures. But Miss Kay does say how we in the same boat like a lot of children in Celleste. And like she grandchildren, because their mother gone and look for greener pastures too.

Miss Kay house full up wid children. And she house only have three little rooms. But she does make space for everybody. And I bet if me and Rally have to sleep over by her, she making space for us too- even if she have to put us under the bed! Mammy say that’s why Miss Kay strong like a horse so, because she have to work like a donkey to mind all she children. And all she grandchildren too.”

I don’t remember getting any barrels in our household. We received the occasional packages and presents when someone was coming to visit. I guess my great-grandmother received the monthly envelope with money, which we never heard about, it was not our business. But I remember our friends’ excitement when that truck delivered that tall, tan, cardboard barrel. How their doors were closed during the very private opening and unpacking. And the showing off of their new things, the teasing, the ‘cutting style’. And I remember how left out my brother and I felt.
On the other hand, we were lucky to have our father around – somewhere, sometimes. He dropped by regularly, with meat, fish and whatever he could contribute. And I remember my pure joy and uncontained excitement when he visited. He had a special whistle for me. Another excerpt from Force Ripe.

“I could hear that whistle from anywhere. I could hear it from down in the bottom of the garden, even if the donkey braying, all them cocks crowing and the cow calling Papa for she food. And when I hear me whistle, is like something does take me. I does leave anything I doing and run full speed.”

Many of the children in the village hardly ever saw their fathers. Some didn’t even know who their fathers were. And in many cases, neither their mothers, who might have travelled since they were babies.
So how did that affect us? Some parents sent for their children. Some were left with promises to hold on to, and reminded of them, every time an airplane flew past. We didn’t have any promises. I just remember a little longing, yearning for that pretty lady in the picture on the dressing table. I used to look at her and wish she was with us, especially since my great-grandmother intensely disliked me and openly favoured my brother. But we were not beaten and worked as slaves – like some children we knew. I guess in those circumstances, those children had a more urgent longing to be rescued. And I could only imagine it was worse for those left at an older age, who actually experienced and can remember what life was like before they were left behind.
My own mother was left as a teenager. She was one of five children, yet she was the only one left behind, and I don’t think she has ever gotten over that or completely forgiven her mother for it . How did her mother choose which one she was going to leave behind? Why did she leave my mother? Why didn’t she ever take her up when they got settled? I am sure my mother still harbours has lots of questions. I am sure that wound still lances away at her, especially because of the abuse she suffered at the hands of her own grandmother- which in turn affected and influenced the choices she made or was perhaps forced to make – especially the choice to leave her own children in the hands of the very same person who abused her. It must have been a very difficult choice, but in those days, it was just what they did. I guess for many, it was the most popular choice of earning a living and working towards what they perceived as a better future for their children.
The absence of my mother has affected my future in more ways than I have the time to get write about now. But give me my mother over any amount of barrels!