I wrote something but then touched the under of its wrist and felt a faint pulse throb. I wasn’t in the right headspace, I will admit. I stood over it the whole day and did what I could but by evening it was evident that what I could for the day wasn’t sufficient. So, I left it on a life support machine to fight for its life overnight. Sometimes you have to let stories fight for their own lives. They have to want to stay alive on the page as much as you want them to.
For although some stories are born strong and sprightly, leaping off the page, some are born jaundiced, weak, and hollow-cheeked. They lie there, struggling for life. And often, depending on how much you love them, you will patch them up, transfuse them with pints and pints of verbs and adjectives, and plug them with great platelets of descriptions. You nurse them. You fuss over them. You give them mouth-to-mouth. Sometimes they open their eyes and offer you a brave smile. Other times they open their eyes and whisper something inaudible and when you bring your ear close to their lips they whisper, and who the frk are you?
“I’m Biko. I wrote you.”
“Oh God,” they groan and they lose consciousness.
Sometimes those weak ones surprise you at how fast they blossom and dance on a page. And then they become a joy to yourself and others.
Other times they don’t get the colour back in their eyes. They lie there taking small gasps of air like a baby tadpole. And often you can’t do much for them at that time. You just have to wait it out, and see where their wind of fate blows.
This story I wrote yesterday is lying on a different page in a different room, fighting for its life. We shall leave it there to do what it needs to do and revisit it later this week and see if we can save her. But only if she wants to save herself.