Caption: Thick coffee brew sweetened with condensed milk, served at a traditional Chinese coffeeshop in Singapore. Photograph © Susan AbrahamA little while ago, I wrote in an earlier post that due to unforseen circumstances, I was not able to promote my first book of lyrical writing titled Call the Ships of Dar-es-Salaam – pictured on left sidebar – and published in England last Christmas.
I could have attempted a fair bit if I wanted to but there were several issues going on in my life during that season. I was left feeling spent and unsure over which rollercoaster direction I seemed to be toppling into. My life was still excellent as a whole. In the earlier part of the year, I travelled often and enjoyed myself. But this emotional drain was due to a betrayal, the painful disappointment of it, which trailed me everywhere for a long time like a ghost-in-waiting.
That’s all gone now of course and a few weeks ago, I contemplated once more picking up the pieces and once-and-for-all making a fervent attempt to tell the world something about my book. I am however, a pathetic marketer but then this is me being lazy. In truth, I considered myself a merry old-fashioned artist first of all. Still, I confessed to a know-how and gamely thought I would test the waters.
Then to my horror, much as I loved my alternative poetry and prose tucked away between those slender pages; the old enthusiasm had simply vanished. Sadly, there was no desire to conduct even the first step. In my spirit, I had already moved on. That chapter of my life had closed when I dealt with the issue of the betrayal and shut that door. I recognised that my personality had evolved. I could no longer relate to the exciting time when my paperback was first published. I had found other reasons for joy. Which frankly, is a relief as I had taken to the idea of being published in the first place, very much in my stride like a duck to water. I did not bat an eyelid even at the time. I wasn’t awed. I wasn’t overwhelmed.
More importantly, I had moved on to a new confidence and a brand new sense of energy. I realised I wanted to attempt ambitious writing projects… bigger challenging works. I possess the resources and capability. I travel erratically and often. How about some travel literature for a change, my mind beckoned. And I still own a partial manuscript of Malaysian ghost tales lurking somewhere about… And there are other ideas too. I have always been a versatile writer.
At the moment, I’m involved in the completion of my novel and this time-consuming task alone has risen from within me like a shooting star. It encompasses all of me. It shapes the colour of my days. It presently commands my reading material for research and my journeys for remembrances. I also love my new seclusion, a tender reward from having obtained the courage to temporarily draw away from online social media – an activity that seemed all at sea and had taken up too much time for nothing. This works for many people of course but not for me. I put my efforts of the last two years down to an over-zealous exuberance.
Clearly, I am someone firmly rooted in the present. I am futuristic in my thoughts. I look back to the past only in the way of practicalities. From time to time, I savour all the right melancholic moods of wistfulness. My saving grace is that I am not a sentimental person. I become impatient if something sedate in the past clutches me for too long and my graceful sense of wellbeing is threatened.
With all these in mind, I have decided to call time on Call the Ships of Dar-es-Salaam. I feel that instead of promoting a little-known paperback of poetry – the hardest of all to market, although I’ll affirm to a quality piece of work – that my energy would be better invested at where my passions presently lie. That beautiful saying… Make hay while the sun shines…sums up my perfect sermon.
I know from years of observation that writers are sometimes virtually unknown for their first-time efforts especially those who choose to publish alternative literature with small publishers, not of the mainstream. But then they go on to be published traditionally at some point with a bigger publishing authority where worldwide bookshop exposure is evident and suddenly, all their older works are eagerly sought.
For example, celebrated Indian novelist, MG Vassanji, who was born in Kenya, resided in Dar-es-Salaam and then went on to live in Canada as an international bestselling author, stays especially popular with the reading public in Tanzania for a little known book of stories about Dar-es-Salaam’s Asian residents. It was called Uhuru Street and was first published in 1992.
Here in The East African magazine, a journalist who captured Vassanji’s return to Dar es Salaam, Tanzania and attended his much feted book signing at an expatriate location alongside Dar’s coast called The Slipway in 2010, adds the following…
Vassanji is the author of eight acclaimed novels, the best known being The In-Between World of Vikram Lall and The Assassin’s Song. But the most popular here in Tanzania is by far Uhuru Street, which is a collection of stories based on the author’s perceptions of life on Uhuru Street in the 1960s. – The East African
I know the colourful, quaint Uhuru street. I have passed that way many a-time. The crowded street lies in the heart of Dar es Salaam, is populated by locals and a successful community of conversative Indian businessmen and their extended families, who all devoutly follow the Muslim faith. Please do click onto the link to Uhuru Street above, to read a little more about the list of eccentric characters that helped shape Vassanji’s early talent.
Another UK novelist, Preethi Nair, self-published her first novel, Gypsy Masala, after facing numerous rejections, some years ago. When through a stroke of good luck, HarperCollins finally signed her on for a 3-book deal, they also took it upon themselves to re-issue Gyspy Masala.
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I believe I should let go Call the Ships of Dar es Salaam for the moment and it will eventually resuscitate itself when my audience is bigger, when an alternative portfolio of my works are published and evenly distributed and when my readership is secure. I have only just returned to the writing life.
I love my little book. It will always be one of my pet beauties. It serves as an excellent validation for a record of all my pastoral poetry and simple philosophical musings. My writing is not for the pessmistic soul but rather it seeks those who catch life’s meaningful approaches from the silver lining on a dark cloud.
The rhymes on absurdities are suitable for both grown-ups and children. Women who are devoted to serious literature may just adore the added touch of romance that spills about now and then. A naturalist could just as well celebrate a series of Irish garden descriptions and in the dark winter months to come…wish for summer through my carefully-painted verses.
Having said all of this, I cannot bring myself as many other writers do, to keep trumpeting for the hopeful sale of my book. I’m just not made that way. I feel that if I were a good writer, I would eventually gain a readership. Not straightaway of course. With time and diligence, that comes later. The quality of my work should speak for itself. At least, for now. But then again, I can afford to do this. I’m not writing for the money.
Call the Ships of Dar-es-Salaam will still continue to be sold worldwide. A consumer can purchase my product from almost any country at all through scores of online booksellers. Anywhere from India, Japan, Australia and New Zealand to Hong Kong, the States and Scandinavian Europe. A print-in-demand venture and chosen from a publishing round last year by a small UK publisher, my book will always be in stock anywhere at all while packaged as an excellent quality paperback.
In this way, I have been so very fortunate as being published in other international regions may not have afforded for that same grand number as regards online bookseller displays.
And so as I begin a new writing chapter of my life as evident from previous posts of Writing Reflections, I’ll bid adieu to my little book and all that’s connected to it in the past. I’m sure I’ll meet it somewhere up the road, not too long from now, when life finally signals for a much-deserved party. May it hibernate in peace…
