Between a loaf of bread and a book

This year, PEN Afrikaans is participating in the Right to Write project together with four other PEN centres, at the invitation of PEN International. The aim of this Unesco-funded project is to promote public dialogue on issues affecting writers in five African countries (Malawi, South Africa, Uganda, Zambia and Zimbabwe). As part of this project, PEN Afrikaans asked five Afrikaans writers to reflect on pertinent topics. This is the final article in the series. Here, Jolyn Phillips reflects on the difficulties of being a poet and of making a living as a creative.

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It was the year when my book Tjieng Tjang Tjerries and other stories was published. I received a donation to pay for a book launch in Blompark, home to the vernacular of the short story collection… I had the bright idea to use the money to buy books and resell them at a discount instead. 

I called the school and organised the whole affair over the phone. I asked them to spread the word in the newsletter to the parents and the rest of the community. I asked that people RSVP so that I may budget accordingly. I asked my Afrikaans teacher to discuss the book with me. It was truly the most thorough and interesting interview that I’ve had. 

On the day of the big occasion my mom and some of my family members attended, and a few townspeople filled a row or two. There was a journalist from The Herald who referred to me as an ex-Gansbaai citizen in his article.

Afterwards I complained to my mom about all the effort I made. I came all the way from Cape Town. Did my community not care about me?

She answered briskly: “What do you expect? No, my child, if we must choose between a loaf of bread and a book, what do you think our people will choose?”

These words “between a loaf of bread and a book” is a metaphor for the challenges of being a poet and earning a living from it.

Last year, I submitted my PhD after seven years. 

I believe that it will open more doors for me – persevering was tough, and my nose was very familiar with that grindstone. I would not have been able to complete my studies without my community. 

The academic one: my supervisors’ perseverance and the grace of the University of the Western Cape to give me opportunity after opportunity. I granted myself the challenge of getting intimately acquainted with the topic of my thesis. I took pleasure in raging against the statues of Afrikaans, perhaps also started a fall movement. I’ve learned that it is harder to tear a stack of paper than a single page. 

But how did the Afrikaans poets from the Thirties movement succeed in selling hundreds of editions? Why are they still so highly appreciated? Their whiteness? Patriarchy? The privilege of being published? Why am I so jealous of them? 

The prizes I received paid the rent for a few months after all, so that I could write, breathe, spread my wings and experience the literary cultures of other countries. I was told: “Jealousy is fine, but keep writing! Tame the ego. You can’t determine the prize.”

Those poets wrote with a consciousness of sound and breath. The AWS (Afrikaans Word List and Spelling Rules) only made its appearance in 1917 and is constantly changing with additions, old words brought back and neologisms. I, too, write wilfully pursuing sound and I believe that the phonetics of a language can also change, that a language can grow in that way, not merely through the addition of new words. 

The Afrikaans writers from the 1960s strengthened a culture of translation, not only of European works, but also of works from our other official languages. I was overjoyed to read Tjhaka by Thomas Mofolo, originally published in Sotho in the 1920s, translated into Afrikaans in the 1970s. 

One thing I appreciate about the Europeans is their culture of translation. They say: “We want to bring the world to us in our own language and thereby expand our language.” We must translate one another into every language spoken in this country. It must never again happen that a person becomes the last speaker of a language, and that a language dies in South Africa.

Many institutions and organisations offer writer or artist residencies – this is saffron for artists but not all of them can afford it because it only pays for the weeks or months that you attend the residency, and you must still pay the rent and the municipal bills when you return. 

In conversations with other artists in the industry phrases such as “gatekeepers”, “lack of funding”, “lack of economic freedom”, “working in constant burnout”, “mental health issues”, “freelance” and the “impending fear of being on the street” are always in the mix. 

I too have ended up in hospital, despite four degrees and two published books. What else would you expect in a country with “plenty of work and very few jobs”?

Every year, at festivals, award ceremonies, in newspapers and on social media, artists are read to from the Egyptian Books of Breathing. Artists and writers die and are buried in a pauper’s grave. I get a spasm if I must still explain why the arts are important for a nation. 

At the moment, I am seriously contemplating the concept of artist-entrepreneur and artist-administrator. 

It is a double-edged sword when writers enter the world of publishing without a literary agent. I had to learn to negotiate and make sure I get what is rightfully mine. The triple threat – originality, authenticity and relevance – is no longer enough in the entertainment industry. The myth of originality is confused with authenticity, and the idea of relevance damages creativity. That is the triple threat that writers and artists face daily. 

Frazer Barry says he cannot allow pessimism to become part of his artistry. Make the work while no one is watching; make the work so that, when someone comes knocking, you have something to show – that is how you rule the negotiation.  

With Bientang I explored various possible mediums: an epic, a play, even a documentary. Sometimes I have to silence the clacker inside my head that claims they must be tired of the whole business by now. Do something new! I know that Bientang is more than merely creative output. 

I know I cannot only write poetry, I must let go of myself and the guilt of my overdue existence tax. While I was busy with the play Bientang, I knew that money would be the biggest issue, but I attended the workshops of the funders about the how and where. I watched YouTube videos to learn how to write a grant proposal, to acquire the vocabulary of what I’m worth. Read the entire festival programme, not only to see what they are interested in, but also to see who the sponsors and the organisers are. Learnt to be two hours early for appointments. When I took part in panel discussions I read the background of every writer and requested the books of the writers who might be on the panel. Not only does it show work ethic, but what you say matters just as much as what you write. “It costs nothing,” I tell myself. But it costs many hours that don’t appear on the invoice and honestly it costs too much to report to the Academy like Red Peter: “Gender and race don’t write my work!”  

My uncle once had a bit more respect for me when my second volume of poetry was published, and I talked on radio. He asked me: “How does the book business work, how much do they pay you? You still don’t have a car or a house, and how many degrees do you have?” I explained to him that I earn royalties.

“How much do you earn every month?” And when I explained what royalties are, he said: “No, then I may as well write too, they’re taking you for a ride.”

I am often asked when my next book will appear while signing a copy of the current one. I could answer this question when Radbraak was on its way to the printers. A volume of poetry? You’re shooting yourself in the foot. How many volumes must a poet write to be able to earn a living?  

The choice between a loaf of bread and a book is pertinent for every South African because we suffer from collective anxiety: Will there be electricity if we flip the switch, will there be water when we open the tap? Electricity or water, which one can I live without if I had to choose between the two? At the same time, I do not want to give into self-deprecation.  

Writing in Afrikaans has its advantage, it being one of the youngest languages in the world. This means that there is space to flourish as a poet, disproportion of lack and opportunity. I still believe: “There will be new words or new meanings for old words” (Njabulo Ndebele, Rediscovery of the ordinary: essays on South African literature and culture), a statement that feels tethered at the moment but is essential for the survival of the artist. DM

Translated by Aniel Botha. 

The article was originally written and published in Afrikaans. It is available here.