Tuesday, 20 November 2001 (and a few days later)
Six years have passed since I learned that it matters more that you have money than how you make money. This brilliant insight struck me about a week after a chain letter landed in my mailbox, which, in theory, could have delivered X amount of money each month into my bank account if I had followed the instructions. It dawned on me like a blessing that I didn’t have to be in a salaried situation to pay my monthly rent, and to buy a new pair of jeans from time to time.
This idea corresponded well with my lack of enthusiasm to fit into the conventional course of business where you go to university, after graduation send out your resume hoping that you can soon start your life as an adult, and then after a year or three marry the person with whom you’re sleeping at that point. I wanted to continue with the type of life of which my so-called student days were but a foretaste – a life filled with acquiring knowledge, sleeping late, going to the library, spending afternoons in second-hand bookstores, and most importantly, the freedom to grow my beard no matter how bad it looked.
I was 24 when I decided to come to Asia. I knew it would give me the right to inform anyone who wanted to know that I am an “English teacher in Korea”. I also knew it meant that I could delay a little longer the possibly inevitable point when I would have to trade my freedom for a more conventional life, and a clean-shaven face.
So I continued my search for an answer to the Big Question: What is it that this guy wants to do with his life?
Over the course of the next two years I came up with a few ideas. I wanted to live in England or Germany for a few months, or a year. I wanted to return, like a McArthur of the Philippines with trumpets blaring, to the lovely university town of Stellenbosch. And I wanted to write.
Shortly before the end of my time in Korea (May 1998), I added a few ideas to the list. Two of these was that I wanted to commit myself to something or someone, and I wanted to belong somewhere. Other ideas that were eventually added included that you need one thing to focus on, and that half of everyone’s life is about the discovery of this one thing; that my position in society was by default that of a homeless man; that middle-class suburbia would not swallow me whole if I accidentally lost my footing for a moment; and that power is the difference between people who ultimately make it, and those who fall by the wayside.
Back in South Africa – where I was supposed to commit and belong – I considered the whole concept of a career. I discovered, in not the first brilliant insight of my life, that I did not necessarily have a problem with the idea of a career. The problem was that the profession had to be such that I could utterly and completely devote myself to it.
Shortly afterwards I bought some books on writing at a Hospice Shop for R1 each, and I took my writing ambitions and my fresh insight to new heights by declaring that this would be my career – I would be a writer! More than that, writing would be my business. I would combine my writing ambitions with business acumen. I wouldn’t just write what I wanted to write. I would identify a market, and then produce the type of material publications like magazines needed to fill their pages.
Five and a half months later I was standing on a street corner in a city in the south of Taiwan, contemplating the concepts of freedom and independence. Since the ability to think amazingly clear did not catch me offside anymore, I wasn’t surprised when I came to the realisation after only a few minutes that freedom and independence were, for me, empty ambitions. I realised the attraction of these two concepts had fundamentally to do with my desire not to have any debt – to not be obliged anymore to drag a financial burden behind me like a rotting carcass. (And of course it was also related to the old desire to grow a beard, even if I looked like a tramp.) The attraction started to lose its lustre when I realised that perfect freedom and independence would imply that you have nobody to care about, or for whose life you are responsible. This, I knew, was at odds with my true ambitions. I wanted to love people, and I wanted to one day be part of an intimate group of people for whom I would accept co-responsibility.
Thus it came that long cherished ideals bit the dust.
It was in my 24th year on this planet when I had the insight that I mentioned at the beginning of this ninth part of what was never supposed to be such a long “exile” series. I am now thirty years old. It’s 20 November 2001, 25 minutes past 6 in the morning. The sun has already dropped its first rays over the cold winter landscape of Fengshan City. A puppy is warming up my right foot, and a cigarette is burning out in a new ashtray. The people at the local McDonald’s are getting ready to chuck the first cholesterol-laden breakfast foods into fryers sizzling with fresh oil as I type these words, and I have to work in a second round of sleep so I can look intelligent enough for my 21-year-old Chinese teacher at one-thirty this afternoon.
I am friends these days with people from exotic places like Krugersdorp, Kimberley, Vereeniging and Stellenbosch. I work fourteen hours a week at three different schools, and I earn a few thousand Taiwan dollars extra each month by writing short pieces for a local publisher of ESL magazines. I have completed two book projects this year. I can play Battle Hymn of the Republic on my keyboard, and at least six or seven chords on my two guitars. And if I have to, I can also play a tune on the recorder or on one of my two harmonicas.
The question that hangs in the air like a bad smell on a windless winter morning is, however, still the same: What do I do with my life?
* * *
A lovely morning of rest – filled with feverish dreams of murder, and kisses on blood-red lips of girlfriends who were never called back – has, as usual, brought new insight. I already knew that I wanted to write. The real question is thus not what I want to do, but what type of writing I want to produce.
A secondary question has to do with something I touched on in Exile Number 8, which is that being a writer is sometimes similar to the profession or vocation of being a missionary. The missionary, who believes he or she is called to preach a particular message cannot be a full-time bank manager and exercise the calling of being a missionary on a full-time basis. The missionary needs a trade, something with which they can earn money while they spend most of their time, and focus most of their attention on the sometimes time-consuming activities related to their mission. Whatever the missionary’s trade – early church leader Paul was a tentmaker, for instance, it will always just be a practical measure to ensure that they and their families don’t go hungry, and that they have gas in their car most of the time. (If they are supported by a wealthy suburban congregation, their situation will naturally be slightly different.) The same can be said of the political activist whose first priority is his or her political activities, but who might do something else to put food on the table. (Except, once again, if this person is kept alive with money from Norway or Sweden … did I choose the wrong calling?)
The first question I must therefore answer is about the genre in which I want to write, and also what issues I want to address. The second question, which for the sake of successful pursuit of my calling has to be carefully considered, is what I want to do on a daily, but part-time basis to ensure that I have a regular income.
* * *
A thing that has become increasingly clear is that not all professions have the same value in the labour market. And if certain work or certain skills are not in demand, chances are that you will not be well compensated for whatever you are doing in this area. It also does not necessarily provide the person in this profession a status in the community with which he or she is content.
So, if after years of observation of your unique personality, and careful consideration of the available career opportunities you come to the point where you have no choice but to accept that what you want to do is not in high demand, you need to decide what other, related options might be acceptable to you. You also need to carefully consider your idea of a proper income, and how important status in the community is for you.
The alternative is reducing to hobby status (for lack of a better word) the interest or aptitude or skill you would have liked to focus on as a professional (or even as a calling). You would also have to be satisfied devoting most of your time and attention – indeed your daily life – to a profession that was not your first choice from the start; a profession you would probably never be able to practice with passion or commitment.
Question one
To make a long story simple, I want to write what I want to write. I mean, I’m not in the process of becoming a bank manager or a school inspector. The simple reason is because I am pursuing a life in which I give expression to my creativity on a daily basis, without making apologies or asking permission to do so. What value would it have if I spent all my time producing the kind of material that is in demand, or for which I know there is a market, and limited my creativity in the process in terms of vocabulary and in the construction of sentences that had already been laid out ahead of time like recipes?
That being said, to write articles and other material I would not have written if I didn’t know I would get paid for it is still better than to earn that hundred or a thousand rand in a profession that doesn’t require any creativity. So I’m still willing to write material according to set guidelines because the business that will buy the material wants it that way, but I’m not prepared after all this time to primarily focus on this type of writing.
To write what I want to write … the whole theory of the middle class … isn’t it time again to go to bed?
* * *
I want to write about life, about people, relationships, history, religion, society, politics, culture, and about how we manage to get out of bed every morning and eat the exact same cereal as the previous day, and hundreds of days before that. I don’t want to be bound to a specific theme and style because the taste of the consumer who can afford to buy books and other reading materials dictates it thus at the present time.
I want to write what I believe has to be written, even if I am the only one to think so. I want to give my honest opinion on issues that emerge in my own life – issues that many other people will certainly recognise. I want to be so presumptuous as to think I have things to say that nobody else is saying, or perhaps not saying in the way I am saying it. I want to share my insights with other people, even though I won’t the first, last, or only writer who has these specific insights. I want to write, and write, and write even more, and keep writing until someone says, “Have you read what this guy has written?” And then I want to write some more …
Writers write poems, short stories, essays, novels, sermons, speeches, plays, scripts, songs … or a bit of everything. Writers write about things that have happened, things that are currently underway, and things that might happen (if no one takes their writing seriously). Writers write fiction and non-fiction. They write to their friends, family, acquaintances, to their enemies, and even to strangers. They write for adults, and they write for children. They write for people they met yesterday, and for people they will never meet even if they become famous. They sometimes only write for people in their inner circles, and sometimes they write for people in countries they will never visit.
I don’t want to limit myself to any genres or markets. But if I am forced to be more specific, I would say that I will mainly write in Afrikaans, for now, for my peers in South Africa, but also in countries like Taiwan and England, and France and America.
I want to express my ideas about life and about how I think things are and how I think they’re supposed to be in pieces that people will read for various reasons. Maybe they’ll read it because they’re looking for something to pass the time, or because they want to learn something, or because they are looking for inspiration or because they want to consider alternative views on a specific matter.
It is however important for me to write for more than just other people’s entertainment. I want to appoint myself as a voice of reason, even if it takes twenty years to convince other people to listen.
Second question
To want to write is not a simple ambition like wanting to become a doctor. With the latter, you go to university, memorise so many things over a period of six years that your mind becomes wobbly, and then you can make good money and everyone will respect you and call you “Doctor”. To be successful as a writer takes a lot more time and more mental and emotional instability (at least in some cases). It also requires a part-time job that can keep your cash-flow going while you gather some followers who think what you have to say has its place in the Annals of Ideas and Opinions (and perhaps also a place on bookshelves stacked with short stories and poetry).
Life is not perfect. (Would a perfect life be in full colour? Black and white is so much neater.) A perfect life would surely mean that each of us would have two or three versions of our lives to be able to do everything we want to do. All of us would also need our own personal time machine, so that if we learn some important lessons, or – can you imagine this? – if we inadvertently commit a tiny blunder, we can go back and try again. Truth is, not even rich people’s lives are perfect. (Can Bill Gates, for example, suddenly become a hippie and grow his beard?) We all make mistakes. We miss opportunities. We mess up. We make decisions and we do things that make other people shake their heads and ask each other, “What the heck does this guy think he’s doing with his life?” And most of the time we’re too embarrassed to answer, or we simply don’t feel like explaining.
By this time I have certainly driven home the point that I need an income that can keep me alive while I write, so I don’t need to write for money.
Since I completed my tertiary studies, I have only had two jobs: One was to be a glorified secretary and seller of subscriptions for a friend’s environmental journal; the other was to teach children, and every now and then an adult in North East Asia to speak English.
The latter is not a job over which I’m terribly excited. Sometimes I’m embarrassed when I’m standing in a classroom thinking how ridiculous I must look when I swing my arms, or when I say the word “name” for the fifteenth time while pressing my lips together to show your mouth should be closed when pronouncing the “m”. It’s not a job that offers much security, and there is no housing subsidy or pension. Being an expat English teacher in Taiwan or elsewhere in Asia also does not give you status comparable to what engineers or journalists or successful business people enjoy. However, teaching a few English classes every week does generate an income. You either earn enough money to buy …
[… a new printer? A wig? A bus ticket out of town? As if I were suddenly overcome by sleep or boredom, yet another attempt at writing an essay bit the dust.]
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