The price that any author pays for getting published is seeing behind the veil of publishing. As Phoebe Bridgers says in her impeccable new album, Lost Weekend,

“When a dream comes true the fantasy dies.”

Bear with me, because this isn’t a cynical post. Moving from the world of bookish fantasy and imagination to a commercial one is a jarring transition. Your heart - translated onto the page - is weighed up, measured and quantified, a proverbial pound of flesh. I remember walking through the Exclusive Books New Releases section soon after my second book was published and feeling dizzy with the knowledge that every new book was the manifestation of a person’s hard work and dreaming. With horror, I watched as the hot new releases of the previous year ended up on the discount table, pushed aside by people rummaging for the latest rugby or true crime memoir.

No really, I promise this isn’t a cynical post. Reading, and the lifecycle of books, is changing. Thanks to Booktok, backlist titles are coming back into print and genres not prized by literary competitions are getting their time in the sun. (Take the case of I Who Have Never Known Men). In the face of algorithms and depleted marketing budgets, word of mouth remains the best way to spread the news about books - and that is magic.

In my personal reading journey, I have been falling in love with reading through unexpected channels. I thought I’d stop reading to Zach when he was able to read himself, but it turns out that reading middle grade fantasy together has been one of our (and my) richest reading seasons. We loved Cressida Cowell’s Wizards of Once series and are now being blown away by Katherine Rundell’s Impossible Creatures. My daily life is pretty demanding at the moment, but the visceral pacing and character development in these books is hard to ignore.

(A quick, interesting fact about Impossible Creatures. Katherine Rundell was inspired to write the book based on the John Donne poem Metempsychosis, which follows the soul as it moves through various vegetable and animal incarnations, from plants and fish to birds and beasts, questioning humanity’s absolute sovereignty and moral separation from nature. It shows me how deep and rich the provenance of children’s novels can be. It is also a helpful reframing of Donne for me, as my first boyfriend broke up with me using a misquoted line from a John Donne poem.)

The experience with these books has made me face the fact that sometimes I can’t stick with a book because the characters aren’t drawing me in enough. This, however, was cured when I picked up The Calamity Club, a rollicking Southern historial fiction novel by the author of The Help. It’s a whopper of a novel at over 600 pages, but I highly recommend the experience of getting completing lost in an author’s world.

I also enjoyed Andrew Sean Greer’s Villa Coco, a sun-drenched coming of age story set in Italy. The storytelling reminded me of our own Barbara Trapido’s Brother of the More Famous Jack - no link to this book by Readers Warehouse always seem to have copies.

Next up I have lined up Jaclyn Moriarty’s Time Travel for Beginners, a recommendation for my friend Hayley Chewins. Through these books, I am rediscovering the love of reading aloud, feeling vivid description close to my skin and being so enthused about a book I want to talk about it with anyone who will listen. It’s a reminder to me that, no matter my own personal ego struggles and existential crises, the tide of literature carries on regardless, impervious.

This month I’ve been ill and have been forced to rest. I ended up watching My Brilliant Career, an Aussie period drama which is whimsical, camp, ridiculous and charming.

I made these phenomenal blueberry muffins and can’t wait to bake them again. The olive oil in the recipe ensures they stay moist for days and aren’t too sweet.

Some writing news

My first children’s book (for ages 6-8) is getting closer to publication every day. At this point, I am hoping it will be out by early November, and I may be able to share a teaser of the cover and title soon. If you want to book a writing talk, school visit or reading, please message me.

It’s a long story, but I had the remarkable experience of Marian Keyes reading Bad Luck Penny. The book is a sensitive one for me, as I felt like it wasn’t really seen by the industry and reviewers at the time. But Marian, who, apart from being a literary great is a hugely generous and kind person said,

“Thank you so SO so much for letting me read Bad Luck Penny, I enjoyed it hugely.

The family dynamics were so well drawn. The way you presented addiction as a regular thing that most families will encounter in some form, instead of just marginalized groups, was great.”

“Your writing is beautiful, you convey a lot of emotion and atmosphere without ever overdoing it.”

More people have been buying the book of late, and I received a special message from reader saying,

“So many moments made me feel like you knew my life, my thoughts, my experience of a situation.”

Another reader wrote and said,

“As a nearly seventy year old the emotional connections between family and lost lives and loves really touched me.”

If you want to read it too, you can buy it here, or message me for a signed copy.

My secret novel, Bad Machines, is doing really well over on Kindle. If you are into heists and AI-slander, it may be the book for you.

That’s all from me,

Have a wonderful weekend everyone!

Amy x

One of the greatest blessings in my life is my network of loved ones who show their love through the books they recommend I read.

Through the ups and downs of life, it’s great victories and tragedies, I have message after message popping up saying “what are you reading right now?” or “I read this and thought of you.” Beneath the unbearable humanness of it all, this is a persistent heartbeat. We are alive, there is joy to be had, a warm bed and a book to meet us at the end of the day and people who care about us. To be trusted to give or receive a book recommendation is a way of being seen.

As Virginia Evans says in her wonderful book, The Correspondent, “"Knowing you has been like coming in from the cold, lonely road to find a warm fire and a table laid."

One day, I may even tell you how a book I recommended to Rhys was the beginning of our love story.

Books can be a form of introduction, too. Many years ago, I was browsing Love Books and the owner introduced me to a curly haired, magical woman in the children’s section. “You’re both authors,” she said. She, Hayley Chewins, an author of internationally-acclaimed middle grade and young adult fiction, and me, a thriller author - both of us navigating the rollercoaster of international publishing. We’ve been friends ever since, and in June, our two families spent the weekend together in the bush.

One of my favourite parts of the weekend was the book recommendations - Hayley recommended Anne Tyler’s Three Days in June and Susanna Clarke’s The Wood at Midwinter. I loved both books, but can confidently say that Three Days in June is a warm, engaging crowd pleaser (that’s the one I would recommend to you first). Hayley also recommended Katherine Rundell’s Impossible Creatures to Zach, which is right up his alley.

I recommended local author Marina Auer’s Three Echoes, because it is an excellent thriller that deals with themes of pregnancy and birth in South Africa in a novel way, as well as Niall Williams’ As it is in Heaven, because he has such a rich, layered way of seeing the world.

As for the book I recommend most to people? It’s The Signature of all Things by Elizabeth Gilbert (trust me).

The author I recommend most is Elizabeth Strout, but don’t start with her latest, start with the Lucy series. And if you are in the mood for a certain kind of book and you’re not sure what to read next, please feel free to comment or message me!

Now for some other recommendations:

wrote a fascinating piece on international acclaim, and the mental barriers South Africans have when it comes to local fiction. Read here.

I enjoyed this interview between Dua Lipa and Claire Keegan on Keegan’s novel, So Late in the Day.

I am currently writing the first draft of a children’s story, which has a very funny, but also potentially scary character. This piece by Jon Klaasen called ‘What is a Ghost - Let Kids Decide’ is helping me write creatively and bravely.

Ben Lerner’s personal essay, Cardiography, is breathtaking. If you read anything, read this. It’s made me so excited to pick up his novel, Transcription.

Wishing you joy, friendship and good books this July week,

xxx

Amy

Good intentions

I don’t find binary arguments on AI helpful, so I wanted to interrogate my stance on it. I know that AI is being used for good in many instances. In a few minutes, a person can use generative AI tools to write their story, in their own language with illustrations that resemble them. If you think of the barriers to entry in publishing and historic exclusion, this is revolutionary. I understand how alienating it is for children to look for themselves in the pages of a story and see representation, time and time again, that doesn’t include them.

In a cash-strapped publishing climate, there are more commercially published books with AI illustrations. If the publishers couldn’t save costs on illustration, would less local books be published and reach less children? So I understand why AI is finding its way onto shelves. It opens up access, drives down costs and gets things down fast in a traditionally slow-moving industry.

A lack of resonance

Imagine looking in a mirror and not recognising your reflection. That’s the uncanny valley feeling we get when we encounter words or images that have been AI-generated for humans, but are not of humans. As discerning adults, we can make a sound judgement about the content we consume, and see it for what it is. A child doesn’t have that experience yet. At worst, an AI generated book feels unsettling, and at best, it lacks resonance. Their brain signals that this is not for them, and they put the book down. Again, driving literacy doesn’t mean being snobbish about the content or style of books. Children need to engage at a level that is comfortable and with subject matter that interests them. But, as well-intentioned as some AI generated books may be, they miss the mark.

Empty nutrients

I equate a reading we consume to the food we eat. A healthy diet should be varied, of course. A slice of cake and a takeaway has its place. But AI content is akin to empty calories. It holds the shape and structure of a book, without the substance.

In conversations about food and nutrition there are layers of privilege. Not everyone has access to fresh fruit and vegetables or can afford the best supplements. In terms of books, not everyone can go out and buy a book, and many families don’t have access to books in their own language. Do people deserve AI-generated books because that is the nearest assimilation of a story that reflects them? I believe not.

The solution

Invest in diverse stories. Book Dash does an incredible job in gathering authors and illustrators to write and disseminate childrens book in a variety of South African languages. I know that many local publishers are working behind the scenes to invest in the future of children’s books.

Support local creators. Illustration is an art form that needs to be nurtured and protected. We live in a creatively rich environment and our artists deserve to be celebrated.

Support our libraries, however you can.

If you have kids, model the joy of reading.

Discover books the old fashioned way to cultivate your child’s reading taste. Ask for recommendations at your local bookshop, share books between friends, read articles for book recommendations.

And if you feel like you or your child has a book on your heart and you want to use AI tools to bring it to life…don’t. It may feel more polished on the surface, but, I promise you, a book written in a person or child’s genuine voice, is far more valuable and will stand the test of time.

As Ursula Le Guin said, “Children know perfectly well that unicorns aren’t real, but they also know that books about unicorns, if they are good books, are true books.”

Regular newsletter programming to follow soon, but this was a topic too close to my heart to ignore x

Amy

“How did you find your writing voice?” Someone asked me recently at a braai. It’s an interesting question. I have never knowingly cultivated a writing style. Sometimes I have written as commercially as possible to try secure a book deal, or to please an agent/editor in my head and other times I have written into what feels true….which is where the most rewarding part of writing takes place. Interestingly, the two children’s books I am about to release feel the most ‘me’ than anything else I have written. I think it’s because they were written from a deep, naive place of imagination and came to me slowly over several years. I didn’t write the books to get them published, I was just trying to reconcile the memories of being a child with my son’s childhood unfolding in front of me.

As many people who have experienced grief and heartache will know, emotional pain throws the exquisite beauty of a normal day into sharp relief. As Zach marks two years with T1D, I understand deeply how precious the innocence and joy of his everyday life is, often because I am furiously working behind the scenes to preserve it. This period in my life has also shown me how children can carry heavy things, often together. Zach is blessed with a troupe of funny, sensitive, outdoorsy friends who have lived his journey alongside him - injections, blood sugar lows and glucose checks are absorbed effortlessly into the chaos of playdates. How do you write about the lightness and gravity of this? In film, The Sheep Detectives, achieves this beautifully with a hilarious crime caper that also speaks to the nature of grief and inclusion.

Children’s writing, in it’s so-called simplicity, and imagination offers us the expression of complex and uncomfortable emotions - in the words and in the spaces in-between.

In adult writing, we often look out on a sea of sameness. Ursula le Guin said something that is so relevant today, “The monstrous homogenization of our world has now almost destroyed the map, any map, by making every place on it exactly like every other place, and leaving no blanks. …”

She also says, “The literature of imagination, even when tragic, is reassuring, not necessarily in the sense of offering nostalgic comfort, but because it offers a world large enough to contain alternatives and therefore offers hope.”

At the moment, I am drawn to writing, music and art that breaks out of generally accepted boundaries. I have Devotions, by Mary Oliver, next to my bed, so poetry is always close by. I am trying to read classics with difficult language to keep my mind agile. I continue to read children’s books with Zach every night, to immerse myself in other worlds. Looking at the quotes above, I think it’s time for me to introduce some more sci-fi and fantasy into my diet as well.

This leads me to what I am listening to:

Ursula Le Guin’s Cheek by Jowl, which has just be rereleased. The short book contains her essays on the importance of fantasy and children’s fiction.

Pema Chodron, interviewed by Ezra Klein - essential listening for anyone who is feeling anxious or holding heavy things (and I know many of us are). Here is one of my favourite quotes from Pema:

“Things falling apart is a kind of testing and also a kind of healing. We think that the point is to pass the test or to overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don’t really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together again and fall apart again. It’s just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy.”
― Pema Chödrön, When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times

Margerite Poland, on The Hidden Lives of Writers (a stunning local writing podcast with heaps of information and advice).

Siri Hustvedt speaking with on The Shift.

In terms of reading, I had a full May reading books for the Kingsmead Book Fair. Zach and I started The Wizards of Once series, and might even be enjoying it more than How to Train your Dragon!

After Sheep Detectives, we are loving a cozy mystery genre, and the recently-released Shrew Detective looks like great fun. A nosy shrew who has a vast vocabulary based on her wallpaper (a used human dictionary) - sign me up!

Wishing you all a good June, filled with reading adventures for young and old,

Amy x

Another rejection came in while I was sleeping. That’s the thing about appealing to people in different time zones to consider my work – the universe shifts and makes its call while I remain blissfully dreaming.

There are levels of rejection, this is something that one comes to know intimately as a writer. The nameless form rejection, the rejection with a little bit of feedback, rejections right out the gate, a swift turning away at the sight of the first sentence. I have learned to separate myself from these. I imagine the person on the other end of the screen walking past me on a crowded street, barely registering my presence.

It’s harder when there is hope in the air. Hope hurts far more than a stranger’s lack of regard ever could. This morning’s rejection was of the hopeful variety. A few weeks before, I had sent a sample of a novel to an agent in New York. Her agency had a glittering client list, filled with bestsellers, literary award winners and books turned into movies. She loved my work and gave me a call one stormy Johannesburg afternoon. The prospects were dizzying – she loved my writing and the hook of the story, she imagined this as a big book, namely the next Bridget Jones’ Diary. She was already casting one of the characters in the movie. I could barely hear her with the rain outside.

I got physically sick after that call. My hands shook and I was overcome with a sudden fever. Very Victorian, I know. I told a few of my close friends this and they couldn’t understand it. “But you’re a successful author, why was it so hard for you to imagine yourself in conversation with this person?” They put it down to the general imposter syndrome that is innate to being a woman. For me, it was a little more than that. Writing is an odd career in that there is no linear path. There is always the (albeit slim) possibility of going from nothing to Something. There is this compelling, almost mythical idea that you can toil in isolation and then, if the right eyes gaze upon you, you will finally be seen and appreciated for all that you are.

There was a caveat to this particular agent’s representation. Before she gave me access to her unattainable world of first-class editors and movie deals, she wanted to ensure we were on the same page, story wise. More specifically, that I was on the same page of what she wanted the story to be. I made the changes because they made sense and I wanted the book to be successful. Saying it like this doesn’t communicate the gravity of it. I took a week off doing my day job (I get paid by the hour and couldn’t afford it) and worked every day on ‘getting the book right’. As I sat in Service Station, the café where I have completed many books in the past, I allowed myself to dream. When I submitted the book, I was secure in the sense that I had done my best.

Weeks passed. Then, one night as I was heading out to dinner, I received an email from the shiny agent with muted optimism. The requested edits to the lead character now made her ‘off-putting.’ She promised to pass the manuscript to her colleague for a second opinion. I felt a familiar twisting in my gut, that soul-sinking feeling that it is the beginning of the end.

Which leads me to the rejection that came in the night, the full stop punctuating another fantasy. I woke at 3am and stupidly checked my phone, even though checking a phone in the middle of the night has never once given me a sense of solace or calm. After a week of anticipating it, there it was.

I don’t read emails from publishers or agents from beginning to end. I give a cursory scan to sense the tone of the language, like slowly easing a toe into cold water. I don’t need the details and I will spare you the details too. The email said that the book is a “near miss” and they will “be cheering for me from the sidelines.” This is a common phrase in the publication world, a world wrapped in best wishes and bunting, where at the heart of the sentiment is ‘f*ck off.’

After a few hours I woke up my son and began the soothing, mundane process of getting him ready for the day. To him, I am merely his mother. He had no idea that for a moment there, I was almost somebody else.

Rejection is banal, it is an email sent at a random time, a few words typed hastily on a page. It is overlayed, cruelly and strangely, over everyday life. I remember stepping out of a dinner to read an email from a local publisher rejecting my first thriller. The rejection for a year-long grant arrived as I was lying under a ceiling fan, escaping the heat of my tropical honeymoon. My agent left me as I was playing football with my son. The weeks, months and years of waiting come to an end in an instant. I go back into the dinner, to the football game and carry on.

I appreciate the randomness of it now. There is a lesson, I think, in what little regard the flow of the universe has for my ego and its dreams. No novel is a matter of life and death. I brought life into the world as I signed my first publishing deal. The process of bringing a book to life was underpinned by the urgent essentialness of life itself.

And so, I continue to write, just as I continue to live. Hopefully I am learning that each of these acts comes with its own victories and losses, an ever-flowing lagoon I still call myself lucky to swim in. And as long as there are words on the page, I continue to hope and try again.

Some events coming up:

• Three years ago, I remember meeting Sven Axelrad at The Kingsmead Book Fair. I was the host of his first panel, and in the time before the event, we had a long, open conversation about the writer’s life, rejection and perseverance. Sven’s career has blossomed since then, but it has come with heaps of determination. On Wednesday this week 6 May I will be hosting the launch of his third book Dogs of Vivo, which (I feel) reminds me of Fredrick Backman’s My Friends.

• On Saturday 23 May I will be hosting a panel at the Kingsmead Book Fair titled, “Keeping the suspense going: How to write a page-turner” with Gareth Crocker (Now YouBleed: A Ruben Ellis Thriller), Tony Park (Die by the Sword), Marina Auer (Three Echoes), and Mpho Boshego (Diplomatic Ties).

• On Saturday 30 May, Rhys and I will be hosting another Writing and Mindfulness workshop at Munro Art Gallery, from 9am-3pm. The first workshop was such a success, and we can’t wait to work with more writers. For more details, feel free to email me.

Wishing you grit and perseverance, whatever you are dealing with in your own life.

x

Amy

I had a busy month emerging from my leafy writing room and meeting writers, young and old, in several workshops. I couldn’t believe my luck, and found these events deeply nourishing for my own writing practice. I realised a few things:

A writing practice can benefit anyone. It’s so easy to think that our writing needs to be published or good to mean something, but the act of writing is innately valuable in and of itself. This article talks about the neuroscience of creativity, and how it is far more than an outcome, but a symphony of many facets of our brain.

The fact that people don’t think they can write is a tragedy. In one of my writing workshops for children, a child of about 7 said her biggest worry about writing is that she won’t ‘get it right.’ It’s probably because at this age, writing is used as a gauge for handwriting and spelling rather than creativity. Some children kept looking for the rules of what made something ‘good,’ while a few were more comfortable in expressing their stories in their full absurdity, humour and strangeness.

It’s (more than) enough for writing to be authentic, and be yours. It’s no wonder that people lean on AI to write, with its promises of perfect grammar and the right words at the right time. I’m more interested in authentic expression in all its messiness - mixed emotions, contradictions, spelling mistakes and all.

Writing can be a window to the soul. In one of the workshops, Rhys and I paired up to offer a writing and mindfulness course. Rhys led the room in a focused meditation, after which everyone did a short, related writing exercise. The results were powerful. It took less than 20 minutes for people to access deep emotions and meaningful memories through their writing. Now imagine how much deeper one could go with a daily writing practice!

And finally, People are hungry for the tangible. We long for connection, to learn and to create. At a school event, I gave a group of 12 year olds a writing prompt and they moaned at me, saying that the 20 minutes I gave them wasn’t enough time for them to see what happens next in the story. There is such hope in this anecdote. In a generation that is seen as victim to the digital age, analogue creativity still lives.

Here are some interesting links

I loved this article about the unlikely connection people found in the comment section of a random YouTube video.

“In video games, a checkpoint is a safe space: a place to save your game, where the danger can’t reach you. It’s a place to breathe, in other words. A relief; a respite. They’re also places to marshal your bravery, because they’re not the end of the game. That comes later, after more struggle. One of the better ways to get through something difficult—whether a video game or the general unpredictability of life—is to feel connected with other people, like you’re not alone.”

perfectly expresses the yearning for travel that embraces the unknown, free of TikTok recommendations and FOMO in this article. She says:

“Embrace going to the places not everyone is talking about because spontaneity is now the great luxury. Liberate yourself from the tyranny of choosing the “best thing.” The reward for not-knowing is finding out we’re more connected to each other than we realize.”

At this point, I must recommend a fellow South African sub stacker and queen of the off-the-beaten-path recommendation, .

I’ve been listening to Mother Earth’s Plantasia as I’ve started writing my new manuscript. The lore behind this 70’s album, written for plants, is as fascinating as the music itself.

I’ve also been listening to an Ode to TS Eliot’s The Wasteland. This was my favourite poem as a teen, and I used its structure to write a dark, despairing poem of my own at age 16. It won me my first prize/compensation for my writing - a Tori Amos CD.

The poem begins saying,

“April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.”

I hope your April is gentler, and I hope you find some time to read, or write something new.

x

Amy

A few days ago, an artist I admire shared an AI caricature on social media. If you are privileged enough to not have come across this yet, people across the world are - in the spirit of a little fun - putting all their crucial identifying data into an AI platform that spits out it’s idea of who they are. Don’t worry, I don’t judge anyone who’s done it, but I kind of judged the artist, because AI generates, it does not create and it can only do so using stolen content.

Anyway, I can’t throw stones from a glass house, because I happily share the algorithmic picture my Spotify Wrapped creates for me each year. Both this, and the caricatures, are a slackening of our individuality muscle in a world where, multiple times a day, platforms take a collection of superficial data points and trawl for resonance, saying here, ‘this is who you are.’

Yet it all feels unnervingly the same. This NYT article on the rise of the AI voice in writing says,

"Every day, another major corporation or elected official or distant family member is choosing to speak to you in this particular voice. This is just what the world sounds like now. This is how everything has chosen to speak. Mixed metaphors and empty sincerity. Impersonal and overwrought. We are unearthing the echo of loneliness. We are unfolding the brushstrokes of regret. We are saying the words that mean meaning."

As Jennifer Egan says in one of my favourite books of all time, A Visit from the Goon Squad, “All we’ve got are metaphors, and they’re never exactly right. You can never just Say. The. Thing.”

An Australian artist I admire, Shaun Tan, gets to the root of AI’s dissonance in a recent interview, unpacking that strange, uncanny-valley sense when we encounter something generated with minimal human touch.

“It’s a superficial simulation – it’s like they know the symptoms, but they don’t know the disease.”

To be naff and quote myself, I wrote the following about AI on Substack in 2024 -

“In terms of creativity, I believe that AI deals in patterns and the expected, while humans thrillingly defy expectation. Often our emotional reactions are complex and unscripted. We surprise ourselves with our strength and humour in difficult times, and unearth kindness and magic in the most ordinary places. Most of all, our experience, our voice, is unique to ourselves. This is why, after centuries of literature, we can still find new ways to express our most human experiences: love, longing, loneliness, despair, joy.”

Of course, this may change. But for now I think our most powerful reaction to AI is to keep creating - vividly, intentionally, randomly, recklessly, despairingly and evocatively. Another powerful response is to teach our children critical thinking skills.

But let’s not let this devolve into a sermon.

Here are a few great books I have been reading:

The Inheritance of Loss, Kiran Desai - I think this is a new favourite. Beautiful and literary, but also really funny and unexpected. I was lucky enough to visit a hill station in the Himalayas years ago and it conjured the setting so intricately.

Charlotte Duckworth’s novel Connie is perfect for fans of the film Promising Young Woman and also had shades of Nicci Cloke’s Her Many Faces (a favourite thriller of mine).

Now I am reading local author Shameez Patel's Next Level Love, which is utterly delightful, layered and written with such heart. It is such a cozy, quirky hug and mug of hot chocolate at the end of a long day.

Oh! I got the Cooking with Kim Bagley recipe book for my birthday and absolutely adore all its homely recipes. Every recipe of hers that I cook goes down so well in my household.

Until next time xx

Amy

Many years ago, Rhys and I went to a performance of a revered Indian classical musician. After an hour of breathtaking skill, he bowed before the standing ovation of fans and said, humbly, “Thank you for watching. I am grateful to forever be a student of music.” The statement has lived with me - he had ‘made it’ as a musician, but he considered his art to be a practice that was never complete, an ongoing lesson.

In art, and probably in life, a lot of pain comes from the resistance to the reality that we are all still learning. Mastery is an ongoing process. During December, I edited a novel I have been working on for several years and found a lot of joy in getting to the heart of what I had got ‘wrong.’ Now, I am trying to teach myself to illustrate and coming up to the jagged edges of my fragile self esteem. It’s all learning. The prospect of failing is always there, but the lesson is cut short if you stop trying.

There’s a lot of talk in the online bookish community of building a ‘personal curriculum.’ I love the idea, but prefer the idea of a personal inquiry. Simply put, I don’t want to create a rigid map for my own learning, but rather follow where my curiosity takes me, making sense of it all as I go along.

Last month’s reading led me to Frankenstein and contemplating how its themes resonate in the age of AI. (This will make more sense if and when my adult book is published.)

The theme of human connection and vulnerability evolved into my reading of The Correspondent, one of my favourite books of 2025. The book paints a moving picture of an ordinary woman’s life through a series of letters.

Then, I read The Artist by Lucy Steeds, a ‘furiously romantic, sun-drenched mystery,’ which asks the question ‘who is given the privilege to create art?’

I needed a break from all this intellectual discovery, so I read Garden Spells by Sarah Addison Allen (on recommendation by the lovely Gail Schimmel). With very similar themes to Practical Magic and loads of lush gardening, cooking and overall wittiness, this novel was like a warm hug.

Wild, Dark Shore by Charlotte MConaghy was a moving, genre-bending literary thriller/romance, also firmly rooted in the magic and power of nature (and what it means for us as a species when nature is under threat.)

Now, I have found myself in a small town in the Himalayas, reading Kiran Desai’s The Inheritance of Loss.

I am probably going to stay in India (well, a near-future Kolkata) and read A Guardian and a Thief by Megha Mujamdar. This novel (like Wild, Dark, Shore) also deals with themes of food scarcity and climate change.

On the children’s book side of things, Zach and I have been reading Twitch, a mystery series about a bunch of crime-solving bird watchers. He’s also been listening to the Podcast The Science of Birds. As a result, we have built a bird hide in the garden…Zach is also developing an interest in solving neighbourhood crimes from the safety of his climbing tree.

Let me know what you’re reading? And if you can trace any themes running through it?

Oh my goodness, and I almost forgot to mention! If you are in Johannesburg, Rhys and I will be running a workshop along the theme of writing and mindfulness. It’s going to be such a rewarding morning, run from the Munro Art Gallery on Sat 14 March from 9am-3pm. All skill levels are welcome and if you’d like to join us, feel free to mail me for all the details.

Ending off with a poem from the ultimate inquirer, Mary Oliver

The Teachers

Owl in the black morning,
mockingbird in the burning
slants of the sunny afternoon
declare so simply

to the world
everything I have tried but still
haven’t been able
to put into words,

so I do not go
far from that school
with its star-bright
or blue ceiling,

and I listen to those teachers,
and others too–
the wind in the trees
and the water waves–

for they are what lead me
from the dryness of self
where I labor
with the mind-steps of language–

lonely, as we all are
in the singular,
I listen hard
to the exuberances

of the mockingbird and the owl,
the waves and the wind.
And then, like peace after perfect speech,
such stillness.

© 2008 by Mary Oliver
Published by Beacon Press in Red Bird: Poems by Mary Oliver, pp. 27-28

Until next time,

Amy

Here is my December reading list, and please let me know what you have lined up!

Comforting slice of life books

The Correspondent, Virginia Evans - I have heard so much about this book! I read a sample last night and knew it was exactly the reading mood I am after for December.

Wreck, Katherine Newman - I adored her novel Sandwich last year, which was funny and tragic in equal measure. She’s an auto-buy for me.

Time of the Child, Niall Williams - Rich, slow and thoughtful writing set in an evocative small Irish town, and set over Christmas time! If you haven’t read This is Happiness, read that one first.

(If you haven’t read Bad Luck Penny, it is finally on Kindle and probably falls into this category.)

Cozy, slightly surreal books

Best Wishes from the Full Moon Coffee Shop, Mai Mochizuki. I have been a joyful captive of Japanese cat literature since reading the first book in this series. I don’t really care what the storyline is. I just want more cats, astrology and moonlit coffee!

The Enchanted Greenhouse, Sarah Beth Durst. I have never read cozy fantasy before, but I love plants and seem to be enjoying more magic in my books, so this looks like a good start.

Thrilling

The Strange Case of Jane O, Karen Thompson Walker sounds like it will scratch that Silent Patient itch.

Literary

Taking me into January, but I just cannot wait for our very own South African Nadia Davids’ Cape Fever. I am sharing the Amazon pre-order link here (this helps authors immensely) but also consider ordering a copy from your local bookstore.

Self-help

This will probably be an illustration book or a guide on how to use Procreate, because I am trying to find my own illustration style at the moment!

Hope you have a wonderful last month of 2025.

xx

Amy

Richard Powers, The Overstory

I never set out to communicate any particular themes in my writing. I gravitated to stories that interested me and dragged me through early drafts, no matter the genre. This isn’t the ideal way to build a writing career - the common advice is pick a genre or market and stick to it. Now, after writing two thrillers, a romcom and a literary fiction novel, I’ve started writing and illustrating for children, which complicates things further. Never mind my parallel career working for innovation consultancies, watching the rise of AI behind the scenes. But, like in any career, one person contains multitudes.

The other day, on one of my many walks, I saw the pattern and purpose behind it all. I write stories that explore technology in an accessible and urgent way for adults, and I write books that celebrate the magic of nature for children. These are two sides of the same coin. Nature inspires play, creativity and fearlessness in children, and that same spirit of creativity and bravery is something we need to cling onto in the increasingly digital adult world.

Richard Powers, author of novels such as Overstory and Playground has a technology background like I do, and inspires me in how he chronicles the relationship between nature and technology. In another interview he talks about, “this notion that somehow we have reached the level of technological dominance that leaves us exempt from the reality of biological systems, the reality of climate systems and so forth, that we got seduced into believing in our own omnipotence.”

These thoughts have given shape to my writing aspirations, and have led me to start my first new piece of adult fiction writing this year! At the same time, I have renewed energy to write and draw stories for children that celebrate their connection to nature. As Wordsworth said, “Children are born naturalists.”

What I’ve been reading

I had an inspiring month reading Arundhati Roy’s memoir Mother Mary Comes to Me. I went straight onto rereading her debut novel God of Small Things, and it was so fascinating to see how her private and personal worlds overlapped.

As a palate cleanser after all that literary-ness, I read Riley Sager’s The Only One Left. This was a fantastic gothic thriller that wasn’t too gory, but was rich in creepy atmosphere and surprising twists.

I also got news this month that my novel Bad Luck Penny is now available internationally on Kindle! If you like books such as The Paper Palace, Miranda Cowley Heller or Broken Country by Clare Leslie Hall, you may enjoy it! And if you do read it, please leave a first review, the page is looking a little sad ;)

Listening

Gail Schimmel (a prolific, amazing author and friend of mine) recommended this brilliant interview on Honest Authors with Sophie Hannah. Even if you aren’t a writer, it will galvanise you to persevere and go for your dreams.

For those who haven’t practiced their passion in a long time, I found this interview with author Sarah Perry really encouraging. Her career started slightly later in life and she says, “‘You can be someone who is born to write and not write for a very long time.”

In terms of craft, this interview with Katie Kitamura (author of Audition) on the Shakespeare and Company podcast is really interesting.

I’ve also been listening to the new Lily Allen album, which is a jaw-dropping exercise in storytelling itself!

Wishing you a wonderful November, with all the end of year madness that brings!

xx

Amy

The rumblings of Johannesburg’s first thunderstorm of the summer are threatening outside and I am reflecting on a hopeful, nourishing month.

I read some brilliant books, across many different genres, starting with the short story collection The Lucky Ones by Alistair McKay. I started my career writing short stories, and these were particularly poignant - not just for the crisp, literary writing style - but for the familiar setting spanning Joburg to Cape Town. Alistair was recently interviewed on the (incredible) Hidden Lives of Writers Podcast and I highly recommend a listen. I think short stories are just brilliant for weeks where you want to scroll less online (a forever goal of mine) or are too tired to immerse yourself in a longer piece of fiction. I’d also recommend Alex Latimer’s Collection Love Stories for Ghosts. And if you want to read some of the short stories that started off my writing career, you can find The Fog here, and The Money Shot here.

We got a cat this month, that we thrifted from Persian Cat Rescue, a place that Rhys says ‘is for posh cats that have fallen upon hard times.’ We didn’t get a Persian, but a Snowshoe Siamese that bears a striking resemblance to my late cat, Tofu. So obsessed am I with this cat, that I became intent on finding a fiction book centred around cats. As luck would have it, I came upon the novel The Full Moon Coffee Shop, which is about a coffee shop that appears every full moon, where cats serve you pastries and solve your life problems using astrology. It delivered perfectly on all expectations, and had a surprisingly poignant ending. If anyone has other cat-themed books to read, please pass on your suggestions!

I’ve also been thinking a lot about memoirs this month, as literary giants Elizabeth Gilbert and Arundhati Roy both released very vulnerable autobiographies this month. I have started with Arundhati Roy’s Mother Mary Comes to Me, which is simply stunning so far. You can also listen to a great conversation with her and Mick Herron on the ABC Book Show. The discourse on Elizabeth Gilbert’s memoir has been less kind, with Gilbert being called everything from a self-indulgent narcissist and attempted murderer. The New Statesman believes she doesn’t deserve the hate. My favourite analysis of the book is this craft analysis by , which breaks down the delicate matter of writing about the dead, and (respectfully) suggests that her fiction holds better examples of her talent. I agree with this take, and consider Gilbert’s The Signature of All Things to be one of my favourite books of all time. I often think that writers say the things they are afraid to say through fiction, and Gilbert was definitely exploring a queer identity here, long before enacting it in real life. A last thought on memoir, I like to think of almost home-grown (Zimbabwean) author Alexandra Fuller as achieving the bravery and candour of a perfect novel in her latest memoir, Fi. Unfortunately, it concerns the death of her son, so while it is brilliantly written, I cannot go near it until Zach is at least 30.

My favourite podcast for the month was the Tricycle Talks interview with poet Ada Simon. It offers a beautiful and needed perspective shift on our current reality, encouraging us to be present in the mess of it all. She reads this poem during the episode, which I really enjoyed:

Startlement

It is a forgotten pleasure, the pleasure
of the unexpected blue-bellied lizard

skittering off his sun spot rock, the flicker
of an unknown bird by the bus stop.

To think, perhaps, we are not distinguishable
and therefore no loneliness can exist here.

Species to species in the same blue air, smoke—
wing flutter buzzing, a car horn coming.

So many unknown languages, to think we have
only honored this strange human tongue.

If you sit by the riverside, you see a culmination
of all things upstream. We know now,

we were never at the circle’s center, instead
all around us something is living or trying to live.

The world says, What we are becoming, we are
becoming together.

The world says, One type of dream has ended
and another has just begun.

The world says, Once we were separate,
and now we must move in unison.

I will leave you with that. I hope you have a wonderful week, rich in surprises and, (if you’re in Johannesburg), summer thunderstorms.

Amy

PS: I am selling a selection of my books (that I have read and that I’ve written) on my new Yaga store! I am loving the idea of having a little shop and dream of having a roaming book bus one day. Until then, you can browse the selection of books here.

It’s almost spring here in the Southern Hemisphere. My garden has sprung up in corridors of jasmine, geranium and freesias and, this weekend, Zach and I planted our summer vegetables. The act filled me with lightness and hope. My days have been characterised by this simplicity, and have featured very little writing or striving. I was reminded of a quote by Ocean Vuong,

“In our market-orientated zeitgeist, we are taught to focus heavily on production. Look around you: how many are trying to force flowers to grow out of thin air? And at what result? And more importantly, at what cost?"

Any farmer will tell you, the most time-consuming work is cultivating the soil. The harvest in the last part. And yet, we are taught to rush this last part. To believe that something beautiful should grow merely because we command it to. And like all tricks, it is an illusion. There is no writer’s block, only a lack of soil.”

I used to believe in writing every day, but I increasingly appreciate the value of the spaces between an idea and the writing of it. In life, I am learning to focus less on the outcome and living in the uncertainty of the present moment. In vegetable gardening, Zach and I plant generously and don’t hold on too tightly to an idea of what it will look like. The result is that every seedling, fruit and vegetable is a wonderful surprise.

I recently listened to a gorgeous episode of the On Being Podcast, where Krista Tippet speaks to the late Joanna Macy about her translation of Rainer Maria Rilke. The conversation mentions a favourite Rilke quote that sums up how I feel:

“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”

Here are a few articles have been nurturing me as I ‘prepare the soil’ for whatever it is I write next.

Olga Tokarczuk’s Nobel Prize Acceptance Speech. “Only literature is capable of letting us go deep into the life of another being, understand their reasons, share their emotions and experience their fate.”

This interview with science fiction author Adrian Tchaikovsky. “Science, if it is being conducted honestly, will come into conflict with authoritarianism.”

Elizabeth Gilbert’s substack, featuring Jesse Krimes (on why we write.) “No matter what happens to the world, as long as there is anything here left whatsoever, and any human spirit to witness it, people will keep making things out of nothing. You will be (already are, always will be) one of those people. This is holy. Let’s keep going.”

Some recent reads (with honest reviews):

Broken Country, Clare Leslie Hall - Slow burning and brooding at first, but a really satisfying and gripping read. Perfect for a holiday or rainy weekend.

My Friends, Fredrick Backman - The reader in me enjoyed this emotional testament to the power of friendship, found family and art. The writer in me found the narrative a bit ‘on the nose’ and I felt like my emotions were being manipulated. All in all, I was a willing participant and enjoyed the story and how it all resolved.

Project Hail Mary, Andy Weir (audiobook) - I had high hopes for this one, but after one too many catheter descriptions (I’m squeamish) I opted out. If anyone thinks I should continue, please let me know.

Atmosphere, Taylor Jenkins Reid. There were moments that I really enjoyed this story, but I didn’t find the protagonist’s love story and chemistry convincing (I was hoping for chemistry along the lines of the Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo). It also turns out I only have one space-themed story in me per year. For a more sublime story about space, I would recommend Orbital by Samantha Harvey.

Howl’s Moving Castle, Dianna Wynn Jones. Simply magical and accessible to all ages. a classic that feels fresh and engaging.

Thank you again to everyone who took the time to reply to my previous essay on diabetes. I only discovered some of the replies the other day (!) but know that it all meant so much. It is no small thing to show up in this world in all one’s vulnerability and to be received with understanding and compassion.

Until next time x

Amy

The week that Zach was diagnosed, I worried. My husband was having a minor medical procedure that required an overnight hospital stay. I had a number of urgent freelance writing assignments that could not be ignored. I charge by the hour, and with the South African elections, and a public holiday, coming up later that week, I needed to make the most of the time I had with our son occupied in school. He had only just returned after a two-week bout of swine flu. Time was stretched thin as a membrane, my anxiety beating beneath it.

Zach was six, so I was used to the ebbs and flows of parenting. Not all moments of child-rearing can be positive ones. We were, objectively, in a difficult season where the flat plain of parenting had slowly turned into a steep hill. Our usually bright, energetic and social child had grown moody. Whenever I asked him about his day, he would reply that he didn’t play with anyone. Over rushed conversations at drop off, his teacher inferred that he was bright, but lacking focus. In the weeks before, I had started researching anxiety and depression in children. In the early hours of the morning I lay wide awake, trying to understand if he was being bullied. The year before he had a close group of friends and was learning well – what had gone wrong? The bright light of my phone pierced the 3am light as I Googled natural remedies and supportive questions to ask for whatever was troubling him.

Rhys went to hospital and returned. I moved my unwilling child through the rhythms of his day – wake up, go to school, homework. The only blessing within this was a newfound and surprising need for sleep. Usually he would fight sleep until 8pm, but now he was passing out by 7pm, latest. This, we would realise later, was a symptom. At the time, like any parents of a young child, we found the space a relief.

In the two days before the election, he started drinking and urinating constantly. It’s the cliche you are told to look for. How many mothers have watched their child down their third glass of water and thought, ‘what if?’ With Zach, it was as blindingly obvious as the Johannesburg winter sun beating down outside, and as clear as the frost-blue sky.

“I don’t want to do my homework, I’m too tired,” he said, slumping onto my lap.

“Just your reader, please,” I cajoled, desperate for him to meet the relevant milestones.

“The dog sits with Pip,” he read tentatively, shaking his head and slamming the book shut.

“Why are you shaking your head?” I asked, scanning his face for signs of anxiety, sadness or frustration. We had been told that reading can often be emotionally challenging for children and we need to build their confidence.

“The words go blurry,” he shrugged. “Don’t worry. I just shake my head and blink like this, and then it’s fine again.” Even then, I silenced the fearful voice inside, saying ‘he’s just learning to read, the shapes are only just beginning to make sense before they disintegrate before his eyes. This is normal. It’s not the blurry vision associated with the onset of diabetes. The condition does not run in our family, why would it even be a consideration? In the brief window before sleep, when he has always shared his secrets, I asked him again why he no longer played with his friends. “Because they play tag,” he sighed, before closing his eyes, “And I am too tired.”

When I slept, I didn’t sleep for long. I was pulled back into the knowing glow of my phone. Frequent urination can be a sign of a urinary tract infection. Sometimes a UTI can be brought on by antibiotics. Zach had been on antibiotics with the Swine Flu! Of course, there were the other articles that said a viral infection could trigger a latent autoimmune response in children where the cells of the pancreas attack itself. Diabetes. I didn’t dare say or think the word out aloud. In the next room, Zach cried and writhed in a restless sleep, waking up constantly. I sobbed into my pillow and prayed with all my being for God, whoever She may be, to love him, to protect him, to spare him from a life with diabetes. I bargained to God too, to take away all my accomplishments, everything I loved if it meant I got to keep Zach and Rhys. If it meant that the pain crouched and breathing in the wings would leave him alone.

Election day and a public holiday. We drove to 20 minutes to the suburb I grew up in because I forgot to change my election details. While shifting from foot to foot in the two-hour election queue, I messaged our GP. I was embarrassed by inconveniencing her. I am an office hours, respectful, email person. I don’t contact a service provider on their personal phone.

She asked for a urine sample. It could be anything she said, a UTI as per my Google diagnosis, a rare rush of cortisol following his swine flu. It didn’t have to be the word we didn’t utter. I called Rhys, who had taken Zach to a nearby bird park while I voted. It was fine, he told me, apart from Zach’s constant drinking. “Getting a urine sample won’t be a problem,” he said, wryly.

It had been impossible to work. I had clients asking me to urgently contact them about work that was late or badly done. My usual efficiency was slipping to show a humanity I was uncomfortable with. In the age of AI copywriting, humanness can’t get in the way of good work. So, the day after the election, we were relieved that he seemed well enough to go to school. I greeted the teacher tersely, who mentioned his increasing bathroom breaks, “He is going so often that he can barely finish anything!”

The doctor called as we were settling him at his desk. I stepped away as if this wasn’t any cause for alarm, as if everything was normal. “It is not a UTI, but we can confirm that he has glucose in his urine,” she said carefully, “It’s how the body sheds it when there is just too much, when your organs can’t process it, when you possibly have…” She’d never said the word until that moment. My mom had seen this as a comfort. “Surely, if this was a consideration, she would mention it, she would be nervous?” But sometimes people don’t utter a possibility for fear of conjuring it into life.

“Sorry,” I said to the teacher, “We just need to confirm that Zach is alright. Just one quick blood test to confirm he is not suffering from diabetes.” Her eyes widened. She had a nephew with diabetes, the puzzle pieces were falling into place. We drove around the corner to the hospital. Zach screamed through the next blood test, cajoled, delayed and fought it. In the end I had to hold him down.

“It’s probably nothing,” I said, willing reality away. Zach wanted to return to school to be with his friends, so we dropped him back, telling the teacher we would call if we heard anything further. We were still existing in a surreal unreality, where we did not understand what diabetes meant, or how it could turn a life upside down.

I began my meetings. That day I was writing a profile on a corporate executive so he could enter an award for best CEO. He told me his hobbies: reading (when he can find the time), cycling, golf, spending time with his kids. The phone rang, interrupting the interview. It was the pathologists, calling about mine.

“What did your son eat for breakfast this morning?” they asked.

“A smoothie and a slice of toast?” I answered, feeling their scrutiny bearing down over the line. Was whatever wrong with him my fault? I should be pushing healthier breakfasts. Why haven’t I got around to making him chia pudding yet? His blood glucose level was 30. Anything over 10 is unhealthy, anything over 20 is potentially threatening. These numbers meant nothing to me yet, but I would understand soon enough.

I told Rhys and we ran to the car. We found Zach sitting by the sports fields after playing rugby with his friends. They were sat in a neat row, jostling and laughing quietly, waiting for the next instruction from the teacher. His face fell as we pulled up the car next to the line of children, all staring at us wide-eyed. We plucked him from his safe, known world to the hospital for more blood tests, more examinations and procedures. He screamed again. I held him down. I didn’t cry, not on the surface, anyway.

The results came back. Rhys and I were called to the GP’s office. Your baby has diabetes, she said. She’s crying, because she loves Zach like her own and has known us since before I was pregnant, or we were married, even before Rhys had met me.

The path before us crystallised into view. Meals, injections, glucose monitoring devices…We didn’t have room for more, certainly not all of this. I felt enraged in my defeat. We loved him and protected him. I breastfed him until I bled (all those antibodies, so good for them), and rocked him all night. All the research, organic foods, wooden toys and apps tracking his milestones. Rhys and I loved him with every iota of our beings and threw ourselves into giving him everything he needed, but still we could not stop him from getting diabetes. “You did nothing wrong,” the doctor said. “There was nothing you could have done to prevent this.”

I didn’t know how to tell him that his world had changed forever. I didn’t know how we would cope with it. It was the cliche to end all cliches, but I kept blinking my eyes, I locked myself in the bathroom and slapped myself across the face, desperate to wake up from this nightmare. I told him in simple language that he had a condition, and that many people have different conditions, and that with his new treatment he would feel better again. He nodded solemnly, accepting the highly complex path before him without fear or complaint.

Blessed with medical aid, we fell into a well-oiled system. A Continuous Glucose Monitor (CGM) was stapled onto his arm. The diabetic educator showed us how to use the app, an addictive screen that presented the ebbs and flows of his blood glucose. Zach was given his first shot of insulin, which he insisted on administering himself. We all watched with held breath as his six year old fingers, still learning how to hold a pen, pushed the needle into his thigh. Almost immediately he reanimated and his cheeks flushed pink. It was remarkable, and even in the fog of our collective shock, we saw it for what it was. A ray of hope.

On insulin, he was overcome with an intense and endless hunger. This is normal, apparently, the body’s way of reconstituting itself. We were given a sheet of paper with complicated sums. One unit of insulin is equal to 30g carbs. His food intake was reduced to a succession of strict portions, as predictable as the food I portion out three times a day for our dog. He remained hungry, he cried from hunger. Eggs do not hold carbs. Nor does meat. But in our earnest early parenting we raised Zach to be an ethical vegetarian so he couldn’t stand to be near any source of lean animal protein, as life-giving as it would have been to him. So instead, I made him omelettes day and night in the hopes of filling him. Zach grit his teeth and willed himself through every discomfort, demonstrating a resilience that at once filled me with pride and broke my heart.

We shared the news with family, friends, and colleagues. Many could not comprehend that this was an autoimmune condition he was born with, a ticking time bomb that was always set to go off. It was not preventable, nor would any praying, remedy or magical thinking put the Pandora back in its box. I understood how words, too, should be rationed.

“Was it because of his lifestyle?” asked a friend’s husband.

“Do you feel guilty as a mother?” asked a colleague.

Another colleague mentioned, “My dog has diabetes. Shout if you need anything.”

Our clothes carried the smell of disinfecting alcohol, blood, sweat, tears and insulin. The smell of omelette lingered over my curly hair like a cloud. The fabric of our reality had been torn to reveal a world completely unknown to us. I was angry at the ignorance of others then, but now I look at their misguided remarks with more compassion. People don’t know what to say. They don’t understand what it means to shift from one reality to another. What a privilege it is to not understand.

But, in a moment of grace, we kept finding Type 1 diabetics in our midst – a parent of Zach’s friend, a woman from the dog park, the mother of an older child at his school, the school librarian. His school accepted the news and adjusted around his needs without blinking. Most meaningfully, my best friend of twenty years is a Type 1 diabetic. I had watched test her sugar since we were 18 but, as close as I always was with her, I never understood the silent burden she carried, the ever-present hypervigilance breathing down one’s neck. The threat of death with too much insulin, the fear of amputations, kidney failure and worse with too little. In seeing diabetic people all around him, Zach soon accepted his condition as normal.

Rhys was in charge of medical admin and I was in charge of cooking. I scrambled to figure out the right foods that wouldn’t disturb the false balance we’ve created. He didn’t fight the injections or the CGM on his arm or the sudden change of lifestyle. He was a child who lived through the Covid pandemic after all - he knew how it felt for the doors to suddenly be shut, locking the life out, how a daily ritual of constriction, surveillance and loss could be branded as ‘a new normal.’ Yet the emotions were shed from his body like excess glucose that couldn’t be processed. He said he’d never forgive us (what for, he didn’t say). Sometimes, the desperation of it was too much to sit with. I tried to protect him but he had lost something anyway. A layer of innocence had been stripped from him without my consent. I wanted him to believe for as long as possible that the world would not, could not hurt him. And that, when it did, I would be able to protect him.

I couldn’t protect him from the needles that he pierced into his skin each day, or the finger prick of blood the endocrinologist requested at the next check-up. “You’ll get used to it,” the receptionist said hurriedly, “Now come on, we wouldn’t want to make the doctor run late.” We couldn’t protect him, but Rhys did the impossible daily maths behind Zach’s ever-changing insulin doses. I cooked and cooked until my hands age before my eyes and until I can no longer bear the smell of eggs. Five times a day we measured and primed and fretted over his insulin dose, handed Zach the insulin pen and watched him inject himself. His left upper thigh (a preferred injection site) soon bloomed in bruises from a hand that was not yet steady enough.

Rhys stood steadfast in the face of Zach’s rage every two weeks when we changed the sensor on his arm. The action of stapling the sensor into the skin didn’t necessarily hurt, but the anticipation did. Sometimes he ran away from us, leaving one of us to catch him and hold him in place. Often, I would hold him tight until the waves of his emotions passed, absorbing, absorbing, until the anger bubbled beneath my own skin and I would cycle for an hour in the gym trying to get it out. I often fantasised about taking his sickness as my own, or taking on worse if it meant he didn’t have to face this and be in pain. One evening, after a stressful day of watching a faulty sensor that refused to tell us the state of Zach’s sugar, I put an electric kettle on the gas stove and impassively watched it burst into flames. I returned to reality, rescued the burning device, cleaned the burnt plastic off the stove and kept going.

A year later, Rhys and I stand on the side of the rugby field. Zach – happy, bubbly and full of life – is on his fourth game. The low-glucose alarm beeps. Without speaking, I hand a fruit juice to Rhys, who quickly passes it to Zach on the side of the field. We hold normalcy together with sheer will and masking tape. Staving off the threats of his condition has become second nature. If his glucose goes too low, he could have a fit, fall into a coma or die. If it stays too high for long periods he risks amputation, kidney failure, blindness. It is a reality we live with every day, a sense of impermanence we now carry lightly. In our new reality we have been given the gift of understanding that no ordinary day is to be taken for granted. Not only for those with diabetes, but for all of us. I smile as Zach downs the juice, hands the empty carton to Rhys and jogs back onto the field. The coach gives us a thumbs up, and Zach’s friends throw their arms around him. The whistle blows. With today’s risk averted, he continues, and so do we.

(Regular readers, my usual newsletter format will continue in the next edition. Thank you for reading!)

Since we spoke last, I have been slowly and awkwardly trying to find my illustration style. I’m like a baby wolf learning to howl, uncertain of my own voice. Sometimes the product of my efforts is strong, other times it is an embarrassing squeak. The whole process has revealed to me how uncomfortable I am at not being ‘good’ at something. I consume polished content on social media every day, that the raw humanness of my attempts makes me feel desperately vulnerable.

It’s the case with all creation, isn’t it? I recently listened to a podcast of Salman Rushdie in conversation with Ezra Klein, where he says, “Writing a book is like undressing in public.” I have felt that more with some books than with others. Bad Luck Penny, which has been published for one year now, was definitely a case of this.

In the process finding my voice, I was desperate for guidance. I collected images of illustrations I love. I watched Youtube clips on drawing styles. I listened to podcasts, including this lovely interview with the magical Sophie Blackall. (Her children’s book - Hello Lighthouse - is one of my favourite books of all time.) At the end of the day, though, it came down to putting pencil to paper, understanding how my eye sees the world and how I interpret that into marks and shapes.

Creativity is an act of bravery and vulnerability. We have tools to do the job for us. I could type my description of the world into a machine and see what is created, but then the most interesting part of the creative process is lost. It doesn’t have to be good, it just has to be yours.

Drawing has become a way for me to be present. While I polish my life and present it on social media, I’ve been struggling with anxiety and sadness - both at the state of the world and in response to the riptides of my own life. In Jia Toletino’s poignant essay, My brain finally broke, she says something many of us will be familiar with:

“My phone, a device that makes me feel like I am strapped flat to the board of an unreal present: the past has vanished, the future is inconceivable, and my eyes are clamped open to view the endlessly resupplied now.”

In addition to my illustration efforts, I’ve been pitching my third thriller to international agents. I haven’t found a match for the book yet, but I have got some incredible, encouraging feedback from agents. If you are pitching and want advice on preparing your manuscript for submission, I talk about it in detail on The Hidden Lives of Writers podcast. You can also see how I organise my pitches via spreadsheet on Tiktok. The more I pitch, the more I realise that the industry is hard, but the process itself isn’t that mysterious. This is a great video on why agents may be rejecting your work.

My favourite book I have read this month is The Names by Florence Knapp. There are themes of domestic violence in the book that are at times difficult to read, but it is an incredibly human, heart-opening book. I’m now reading the new Taylor Jenkins Reid, Atmosphere as a palate cleanser and am enjoying it so far.

Other than that, I have been listening to podcasts while I draw. I really enjoyed Gail and Fiona’s interview of John Boyne on The Hidden Lives of Writers podcast as well as this craft interview with Lauren Groff on First Draft: A Dialogue on Writing. Next up, I have lined up Once Upon a Time at Bennington College, a series on the allegedly true origins of The Secret History.

With that, I will leave you with a quote inspired by my baby-wolf self, as I keep finding the bravery to howl.

“I hope you will go out and let stories, that is life, happen to you, and that you will work with these stories... water them with your blood and tears and your laughter till they bloom, till you yourself burst into bloom.”
― Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Women Who Run With the Wolves

xx

Amy

Before I could write, I drew my stories frame by frame on panels of connected printer paper. Where writing has been a way for me to work through my thoughts on the page, drawing turns my mind still. Yet, in the passage from child and teen hood to adulthood, I set it aside in favour of more productive creative pursuits. I can’t make a career of being an artist, I said to myself as I signed up for journalism, took the first paying job I could find, and eventually settled in the security of corporate communications. It’s not that I wanted it and didn’t try, I was too afraid to want it at all.

This may come as a surprise, as I’m sure some of you who are reading feel the same about the career of an author. Maybe we all contain secret paths within ourselves that feel too sacred to tread. Anyway, in the path of my own creative life, I recently reached an unexpected clearing. I have been given the opportunity to draw. Now, let’s throw in a few caveats for my own ego - it may not work out, I may not get it right, it may not be suitable for the project but…A door has creaked open. Inside it is an unexplored room where I have been not only been given the opportunity to draw, but to draw whatever my mind can conceive. Such freedom isn’t possible in my adult fiction writing, which, while creative, adheres to structure, form and an awareness of the market. So you think I’d feel joyful. Instead, I feel panicked.

The closed door was easier, in a way. I didn’t need to show up as my full creative self. There was no fear of ‘getting it wrong’ or letting myself down. All the times I have tried to draw, set it aside or felt the acute frustration of the work in front of me not matching the glory in my head are coiled up in my inability to start. I am telling you this because it applies to many arts, and many paths in life. Shifting from a comfortable reality to a new one in which you demand a fuller version of yourself doesn’t feel comfortable. I find it comforting to know to this. And so, I have bought a sketchbook and I am going to start small, and draw a little bit every day.

If you’re looking to add more creativity into your life, I found these 8 Creativity Prompts to Get You Out of a Rut very helpful.

I am also aware that part of my freeze state is probably because I am a bit burnt out. I loved ’ list on practices to nurture yourself creatively when you don’t have much give.

Part of the reason I keep up a regular creative practice is in defiance of AI-generated content. The other day I was disturbed to see a local children’s book with AI-generated illustrations. The children in the book looked hollow and devoid of emotion. Zach picked up the book and set it back down instantly…because, as I have said in previous posts, AI cannot manifest human connection. I read this interesting piece in the New Yorker recently on How to Survive the AI Revolution.

writes one of my favourite substacks on new and interestingly-curated playlists. In true bookish fashion, I loved her Secret History Playlist.

Recent reads

I’ve had a great run of books recently.

The God of the Woods by Liz Moore was a layered, beautifully-characterised literary thriller that reminded me a little of Tana French’s The Secret Place. The ending was tragic in a way that had me thinking for a long time afterwards.

This is Happiness has been on my reading list for a while, and I was so happy to find it in my local independent bookstore, Love Books. Set in a small Irish village during the introduction of electricity, each sentence is lush and worthy of being underlined. Derry Girls is one of my favourite TV series of all time and this novel felt like living in a Derry Girls episode for a little while.

I avoided The First 15 Lives of Harry August when it came out, because the title of the book made me think it was uplit. It’s actually a very dark time-travel story, and just the type of thing I enjoy.

On Zach’s reading list has been the Twitch series by MG Leonard, a wonderful series of books about a bunch of crime-solving bird watchers. Some of the emotional themes are a bit old for him (he’s 7) but he loves it regardless.

A big winner which was bang on target for his reading taste was The Bolds by Julian Clery, a hilarious story about a pair of hyenas that steal the clothing and passports of a British couple and go live their life in a little English Village. If anyone in the village notices anything amiss, they are too proper to say otherwise.

Once I am done with my current reads, I plan on reading the new Belinda Bauer (!). It’s called The Impossible Thing. I found her recent article in Crime Reads about anthropomorphism in fiction really interesting.

In some work updates, I ran my first creative writing workshop with the lovely Qarnita Loxton in April, with a wonderful group of women. We covered a few techniques and prompts on how to get ideas on the page, as well as some pillars for character and plot. My publisher for Bad Luck Penny, Karina Szureck generously allowed us to hold the workshop in her iconic, creative home that she once shared with the late Andre Brink. You could feel the legacy of his creativity and their relationship within its walls, making it the perfect setting for ideas to flow. I will never forget that afternoon, and if you are interested in attending a writing workshop in future, please drop me a line!

May is always a lovely month because it is the Kingsmead Book Fair. There are some great authors on the programme, so check it out. I will be facilitating two sessions, and this year, I was also privileged to be one of the judges on the Kingsmead Young Writer’s competition. There were some stunning stories in the age group I judged, and it was really hard to pick my favourites! If you are South African and have a child/work with children, please encourage them to enter!

Until next time, I will hopefully be dusting off my pencils. If you are putting off starting something new, let’s both remember that it takes one day of imperfect action at a time to get there!

x

Amy

Five years ago, as the threat of the pandemic loomed, I started writing my third thriller. It was an exciting, high-concept book with themes that I was passionate about. As lockdown days bled from one into another, I woke up at 4 every morning to get my writing in before a day of parenting and attempting to entertain 2-year-old Zach with an ever-dwindling roster of crafts. There was rawness, passion and heart in that book. There was an intense feeling of claustrophobia and fear in the lives of the characters that reflected the world outside. I was so proud of it. Despite all of this, I couldn’t make it work. My agent (at the time) and I edited multiple drafts and sent them back and forth until I admitted defeat. She wasn’t going to send the book to publishers. I have always believed that if you try your best, it all works out, but in this case it didn’t. The idea that excited me so much didn’t see the light of day.

I mention the effort that went into that book because, five years later, the story won’t let me go. And, in a move that is either bold or insane, I am rewriting the book from scratch. There is a new setting, new characters, a different twist and a new understanding of plot that I didn’t have back then. I have the old manuscript next to me at all times, and I am going through it systematically to see if there are scenes, descriptions or plot points I can put into the new one. So far, I am able to salvage about 5% of it. All those hours, early mornings and sacrificed time - in a moment in history where time was scarce for me - are being crossed out, line by line.

Surprisingly, it doesn’t hurt as much as I thought. It’s an exciting challenge which has taught me an important lesson.

Failure isn’t a life sentence. It’s just a moment in time. It’s always possible to try again. Something one learns quickly in the publishing industry is that a project doesn’t always fail on merit. Sometimes it boils down to the wrong timing or the wrong market conditions. A ‘no’ seldom means you should stop trying.

Prolific fantasy author Brandon Sanderson speaks with Tim Ferris on his podcast about his regular practice of rewriting and even discarding work. The entire conversation is a masterclass in the craft of writing fiction, and on becoming a commercial author.

If you are looking to work on your own fiction writing, (another Brandon) is publishing a great series here on Substack on the basics of story.

And if you want to be more creative but don’t feel confident enough to start, Elizabeth Gilbert’s Ted Talk on how creative genius is an innate language is always inspiring.

Reading

As far as reading is concerned, I (along with the rest of the literary world) am excited to get stuck into Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Dream Count.

Before this, I was reading Hedley Twaddle’s collection of essays, Show Me The Place.

I met with my Bad Luck Penny publisher, Karavan Press on Sunday, and she gifted me a copy of Temperature, a collection of short stories by some wonderful local authors.

Zach has just started a new series called Twitch by MG Leonard, which is perfect fodder for a bird lover! Most importantly, he is studying his Sasol Book of Southern African frogs, to help him identify the frogs he catches in our garden on a daily basis. We are beginning to think he is simply catching the same poor frog, over and over! Anyway, the book has QR codes that link to the frog call, which is highly entertaining and immersive for kids.

Until next time,

x

Amy

As I write this, I am giddily preparing to go on holiday. December is always a sacred reading time for me, and the vivid memories of what I was reading and where I was travelling to blend into one. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that many of my favourite reading experiences take place in December, because it's a time when I have the capacity to truly savour them.

I even have a reading formula:

Something light/suspenseful, to ease into the holiday. (Past reads include In Five Years, Rebecca Searle, Rachel Again by Marian Keyes. This year, Sandwich, Catherine Newman. Maybe the new Marina Auer, Single-Minded, if I find it in time).

Something emotional, like a family drama, because relationships are at the forefront in the holidays. (Past reads include Commonwealth, Anne Patchett and The Mothers, Brit Bennett. This year, it’s Elizabeth Strout’s latest Tell Me Everything…it’s more of a community type novel though so may throw in Hello Beautiful, Anne Napolitano )

Something cerebral, because I have the mental space for it when I am on holiday. (Octavia E Butler’s Kindred in the past, also The Neopolitan Series by Elena Ferrante. Not everyone’s version of a ‘beach read,’ but I seek out complexity when I’m on the beach. This year I am reading Richard Powers’ Playground and Shehan Karunatilaka’s The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida).

Something local. We will be road tripping through the Karoo, so I will definitely be reading my copy of Justin Fox’s Place and maybe, as we drive through Makanda, Margarite Poland’s A Sin of Omission. Some of my favourite travel memories are those where I have been reading stories set in the same place I am visiting. If you’re travelling to the Cape Peninsula, give my novel Bad Luck Penny a try ;)

It’s also great to have inspiring podcasts lined up for long walks.

I recently loved Gail Schimmel and Fiona Snyckers’ interview with Alex Latimer, a children’s book author and short story/fiction author I really admire. In the interview he talks about his career path, which he has really nurtured with time, effort and humility.

I liked this recent episode of Working it Out with Elizabeth Gilbert. I don’t agree with all her views, but I do agree on her approach to creativity. She, like me, believes that creative work is a calling, and that success is never a given. It’s the practice of showing up and writing each day that is the most important thing.

An interview with George Saunders is always an inspiring thing. I loved this recent interview on A Dialogue on Writing.

Some other interesting things I came across recently:

I don’t want AI to do my art.

A very old man with enormous wings, Gael Garcia Marquez

Karl Ove Knausgaard on his turn to sci-fi

Finally, a recipe. is a wonderful follow on Substack, and in a previous newsletter she shares a recipe for the ‘World’s Best Potato Salad,’ (apparently it appears in the book Sandwich, too?) which I think would be perfect for a Southern Hemisphere Christmas. I’ve tried it a few times and it honestly lives up to its name!

Thank you for reading my newsletter this year. I hope you are able to have a restful and joyful break, wherever you are.

Amy x