Interview with Linzi Glass

What are you reading at the moment?
I’m reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s, “Memories of My Melancholy Whores” This is the first book of fiction he has written in 10 years and its just wonderfully entertaining, interesting and a fine example of great storytelling.

Which authors do you most admire?
I have always been a huge fan of Ernest Hemmingway. My most favourite work of his is, “A Moveable Feast”. It covers his early life in Paris as a struggling writer and of course, being a writer, I can most certainly relate. I also have the utmost respect for fellow South African author, J.M. Coetzee. I think both writers have the gift of writing simple, clear sentences that carry enormous depth and insight into characters and situations. It shows great strength in their craft where less is more.

What books did you read as a child?
Since there was no television in South Africa when I was a child I did a great deal of reading. Enid Blyton was my all time favourite author. “The Folk of the Faraway Tree” was my most beloved book of hers. My other favourite was, “Prince Caspian” and the other six books that were written by C.S. Lewis in “The Chronicles of Narnia” anthology. Both these authors’ works took me out of my everyday reality and made my imagination soar.

Which literary character would you most like to meet?
Jay Gatsby from, “The Great Gatsby” An intriguing man who was dashing, charming, a gracious host and a bit if a bad boy with a chequered past. I’d like to somehow meet him on his own turf, back in the 1920’s. While we toured through his West Egg mansion I’d ask him about his years attending Oxford and try to catch him out, since he never really went there, and just made that fact up to impress the pretty flappers and rich friends that he accumulated.

Where/When do you do most of your writing?
I do most of my writing at night. I live in Santa Monica in California and there is a wonderful little coffee house nearby my home called, “The Talking Stick”. Everyone who goes there is always working on something or studying furiously. Laptops are as evident on the wooden tables as the lattes.  In the past I liked to write in the quiet solitude of my home but I now feel comfortable writing in a public setting. There are nights when I stay home and write and that works out quite well, as long as the dogs don’t bark too much!

Have you ever had any other jobs apart from writing?
Yes, I have. I worked in the entertainment industry as a script and book reader and was then promoted to Literary Coordinator for a major Literary and Talent Agency in Los Angeles. I later started a charity for children who needed funds for bone marrow transplants after the death of my late stepson from leukaemia. Six years ago my sister and I started an online, plus size women’s clothing company called, Sizeappeal that sells globally to women size 12 and up. We have many customers in the U.K.

What’s your earliest memory?
My earliest memory is of my nanny, Nellie. When I was a baby she would carry me on her back secured by a huge blanket that she would wrap around her waist. I can still remember the warmth of her ample back and the gentle movement of her body as she went about her daily housework while she sang in Xhosa. I would be lulled to sleep by the warmth, motion and the vibration of her singing. To this day I think the best sleep I ever had was “Nellie sleep”.

What are you proudest of?
My daughter, Jordan who is now seventeen. Being a teenager, she will hate that I am saying this, but she is blessed with brains, beauty and enormous integrity. I have a really close and open relationship with her and since I am a single mother, we spend a lot of time together. Writing is something that we have in common and I’m proud to say that she is 50 pages into the first draft of her first novel, but I’m very careful not to edit her and stifle her creative process!

Who or what always puts a smile on your face?
My three wonderful rescue dogs. I light up when I see them. They bring an enormous amount of joy and laughter into my life. Alfie is a scruffy terrier that I found in the middle of the road in downtown Los Angeles almost eight months ago. I am thoroughly convinced that he is really a prince who had a spell put on him and if I could just figure out what the magic words were I could turn him back into Prince Alfie. Preston is my very cute Chihuahua boy who was abandoned with his mom and sister. He’s quite a nippy little chap and seems to love only my mother and me. He loves to sit on my shoulder like a bird. Madeline is our most recent rescue. She is a gorgeous mutt, a cross between Lady from “Lady and the Tramp” and a long haired dushund. Everyone just “oohs” and “aahs” over her. She has heart–melting, sad puppy eyes and likes to have her tummy rubbed. She’s the friendliest little thing and loves people, dogs and cats alike. My dogs definitely always put a smile on my face.

Where’s your favourite city?
That’s a tough question to answer. I have a few favourites.  New York, Cape Town, London and a small village in Italy along the Amalfi coast called Positano. Yes, I know it’s not a city but I have fantasies of moving there one day to eat pasta, admire the azure sea from my little beach house and write.

Saturday
Chapter 3, pg 24

‘Anyone for a scone and jam?’ Mother asks, sitting up and spreading a napkin on her lap.
 
‘Not yet, game’s too close,’ Sarah says quietly. She has on a striped lavender pinafore and a few strands of her long red hair have spun themselves round the white buttons of her collar. In Sarah’s eyes I see trapped tears that have spun themselves so tightly that they can’t fall onto her cheeks, but will fall instead back into the empty hollow place in her. I imagine a deep, dark well inside her that’s filled with all the tears she never cries, and how cold and damp she must feel under her pinafore and inside her kind, pale body.

While Mother lies sunning herself, we play quietly on the lawn. Sarah and I are extra gentle when we win draughts from each other. ‘Sorry, Em,’ ‘Sorry, Sarah,’ we say each time we take a jump. I feel myself not wanting to have any of her draughts and would rather let her keep them all.

After a half-hour or so Mother stirs and sits herself up. She fans her flushed cheeks and gazes out into the woods.

‘Your father’s heading back already,’ she says, sounding disappointed and looking in the direction of the white pillars, where I see him, thin dark hair plastered back off his shiny forehead, walking at a fast pace through the gates, like an eagle on a mission.

‘You’re back much too soon, Bob,’ Mother says, eyes half closed, her head turning away from his direction as he reaches us.  

‘Nastiness becomes you.’ Father breathes heavily over her.

‘You’re blocking my light, Bob.’

‘Nobody could ever block your light,’ Father snorts.

Sarah and I both keep our eyes on the draughts board between us. My eyes burn into the pieces. Red over black, black over red. Your jump. My jump. His jump. Her jump. Mother’s jump. Father’s jump. Jump. Jump. Jump. One jump after the other all jumbled inside my head.

Neither one of them moves for a few painfully silent minutes, then Father slowly begins to circle the blanket we’re sitting on.

‘I have some news that might sweeten your sting, Lily,’ Father says, placing one hand on his hip as he walks. ‘“I met a traveller from an antique land” – some gypsies.’ He stops and grins smugly down at Mother.

‘Gypsies?’ Mother raises an eyebrow then squints up at him from underneath the propped hand above her eyes. ‘How clever of you.’

‘Real gypsies?’ Sarah sits up suddenly. 

‘Well, let’s just say they’re gypsies of a kind. Adventurers. Wanderers I met parked in their caravan in the woods.’ He lets out a breath, then takes a cigarette from his pocket and lights up. ‘I’ve invited them to stay with us for a while.’

‘Stay, Father? Where will they stay?’ Sarah asks in a high-pitched voice, looking up at him wide eyed.

‘In their caravan on our property. Don’t look so frightened, Sarah. They really seem awfully decent. A nice couple actually . . .’

‘Do they have children?’ I blurt out, while Sarah quietly lowers her eyes and flicks specks of grass off her pinafore.

‘Yes, yes, two boys I think they said.’ Father draws deeply on the cigarette and blows out a large smoke ring.

Mother is busy piling thick homemade strawberry jam and clotted cream onto a scone and acts like nothing’s been said, like the only thing in the world that matters to her right now is the scone she’s fixing.

‘They arrived last night. Didn’t know it’s illegal to camp in the woods. They’ve been told they have to be out by nightfall,’ Father says, like he suddenly doesn’t care who’s listening and who’s not.

‘Are they staying long?’ I ask, imagining a dark-haired gypsy couple in wild coloured scarves, a glowing fortune-telling ball between them and two scruffy-looking boys with big sad eyes looking on while their parents read fortunes to strangers outside their caravan. The thought fills me with terror . . . and excitement.

‘I told them we had a large garden and they could park their caravan in it for a while. Give them a chance to find somewhere to stay. They’ll be here within the hour or so.’ Father blows two more smoke rings.

I watch them as they spin round, one inside the other. There are no sounds, except for the sprinklers that hiss rainbow sprays in the quiet air. Sarah must notice the quiet too because she starts to tap a red draught against a black one. Click, click, click, like tap shoes on an empty stage.

Mother looks up from her scone. A small piece of strawberry jam clings to the side of her mouth. She looks directly at Father through the smoke rings that he keeps blowing. ‘Well, well, Bobby-boy. I didn’t think you had it in you. What fun! Gypsy house guests, how dee-vinely original! Do tell, what are they like? I’m all ears.’

‘You’ll see for yourself, Lil . . . He’s a robust sort of chap from the Australian outback; his wife seems interesting, I daresay quite unusual actually. I’m quite sure he said they have two boys, but they didn’t come out. Must have been inside the caravan.’

Mother touches her sticky mouth and wipes away the strawberry jam with a lace napkin. We all watch her as she stands up and arches her back, stretching her arms high above her head. ‘Good!’ she says. ‘We could all use some livening up around here. Don’t look so glum, Sarah. No one’s going to cast a spell on you, for goodness’ sake!’ Mother laughs.

‘That’s settled then, they can park over there.’ Father stamps his cigarette into the grass and points across the lawn to a spot near the driveway. Mother looks across at the same place.

I watch them, standing apart, but looking in the same direction and wonder if maybe they are both imagining the caravan that will soon be parked there. Something heavy seems to lift between them. It makes me think of the big black rock I once saw on a school field trip to Pelindaba that rolled off a cliff and crashed onto the ground below. For a moment, I feel happy.