Live Author Appearances – They are not the marketing mainstay they once were, but if you are going to do them, do them right!

by Sophie Perinot

Once upon a time when a writer sold a book author appearances of some sort were pretty much a given. Writers, from newbie to veteran, gamely piled into their cars (or got on planes if their publishers would spring for airfare) and traveled through a wide swath of  bookstore-land, giving readings and signing novels. Nobody questioned the wisdom of the live author appearance as a way to sell books and generate buzz.

But the times, they are a-changing.  It is increasingly unlikely, oh-book-pregnant-one, that your publicist will be planning live events for you.  The question then becomes--if you must plan them and bear the costs of them, how important is it for you to make live author appearances?

There are probably as many opinions on this as there are authors but here is mine--not very.  In a world of “virtual bookstores” and lively, on-line reader communities the internet provides authors with many new and efficient ways to connect with potential readers.  Ways that don’t involve spending a fortune on gas, shirking your day jobs or suffering from jet lag. For example, in conjunction with the launch of The Sister Queens I did a blog tour that took me to more than 45 blogs, most catering specifically to readers looking for new and notable historical novels. My name and my novel were brought to the attention of thousands of book fans while I remained comfortably ensconced in my home-office.  So, If your budget or your "real life" don't lend themselves to a fifty-store swing through your home state, no sweat.

If, however, you do want to do a handful of live appearances (and, squee, even I couldn't resist): 1) keep your expectations realistic; and 2) arrange and execute your author appearances in the manner most likely to maximize their sales impact.

About those expectations . . . If you are a newbie author and you expect a reading or signing to draw an audience full of book-buyers, you are likely to be disappointed. Oh you may have a super turn out—particularly if the event is close to home. Your Aunt Tilly and the cousins will pile into the front row, the book club from your church will wave to you from the “cheap seats.” Folks from the office might even drop by. Everyone will be there to celebrate your success. That’s a gratifying feeling—pretty damn gratifying. Enjoy it. But recognize those full seats probably won’t increase your over-all sales numbers by much. Why? Because these attendees are folks you should be able to count on to buy your book even without an event. I mean, does Aunt Tilly want to stay on your Christmas card list for next year or not? Your friends, your relatives, your colleagues, are BUILT IN sales. You don’t need an event to woo them.

This does NOT mean an event can’t sell books. But you have to PLAN IT CAREFULLY, AND you need to THINK BEYOND THOSE ACTUALLY IN ATTENDANCE.

“What’s your advice Sophie?” So glad you asked!



The banner I created for my novel displayed by B&N
in their front window ringed with copies of the book

Plan a “value added” event to get the biggest interest and attendance from potential buyers. A signing is easy. You show up, sit at a table surrounded by piles of your books, talk to anyone who approaches, and sign books they purchase. Not much prep on your part. But not too exciting for readers either. Give potential buyers of your book original content—something they can’t get from your book itself or your website. That will make them turn out.

My favorite author event thus far was the panel discussion (billed as a historical fiction triple-treat) I did with a pair of fellow historical fiction authors. We prepared a discussion called “Sex, Lies and History: A Literary Threesome.” Those who turned out had something more to see (and hear) than authors sitting quietly at a table, or reading text they could just as easily read themselves (which, after all is what a traditional reading is). They witnessed a lively debate on, among other things, common misconceptions about women in history and the trend towards more sexual content in mainstream historical fiction. The audience was also able to participated during the Q&A—and believe me they did, enthusiastically. Every seat was filled, and many of those bodies were people none of us had met before. These were people turning out to be entertained and educated, not just to support a friend or family member.

Promote your event—tweet it, blog about it, put announcements in your local paper and in on-line sources for local events and entertainment. Consider having a banner or foam-core poster made that you can use to promote a variety of events (you can see the one I created in the picture above). Often you can get the venue hosting your event to display this for you and that can really pay off (see below). Even if the people who see your announcements or poster don’t show up for your actually appearance, this type of publicity increases name recognition for you and for your book. The more often potential readers run into your work the more likely they will start to have the feeling your book is “hot.” That’s a sale waiting to happen.

If you are lucky, the bookstore hosting your event will promote it as well. This, in my opinion, is what really distinguishes the super-worth-while event from the average appearance. The Barnes & Noble that hosted the triple-event mentioned above gave each of our work a prominent window display—dozens of copies of our books right in the front window with huge banners showing our covers super-sized. You can’t pay for that type of exposure if you are a debut author—literally. Your publisher may buy coop placement on those coveted front tables (“New Releases” anyone?!) but the chances of you being in a front window of a major chain bookstore—let alone for a full week—are pretty slim. Now THAT’S the type of exposure that sells books because it makes you look like one of the big dogs.

Be gracious and friendly to the bookstore staff, whether in you are stopping by the store to discuss details of your upcoming event or during your appearance. I recently did a signing at a nearby bookstore. Unlike my panel event, there were no chairs sent out for an audience and I gave no presentation of any sort. The entire event was just me, chit-chatting with shoppers and hoping some of them would buy a signed copy of my book. And some did—but probably not enough to warrant two hours of my time.

When I wasn’t talking to customers, however, I was chatting with the staff.  I made sure to meet every person on duty.  I answered their questions about my book.  In the case of those who were also writers—lots bookstore staff members are also writers—I made sure to ask about their work and recommended my favorite on-line writing communities and resources.  Now I am a very outgoing person and would likely have done all this anyway.  But even if you are the hermit type I still strongly recommend this level of cordiality, because these are the people who recommend books to buyers.  If they connect with you they will make an effort to hand-sell your book.  Before I left I signed all the remaining copies of my novel (more copies than I’d sold) and the store manager helped me create a little display with them (on my own separate table) right at the front of the store.  Again, priceless exposure.  I whistled on my way back to my car because I knew the manager and his staff are going to see that those signed copies find good homes.

A Room of One's Own - Virginia Woolf

I love Virginia Woolf.  Whenever I'm not reading her, I have slight doubts in my mind - is she really as brilliant as I remember?  Does a little bit of me just love Woolf because I think I ought to love Woolf?  And then I re-read one of her books, and realise that she is as brilliant as I remember - I find it very hard to believe that there is a better writer in the twentieth century.  Suggestions on a postcard.

Even those who wrinkle their noses at her fiction (listen up, Colin) tend to admire her non-fiction.  For my thesis I had the pleasure of re-reading A Room of One's Own (1929), bringing the total to three reads I believe, and it has confirmed my adoration of the book.  Many of us are probably familiar with its central tenet - that, in order to write, a woman must have a room of her own and five hundred pounds a year - but it is surprisingly how slim a section of the work this mantra occupies.  You might (like me) also recall Woolf recounting her experiences at an Oxbridge college, forbidden from using the library and chastised for walking on the grass.  And Judith Shakespeare, the playwright's hypothetical sister with equal talent but no chance of fame.  But these are only small elements within a much wider exploration of women through history, through literature, and in contemporary society.  Like most of Woolf's writing, she meanders (in the best possible way) from topic to topic, from thought leading to thought, so that one is at the end, far from where one started, without ever seeing the joins.  The whole essay (originally delivered as two talks, and edited into its current form) winds beautifully through so many thoughtful and striking ideas that to explore them all would be simply to type out the whole essay.

And how tempting that is!  I want to quote it all, to demonstrate the beauty and astuteness (in more or less equal measures) that Woolf fits into A Room of One's Own.  Woolf is so intoxicatingly good a writer that it feels almost an affront to write about her.  So I shall mostly quote.

Having been turned away from one library, Woolf (or, rather, the essayist - she is probably being playful with truth and personalities at times) takes herself to another, trying to discover what has been written about women by the scholars, theorists, and novelists.  That dry, sardonic, slightly self-deprecating wit that Woolf uses so often in her essays comes to the fore when reading a psychological tome (while doodling the author's face):

It referred me unmistakably to the one book, to the one phrase, which had roused the demon; it was the professor's statement about the mental, moral and physical inferiority of women.  My heart had leapt.  My cheeks had burnt.  I had flushed with anger.  There was nothing specially remarkable, however foolish, in that.  One does not like to be told that one is naturally the inferior of a little man - I looked at the student next me - who breathes hard, wears a ready-made tie, and has not shaved this fortnight.  One has certain foolish vanities.  It is only human nature, I reflected, and began drawing cart-wheels and circles over the angry professor's face till he looked like a burning bush or a flaming comet - anyhow, an apparition without human semblance or significance.

Her conclusions, after journeying through much that has been written in literature, history, and psychology, says (of course) more about the ways in which women have been treated in these fields than it does about women themselves:

A very queer, composite being thus emerges.  Imaginatively she is of the highest importance; practically she is completely insignificant.  She pervades poetry from cover to cover; she is all but absent from history.  She dominates the lives of kings and conquerors in fiction; in fact she was the slave of any boy whose parents forced a ring upon her finger.  Some of the most inspired words, some of the most profound thoughts in literature fall from her lips; in real life she could hardly read, could scarcely spell, and was the property of her husband.

As I say, there is far too much in A Room of One's Own to be able to do it all justice.  As an essay, it deserves and requires slow, careful reading and re-reading.  Woolf's writing is too rich for skimming.  I can only imagine how frustrating (as well as wonderful) it must have been to hear the lectures - to hear such genius (yes, I will use the word) and not be able to jot it all down for later!  How fortunate are we, to have the book readily available.  But amongst the many glorious elements of Woolf's essay, I perhaps loved most her journeys through women's writing over time:

For if Pride and Prejudice matters, and Middlemarch and Vilette and Wuthering Heights matter, then it matters far more than I can prove in an hour's discourse that women generally, and not merely the lonely aristocrat women generally, and not merely the lonely aristocrat shut up in her country house among her folios and her flatterers, took to writing.  Without those forerunners, Jane Austen and the Brontes and George Eliot could no more have written than Shakespeare could have written without Marlowe, or Marlowe without Chaucer, or Chaucer without those forgotten poets who paved the ways and tamed the natural savagery of the tongue.  For masterpieces are not single and solitary births; they are the outcome of many years of thinking in common, of thinking by the body of the people, so that the experience of the mass is behind the single voice.  Jane Austen should have laid a wreath upon the grave of Fanny Burney, and George Eliot done homage to the robust shade of Eliza Carter - the valiant old woman who tied a bell to her bedstead in order that she might wake early and learn Greek.  All women together ought to let flowers fall upon the tomb of Aphra Behn, which is,most scandalously but rather appropriately, in Westminster Abbey, for it was she who earned them the right to speak their minds.  It is she - shady and amorous as she was - who makes it not quite fantastic for me to say to you tonight: Earn five hundred a year by your wits.

So much of what A Room of One's Own addresses are battles that have been now won.  Woolf is not arguing about the numbers of female CEOs (why this is ever held up as a statistic, I can't imagine - how dreadful it must be to be a CEO!) she is arguing for women's education and entitlement to positions of intellectual credibility.  But one point did stand out to me, a battle which is still unwon:

This is an important book, the critic assumes, because it deals with war.  This is an insignificant book because it deals with the feelings of women in a drawing-room.  A scene in a battle-field is more important than a scene in a shop - everywhere and much more subtly the difference of value persists.

How many of us have heard this!  There are still (but how?) intelligent people who disregard, say, Jane Austen because she does not feature the Napoleonic Wars.  And many of our beloved middlebrow novelists fall victim to the same absurd views about what do and do not constitute viable literary topics.  This isn't as important as the battle for women to have university education (although sooner or later nobody, male or female, will be able to afford this, at the rate we're going) but it is a battle nonetheless.

However, I don't think one needs to be especially interested in feminist non-fiction to value A Room of One's Own.  I suppose, come to think of it, I am not especially interested in feminist non-fiction (however much I support the cause) because I've just realised that I haven't really read much else in this field.  What makes A Room of One's Own so sublime in my eyes is not Woolf's arguments and ideas, but her writing.  It flows so exquisitely; Woolf is so amusing and sharp, laughing at every turn, realising that aggression is far from the only way to make a point.  It is a book to read and re-read and re-read again - and a happy reminder that Woolf is not a writer for the elite or pretentious, but simply for those who admire ability, don't abhor thinking, and enjoy having a smile at the same time.  If you've not read it - oh, do, do, do!

Why Not All Books Should Be Fifty Shades of Grey

image via vectorportal.com

by Priscille Sibley

This morning I heard on the news that the Fifty Shades books are on their way to breaking another record. Frankly, I don’t care which one. People like sex. People like reading about sex. And when everyone is doing or talking about something, people stop being embarrassed about it. I’ve heard people say they are reading the Grey books because they love the characters. To me that sounds a little like how men used to read Playboy for the articles, but to be fair, there are other steamy books and they haven’t caught on the same way this series has, so there is something in the books that has latched onto readers’ imaginations. Again, I won’t hazard to guess what. Wink. 

But that’s not where I was going with this blog post. My book has hardly any sex in it; at least there is nothing graphic or intentionally titillating on the page.  I was reaching out to show an emotional connection between the characters. And my book is not a romance.  When one of my day job coworker’s asked me what my book was about, her primary interest was to find out if my novel was like Fifty Shades. (She’s the wife of a minister.) Ah, no, I said. That’s not my story. Well, she said, there’s nothing wrong with it. It’s part of life after all. Sure, sex is part of life. BDSM? Whatever.

My characters have sex. They just don’t do it on stage. Why don’t they? Should they? I don’t think so, and not because I’m a prude, and not because I’m a mother and don’t want to set a bad example. My characters don’t have sex on stage because my narrator would not choose to share that information. My characters don’t have sex on the page because the she in my story is gravely ill. Her husband is devastated because he is in love with his wife, and he is a private person. He had to be a private person for other reasons. Their situation, a right-to-life, right-to-die trial, is being played out in the front of the media, much to his chagrin. While that may sound like a squirrelly way to avoid writing about THE DEED, I can honestly and unequivocally swear, sharing the details of their lovemaking would not advance my plot or add to their characterization. It would not impart more information about their relationship. I sincerely believe that by the end of the book, the reader will have a sense of who they are and the tenderness and passion they share. It is a love story, but not a sexy story. There is a difference.  And in this one, graphic sex would detract from the emotional arc.

Sometimes less is more.

Not all books should be Fifty Shades even if readers are clamoring for it. What do all people (except maybe nuns, priests and monks) have in common? Sex. Yes, it’s how we are all created, and most adults engage in sex. But graphic sex is not necessary in all books. Let’s face it folks, sex is not the only part of a love story.

In other words, adding graphic sex to my novel would have been gratuitous. Why not put a little gratuitous sex on the page if that’s what readers want? Because that would be another book, a different book. And maybe I’ll write that book someday, but not this time.  

Follow me @PriscilleSibley

www.priscillesibley.com

The Other Garden - Francis Wyndham

I had a lovely day at Chatsworth, even though all didn't go entirely to plan.  I'll fill you in on all that soon!  (WHAT a cliffhanger!)  For today, let's fill up one of those surprisingly-less-tricky-than-expected 1980s slots in A Century of Books.

I picked up The Other Garden (1987) by Francis Wyndham because I thought I'd heard of the author (and because it was short, cheap, and sounded interesting) but I must have been thinking of someone else, since this seems to have been Wyndham's only novel, although he also wrote (writes?) short stories.  It won the Whitbread First Novel Award, and various luminaries are printed on the cover saying that it 'Comes as close to perfection as you'll get in an imperfect world' (Hilary Bailey); 'Perfectly judged... wry, exact, poised' (Harold Pinter); 'A completely faultless piece of writing' (Susan Hill).  Well... it left me a little nonplussed.  Yes, this is going to be one of those rather uninspiring reviews where I am forced to say "It's fine, but that's about it."

I was, though, rather struck by the opening:

"How soon will lunch be ready?" my father would ask.  Assuming that hunger had made him impatient, my mother would answer with eager apology, "Oh, any minute now - it must be nearly one."  But she had misinterpreted him.  He had really wanted to know if he still had time for a further look at the other garden before sitting down to the meal.  In dismay, she would watch him put on an old grey trilby hat, choose a stick, pass purposefully through the front entrance, then walk serenely down the short drive and vanish into the open road.  Almost immediately opposite, a painted white wooden door in a red brick wall admitted him to this beloved extension of his property, subtly but certainly separate from the house and its bland surrounding lawns.  Once in the other garden he was safely out of earshot - but a few minutes later I would be sent in search of him with a summons to return, the serving of our good having been innocently hastened by his ambiguous question when what he had hoped for was delay.

This opening paragraph, and the title of the novel (novella?  It's super short) led me to think that The Other Garden might, indeed, be about this other garden.  Well, perhaps it was a metaphor for something (give me a moment) because it only turned up at the beginning and the end.  In between, it focuses mainly on the Demarest family, acquaintances of the narrator's family, albeit rather more well-to-do.  Kay and Sandy are the children, Sybil and Charlie are the Demarest parents.  The narrator (who may or may not be named) is focused chiefly on Kay, a young woman who is rather captivating and wilful.

And... I don't think I can remember much else.  There is a sweet dog at one point.  And Denis (a rather eccentric schoolfriend of the narrator) is shipped off to Switzerland for TB treatment.  He's odd.  What else?  Oh dear, oh dear.  I only read it recently, and all the details have faded.  It was that sort of book.  If I weren't recording all my books for A Century of Books, I'd have quietly slipped this back on the shelf, and never mentioned it...  But I did jot down one quotation which I liked.  Sybil generally isn't a very sympathetic character, but I think a lot of us would raise a glass to this:

"I do believe," Sybil continued, "that when the history books come to be written it will emerge that the great unsung heroine of these times we're living through will be none other than that much maligned creature, the British Housewife!  I'm thinking, in fact, of writing a letter to the Daily Telegraph to propose that some promising young sculptor - or perhaps a sculptress would be a better choice - should be officially commissioned to design a statue in her honour, and that the result should be prominently erected in some public place.  I don't know about you, but I for one am getting sick and tired of looking at monuments portraying middle-aged men on horseback!"

The details of The Other Garden escape me, but I do remember the effect it had upon me.  It's no secret that I love short books, and I really admire authors who can use 100-200 pages effectively.  But a novella demands its own structure.  The 'rules' for that aren't obvious - indeed, they don't exist, do they? - but I don't think a novella should be simply a truncated novel.  It felt like Wyndham's training at the short story had made him unable to structure a whole novel - I don't know, it just felt incomplete.  Not terminated too early, but as though it were the skeleton of a different, longer novel.  Somehow not satisfying. Hmm.  My post started fairly vaguely, and it'll end inconclusively.  It's probably a warning sign that, a week or two after I finished The Other Garden, I don't really remember anything about it.  But... don't forget that Hilary Bailey things it 'comes as close to perfection as you'll get in an imperfect world.'  So what do I know?

Chatsworth!

I'm off to Chatsworth for the day - I'll report back later!

And Janey, if you're still interested in Babbit, email me at simondavidthomas[at]yahoo.co.uk :)

Oh, whilst I'm giving brief notices - for those interested, I decided to change my Twitter handle from simonsiab (since people seemed confused over the 'siab' bit) to stuck_inabook - so I'm at Twitter.com/stuck_inabook.  One day I'll understand Twitter...

What else have I been up to?  I watched an episode of As Time Goes By tonight which I hadn't seen for ages, and chuckled away (the last episode in series 4, since you ask - a very enjoyable mockery of film sets.)

Have a lovely Tuesday, everyone!

Stop Writing!

By Erin Cashman

I am a person who loves making lists. Sometimes I add things to my list that I have already finished, just so I can cross it off. I love finishing things. I love painting rooms in my house, because in the course of a couple of days I can start and finish it. I can walk into the room and see that it was green, and now it is yellow. It is tangible.

While I write, I am not someone who feels terrified by the blank page. Once I have an idea for a book, it takes all of my self-control not to start writing it. I literally have to force myself to wait, take some notes, and let the idea germinate inside my head for a while before I start writing the story. I also never get writer’s block. If I can’t think of what to do next, I write in caps PUT SOMETHING INTERESTING HERE or FIGURE THIS OUT. And then I start a new chapter, or I write another part of the book. I am so eager to finish the book once I start it. I always know generally how it will end, so I want to hurry up and get there!

But as all of you writers know, writing a novel is neither a quick nor an easy process, and when I try to make it one, it shows. During my journey from aspiring published author to published author I have learned so much. For me, the hardest lesson has been this: when you aren’t sure where your story is going, or how to handle a character or a relationship, STOP WRITING. Shut your computer and walk away. Literally. Take a walk, take a nap, go for a long drive, bake cookies. Do something that does not require thinking at all. Don’t go on the internet, read a book or watch television. Let your mind wander. I find my best ideas almost always come when I’m walking my dog. I usually start out thinking about an issue with one of my kids, or a problem with work. But soon into the quiet rhythm of the walk (no ipods!) my mind wanders. Within a few days of NOT thinking about my book, the solution almost always simply comes to me. It may be on the walk, or it may be as I lie in bed somewhere in the never-land between dream and reality, or it may be as I’m driving alone in the car (no radio or cell phones!) In our very busy, hectic lives, we have so few times when we allow our minds to wander freely. And yet -- at least for me -- these are the times when my imagination takes over and inspiration hits me like a lightning bolt.

If you’re like me, and you set goals for yourself like x pages a day, or so many words a week, or a first draft by a certain date, my advice might be hard to take. It will take you longer to finish that first draft -- to cross it off your list. But sometimes the best ideas come not when we are sitting in front of the computer screen, or with a pen perched in our fingers, but when we tune everything out and listen.

Inspiration often whispers softly in our ear, and we may need to tune everything else out to hear her.

Nervous Conditions - Tsitsi Dangarembga

A friend lent me Tsitsi Dangarembga's Nervous Conditions (1988) an embarrassingly long time ago (we're talking years) and a combination of the appalling cover and the vague, uninviting title meant that I put it off for ages, and then forgot about it.  I finally remembered that I still had it a couple of weeks ago, flicked it open with some trepidation... and was almost immediately hooked.  What is it they say about judging books by their covers - do it or don't do it?  I forget.

The striking opening line is 'I was not sorry when my brother died.'  The 'I' in question is Tambudzai, who lives with her family in 1960s what-was-then Rhodesia.  They're in a poor rural community, the poorest members of a large family - they can only afford to send one child to school, and it is Tambudzai's brother Nhamo who gets this honour.  Tambudzai is desperate to attend school, even growing and selling her own maize to get the fees, but Nhamo tries to assert his masculine superiority at every turn, making Tambudzai miserable.  The reader doesn't mourn much when Nhamo dies - and nor, it seems, does Tambudzai.  His death takes place in 'the mission', where Tambudzai's rich uncle lives with his wife, son, and daughter Nyasha - and it is here where Tambudzai is herself later taken:

Thus began the period of my reincarnation.  I liked to think of my transfer to the mission as my reincarnation. With the egotistical faith of fourteen short years, during which my life had progressed very much according to plan, I expected this era to be significantly profound and broadening in terms of adding wisdom to my nature, clarity to my vision, glamour to my person.  In short, I expected my sojourn to fulfil all my fourteen-year-old fantasies, and on the whole I was not disappointed.  Freed from the constraints of the necessary and the squalid that defined and delimited our activity at home, I invested a lot of robust energy in approximating to my idea of a young woman of the world.  I was clean now, not only on special occasions but every day of the week.  

Nyasha is about the same age as Tambudzai, but had spent some time in England and adjusted to 1960s English culture, before having to re-adjust back to 1960s Rhodesian expectations.  One of the most interesting aspects of the Nervous Conditions is the contrast (and friendship) between these cousins.  Nyasha (although only fourteen) is considered loose and immoral for wearing short skirts and talking to boys; Tambudzai is keen to adhere to her uncle's instructions, but is developing her own conscience and personality at the same time.  There is another storyline relating to Nyasha's well-being which appears rather too suddenly at the end, and doesn't really work - indeed, the whole ending is surprisingly rushed - but before that, this contrast of characters is really fascinating.  Alongside, there is an equally well-drawn juxtaposition of Tambudzai's old life and her new life.  Although her parents want the best future for her, they are also clearly a little confused and jealous when she visits with a developing outlook on life.  It's done very subtly, for the most part, and you can tell that the novel is semi-autobiographical.

Indeed, this is probably one of the reasons I enjoyed Nervous Conditions so much.  If you've been reading SiaB for a while, you probably know that I don't like books set in countries which the author isn't from, or doesn't know well.  So if a British author wrote a novel set in Zimbabwe, but had never been nearer than Portugal, or had only been for a fortnight on a package holiday, then I wouldn't be interested.  Since Dangarembga's childhood was in fact in some respects like Nyasha's (it seems), I'm very willing to read her views of her country and people.  Here's a good example of why:

We waved and shouted and danced.  Then came Babamukuru, his car large and impressive, all sparkling metal and polished dark green.  It was too much for me.  I could have clambered on to the bonnet but, with Shupi in my arms, had to be content with a song: "Mauya, mauya.  Mauya, mauya.  Mauya, Babamukuru!"  Netsai picked up the melody.  Our vocal cords vibrating through wide arcs, we made an unbelievable racket.  Singing and dancing we ushered Babamukuru on to the homestead, hardly noticing Babamunini Thomas, who brought up the rear, not noticing Mainini Patience, who was with him, at all.

Had this been written by an author who had never lived in Africa, it could never have been as natural.  The greeting - so normal and expected of Tambudzai - would have become some sort of spectacle, where the dancing and singing would have been relayed as a piece of research.  I much prefer the sort of novel Nervous Conditions is, where the reader - wherever they live - is immersed in the non-artificial perspective of a local.

Primarily, of course, I valued Nervous Conditions for Dangarembga's writing.  It is lilting and beautiful, but not overly stylised.  It flows naturally, and gives Tambudzai's voice perfectly.  My only reservation with the novel, aside from the aforementioned rushed ending, was that it occasionally lost the subtlety which mostly made it special.  I'm all for a feminist message, but sometimes Dangarembga didn't trust to the show-don't-tell method (and she should have trusted it, because she excels at it for the most part.  Excerpts like this just felt as though they'd been included for cutting and pasting into high school essays:

[...]Babamukuru condemning Nyasha to whoredom, making her a victim of femaleness, just as I had felt victimised at home in the days when Nhamo went to school and I grew my maize.  The victimisation, I saw, was universal.  It didn't depend on poverty, on lack of education or on tradition.  It didn't depend on any of the things I had thought it depended on.  Men took it everywhere with them.

Not to mention how reductive that it.  Never mind.  Nervous Conditions is a novel, not a treatise, and for the most part Dangarembga achieves this wonderfully.  Not for nothing did it win the Commonwealth Writers' Prize in 1989.  It's always a treat when I enjoy a book much more than I thought I would, and I can only apologise to my friend that it took me so long to get around to reading this one.