But it doesn’t remove all of my challenges. I’m only talking from
personal perception here, so any of my SA writer friends can tell me if I’m
wrong, but let me share some of my biggest issues with being a writer based in
South Africa:
1) The size of South Africa’s lit market is… well… miniscule. There are
reasons for this. Mainly, books are considered to be luxury items, so very few
people buy books. A bestseller in South Africa probably won’t make the writer
enough to live on.
2) The South African publishing industry is still largely stuck in the Stone
Age. As in… bookstores only buy from subsidiaries of the Big Five and like
three South African publishing houses. So. To access this small market, you
have to submit to these publishing houses where… they expect you to do your own
marketing and where they probably won’t distribute your book into other
countries unless your book becomes a bestseller.
3) Arguably, bookstore space in South Africa is split as follows: 80%
foreign books, 20% South African books. The 20% is split as follows: 70%
non-fiction and coffee table books with pictures of our wild animals in them,
29% Literary works, 1% Genre works. Which… you know, doesn’t bode well if
you’re a genre writer (like me) looking for a publishing deal. I should also
point out that it often feels like that 1% is almost entirely taken up by this
(admittedly awesome) thriller writer named Deon Meyer.
4) No one here takes genre fiction seriously. I mean, if one of the
biggest publishing houses in South Africa calls genre fiction “inferior” to
literary fiction in so many words…
5) I have to pay over $100 just for shipping on my books so I can send
them to the National Library (or else they take my ISBN numbers back. I can’t
just buy the ISBNs and be done with it.) But they KEEP ASKING ME ABOUT PRINT
RUNS. I mean seriously. Print on Demand is a thing.
Just not in South Africa. Like I said. Stone Age.
Sigh.
===== ===== =====
About the Book
“First, do no harm.” Blake Ryan swore that oath to become a doctor.
Ironic, given that he spent most of his thousand year life sucking souls out of
other immortals.
Things are different now. Using regular shots of morphine to keep his inner monster at bay, Ryan has led a quiet life since the Second World War. His thrills now come from saving lives, not taking them.
Until a plane crash brings Aleria into his hospital. Her life is vibrant. Crack to predators like him. She’s the exact sort of person they would hunt, and thanks to a severe case of amnesia, she’s all but defenseless.
Leaving Aleria vulnerable isn’t an option, but protecting her means unleashing his own inner monster. Which is a problem, because his inner monster wants her dead most of all.
Things are different now. Using regular shots of morphine to keep his inner monster at bay, Ryan has led a quiet life since the Second World War. His thrills now come from saving lives, not taking them.
Until a plane crash brings Aleria into his hospital. Her life is vibrant. Crack to predators like him. She’s the exact sort of person they would hunt, and thanks to a severe case of amnesia, she’s all but defenseless.
Leaving Aleria vulnerable isn’t an option, but protecting her means unleashing his own inner monster. Which is a problem, because his inner monster wants her dead most of all.
About the Author
Misha Gerrick lives near Cape
Town, South Africa, and can usually be found staring at her surroundings while
figuring out her next book.
If you’d like to see what
Misha’s up to at the moment, you can find her on these social networks:
Excerpt
This had to be what dying felt like.
Floating outside my body, waiting for that final link to my life to be severed,
only vaguely aware of indescribable pain. More screams than I could count rose
up around me. Hundreds of footsteps beat against tiles. I couldn’t open my eyes
if I wanted to. Not when it was easier to listen and wait. People shouted for a
doctor or an IV, or a thousand other things that made no sense. I listened to
all the chaos, trying to untangle it in my thoughts.
Soon, I could go. The peace around
me was so relaxing, completely out of place in the clamor I heard. I wanted it.
To rest forever in that peace. Why not? There was a very good reason, but I
couldn’t call it to mind.
A numb buzz shot through my body and
shattered my serenity.
It happened again. Only this time
was more of a sharp pulse. The third time jolted like lightning. The
fourth…Hell. Suddenly, the screams were coming from me. My heart’s relentless
thundering added to my torment.
Pain.
Everywhere.
My chest burned like fire. It hurt
to breathe. Cold air drove down my throat and into my lungs, amplifying the
inferno in my chest. My skin felt scorched. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t right.
I had to see. I had to understand
why pain dominated my existence like this. My eyes were fused shut. My breaths grew
shallow, trying to draw air when there was none. I tried to clench my teeth. I
bit hard plastic. A pipe. Cold air suddenly forced back into my lungs, out of
time with my own breathing. This was wrong. It wasn’t safe. I had to see. The
best I got was a little fluttering of my lashes.
A high-pitched beep shot through my
head. It repeated again and again. I wanted to reach over and slam my fist into
its source. My arm wouldn’t lift. Something kept it trapped. A scream rose up
from the depths of my soul, but the pipe jammed inside my throat stifled the
sound. I only managed a whimper, trying my best not to gag. More air blasted
into my lungs against my will. What was going on? I was trapped in my own body,
but why?
I needed to move. I had to move.
Now. Before… Even… Even though… Panic gripped me. The beeps increased at a
frenetic pace. I needed to move. To
be gone. Didn’t matter where. Just not here. Not defenseless. Not trapped.
The air sucked out of my lungs. I
gasped, choking on nothing, strangled by invisible fingers. I tried to convulse
my body. To twist myself free of what’s holding me.
Nothing.
The air rushed back in a cold flood.
Seconds later it left, only to return in the same amount of time.
There was a rhythm to the air. In…
out... in… out… The breaths were slow—sleep-like. I concentrated on this
rhythm, striving to clear my head. If I wanted out, I needed to think. Calmly.
Clearly. Eventually, those irritating beeps slowed. I tried to focus past the
sound.
Voices buzzed about me, adding to my
need to see, to do something to protect myself. No one seemed to pay attention
to me. Good. I could use that to my advantage.
I centered my every thought on
moving my little finger. It finally jerked, but collided against something
solid. So the thing trapping my arm was physical and too heavy for me to lift.
It was better to be trapped than paralyzed. With luck I could escape my
restraints. I tried my other hand, but it was cemented stuck as well. Right
leg. Left leg. Damn it! Both trapped. I had to move!
No.
No, I needed to stay calm. I tried
to make larger movements, biting the pipe in my mouth against the urge to
scream in pain. There was no wiggle room.
Fearing that I might be blindfolded,
I focused on blinking. It worked. My eyes opened and the blur faded, revealing
ceiling tiles. Why would there be tiles? Where was the canvas of hospital
tents? The distant sounds of bombs dropping? The power of their explosions
rushing through my blood?
No. That wasn’t right. I wasn’t
there.
