That’s not to say that nobody writes them, or records them, but that the algorithm (man, that’s a hard word to spell. I also struggle to spell rythm? rhythem? rhythm?) doesn’t prioritise them, and so they don’t perform well enough to appear on the homepage. Then you have to go digging, and go directly to the pages of people who you know you share a book taste with to find anything resembling an opinion.

In today’s attention economy, the algo (I’ll stick to this abbreviation so I don’t misspell it and embarrass myself) prioritises short, clickable content. A video with a cute outfit of the day will gain more attention than someone sharing their journaling routine, or someone making a cup of coffee will outperform someone reading a poem. The online world has been deemed a ‘brain-off’ activity, which is dangerous in and of itself, but I miss when bookstagram was about what we thought and what we felt.

In an attempt to correct that - could I interest you in some short book reviews? I’ve got five books I’m absolutely foaming at the mouth to talk about!

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These five books I have read over the last 3 or 4 weeks and they’ve all stuck with me for different reasons. Let’s dive in, shall we?

Intimacies by Katie Kitamura

You’ll likely know Kitamura because of her latest runaway success that was Audition. When I adore an author’s work as much as I do Kitamura’s, I’ll often dive into their backlists. I borrowed this book from a friend and I was so happy that I did.

An unnamed female narrator is a simultaneous interpreter at The Hague. She has been tasked with translating for a previous world leader who stands accused of committing war crimes.

The writing is sharp, and highly evocative. In just over 200 pages, Kitamura delivers a taut and precise study of power and the intimacy of translation. I cannot recommend it enough. Kitamura is chairing the International Booker next year and I’d be interested to see how her obsession with translation shows in the longlist she helps curate.

Under Water by Tara Menon

I was absolutely floored by this stunning debut novel. It is a moving novel of grief and loss set against the backdrop of two calamitous natural disasters.

I find myself drawn to precision in a novel these days, maybe for the very same reason I mentioned earlier about the attention economy. Menon asks big questions in only 200-something pages. She asks who belongs where, and what belongs to us, as humans. She paints the most stunning imagery. Her scenes (quite literally) under water will have you holding your breath and then gasping in amazement.

We’ll cover this on The Reading Chatroom next season. Stay tuned!

May We Feed the King by Rebecca Perry

Art and art-adjacent books are all the rage right now, and for good reason. They ask us to slow down and consider something that someone else has made and remove ourselves entirely from the narrative. I appreciate a book that can make you think. This does just that.

Perry writes a story of a curator who is commissioned to stage a palace for an upcoming tourist season. In her work, she finds the story of a forgotten king and chooses to stage the palace with scenes from his reign. The story starts being told by the curator, then switches to the king. It asks the question of what happens behind power.

It is gorgeous, quirky, and simply unforgettable. A Booker contender if ever there was one. More on The Reading Chatroom soon!

Share Underline by Riley Herbert-Henry

I Want You to Be Happy by Jem Calder

Sally Rooney’s Conversations With Friends meets Dolly Alderton’s Good Material in this funny, awkward novel of circumstance. Chuck is a millennial creeping towards 40. Joey is a 20-something barista, and Chuck is obsessed with her.

What follows is a hilarious, and fumbling relationship that will have you cringing and rolling your eyes, but unable to look away.

This one won’t be for everyone, but it sure as hell was for me.

Lone Wolf Living by Werner Pretorius

I am thrilled to report that the South African short story lives on! And it is in brilliant health.

Pretorius’s debut collection is a kaleidoscopic clash of colour and feeling. Slightly speculative, slightly unhinged, entirely brilliant.

There is a talent here, and I don’t say this lightly, that reminds me of the greats. Pretorius’s prose is full of emotion and intrigue, but never feels heavy handed. He tackles themes of family, loss, belonging, and so many more in a collection that feels completely unique, yet still wonderfully cohesive.

I cannot recommend it enough.

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There you have it folks. Some book reviews - I wonder if you enjoyed reading them? Let me know if this is something you would look forward to reading again in the future, or if I should just stick to ‘What’s in my bag’ content going forward ;) x

As the ink dries,

Riley x

If you know me at all, you know that I am a massive book prize nerd. Booker? Count me in. Women’s Prize? Yes please. I was in search of a local equivalent. It wasn’t until about 2023 when I heard about the Sunday Times Literary Awards, both for fiction and non-fiction, and I’ve been obsessed ever since.

This year marks the 25th anniversary of the fiction prize, and the longlist (released 24 May 2026) is a celebration of diversity, joy, and the collective South African imagination. The award’s criteria states that the winning book should be one of, ‘rare imagination and style… a tale so compelling as to become an enduring landmark of contemporary fiction’ (Sunday Times, Lifestyle, Issue 24 May 2026).

Previous winners include Shubnum Khan’s The Lost Love of Akbar Manzil, Andrew Brown’s The Bitterness of Olives, and C.A. Davids’ How to be a Revolutionary.

The prize? An eye-watering R100 000. That’s big money, especially in books in South Africa.

This year, the longlist includes:

• 6h00 Somewhere and Many Hours Later Somewhere Else by Barbara Adair (Hands-On Books)

• Salt Water Pool Boy by Peter-Adrian Altini (Karavan Press)

• The Nicotine Gospel by Sven Axelrad (Penguin - Umuzi)

• Ice Shock by Elleke Boehmer (Karavan Press)

• Diplomatic Ties by Mpho Boshego (Pan Macmillan)

• Not Another Samoosa Run! by Nadia Cassim (Kwela Books)

• Hell of a Country by David Cornwell (Kwela Books)

• An Act of Murder by Tom Eaton (Penguin)

• The Whale’s Last Song by Joanne Fedler (Modjaji Books)

• Song of the Slave Girl by Ashraf Kagee (Jacana Media)

• The Fragile Mental Health of Strong Women by Michelle Kekana (Jacana Media)

• Out of the Dead Lands by Conrad Kemp (Mirari Press)

• Bosadi by Kopano Matlwa (Jacana Media)

• Canary by Onke Mazibuko (Penguin)

• Buried in the Chest by Lindani Mbunyuza-Memani (Jacana Media)

• Book People by Paige Nick (Pan Macmillan)

• The Immortalites by Claire Robertson (Penguin - Umuzi)

• All the Saints by Wesley Roodt (Jacana Media)

• Unsolicited by Andrea Shaw (Jacana Media)

• The Fourth Boy by Andrew Robert Wilson (Karavan Press)

Here are some interesting facts, and my initial reactions to the longlist:

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• It’s Jacana’s world, and we’re just living in it! Sweeping the nominations with SIX titles on the longlist, Jacana is the most represented publisher on this year’s list.

• 2026 marks the first time Mirari Press, the inimitable speculative fiction publisher, appears on the longlist with Out of the Dead Lands by Conrad Kemp.

• The list is dominated by Indie Publishers this year with only 8 of the 20 books coming from the ‘big’ hitters.

• I have reviewed 5 of these titles for Fine Music Radio’s Book Choice. Be sure to check of the podcast recordings here: https://www.fmr.co.za/podcasts/book-choice/

• The list balances funny, upbeat and optimistic novels with darker, hard-hitting stories. This balance showcases the truly diverse nature of South African books today.

I am absolutely thrilled with this longlist and look forward to reading the titles I have not yet gotten to.

From the article released today on the Sunday Time’s website:

“South African writers make sense of our world in all its complexity,” says Jennifer Platt, Sunday Times books editor. “From deeply personal memoirs to expansive works of imagination, these books challenge, illuminate and connect us, affirming the role of literature in shaping how we understand ourselves and each other.” (https://www.sundaytimes.timeslive.co.za/news/2026-05-23-sunday-times-literary-awards-longlist-announced/ )

The date for the shortlist and winner’s announcement have not yet been revealed, but I will update you in due course.

Long live local literature!

As the ink dries,

Riley x

I’m currently working on the first draft of the first ‘novel’-length project I’ve committed to finishing.

Am I excited? Absolutely.
Am I terrified? Beyond measure.

I’ve spent the last eight or so weeks on it and managed just over 8,000 words. Speed doesn’t bother me, writing takes as long as it takes, but something else does.

I’ve been censoring myself.

I haven’t allowed my voice to be the thing that tells the story. Instead, I’ve been preoccupied with how I’m saying something, rather than the thing I’m trying to say.

Somewhere along the way, I picked up the idea that for a story to carry weight, the sentences needed to be perfect.

So, I’d spend entire afternoons moving commas. Deleting a word. Adding it back.

I get stuck in scenes, worrying about whether the action lands, whether the dialogue is precise enough, hell, whether the dialogue tags made sense.

Doing that, going about it that way, the story never moved forward.

This morning, before I left for work, I sat at my desk and thought:
What if I just did it?
What if I worried about it later?

What followed was twenty minutes of something close to relief.

I wrote freely.

And for the first time in weeks, the sentences felt like mine.

Were they perfect? No. But they were honest. They were believable. They didn’t feel like they were trying to impress anyone.

And somewhere in that, I realised, that in trying to become a better writer, I had lost the part of me that actually wanted to write.

It’s so easy for us to forget that we love what we do. We wouldn’t be doing it otherwise.

It’s the same feeling I get when I decide not to finish a book. It should never feel like a punishment to do the things we love. We have to let go of the things not serving us in service of the thing that gives us joy. In honour of the muse, the art, the feeling, the privilege, of making and creating.

When I started this project, I was excited by it, seduced even. Then, after days of plotting the story, writing the opening, rewriting the opening, then writing it again, on my way to the next scene, I lost it.

I stopped writing every day. I allowed the story to stand still for a little while, promising I would come back after I just ‘took a little break’ or ‘gave myself a bit of distance’. I realise that it sounds silly and counterintuitive, but I convinced myself that I was doing the right thing.

But, in the evergreen words of a favourite of mine, Elizabeth Strout, ‘…that was when I learned that work gets done if you simply do it.’

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Here’s what I’m planning on doing going forward to ensure that I never lose that sense of wonder I felt this morning again.

Firstly, I’m acknowledging that not every day is going to feel like this. There will be times when it feels more like work than pleasure. I’ve given myself permission to believe that both things can be true at once.

Secondly, I’m promising myself that I will write every day. Even if it is just one sentence. The story must progress. That is my job.

Thirdly, and I find this to be most important, I’m not allowed to go back and read it all again until the first draft is completed. This is going to be interesting, considering I’m a chronic rewriter. However, knowing myself, this is a boundary I have to put in place.

Lastly, I am allowing myself to call myself a writer. For a long while I felt awkward by the title. I’d include it in my bio, sure, but it never felt true. I’ve had some stories published, and they’ve done well, but I hesitated at calling myself a writer because I didn’t feel like I deserved it. I felt like others would laugh and say, ‘Yeah, sure buddy. Whatever helps you sleep at night.’

Now, I’m owning it. It’s something that no one can remove from me. For as long as I am writing, and dear God please let it be a long time, then I am a writer.

And that, my dear friends, is me holding myself accountable.

As the ink dries,

Riley x

I’ve spoken to many people lately and we have all agreed that the last few years have felt like an absolute blur. You’ll be chatting and you’ll hear things like, ‘Ah, yes, I read that last year. Or was it the year before?’ or something like, ‘I was in Lagos early last year, actually, 2024, sorry. Time flies’.

I’ve been having the same, very ordinary experience myself. When I look back over the last few years, I see beautiful personal growth. I’ve stepped outside of my comfort zone. I’ve travelled. I’ve spoken at events I never thought I’d get the opportunity to speak at. My writing has been published in multiple places, with more coming later this year.

By any conventional metric, the last few years have been good to me. More than good. I don’t discount the success I’ve experienced, and I also don’t diminish the value of it. I am eternally grateful for the relationships I have built and the kindness and generosity of spirit I have experienced amongst people who I can now consider my peers.

But, alongside all of the joy, there has been great pain. In 2024, I lost two of my grandparents, my husband lost his grandmother, we lost extended family and these losses continued. Just yesterday, my mother lost her cousin. All of these losses weigh heavily on me in different ways. Finding your way through grief while trying to be strong for others is terrifyingly difficult, but so incredibly important.

When my grandfather died in February of 2024, I was terrified. He was older and had been ill for a while. We knew it was coming. When, at the blessed age of 88, he took his last breath, my immediate instinct was, ‘How do I guide my mother through this?’

She was the apple of his eye. He was her hero. I had my own feelings about his passing, naturally, he was the strongest male figure in my life. I loved him deeply. Still do. Yet, in that moment, I had a duty to fulfil. I was to be my mother’s guide to her grief.

It’s hard to watch someone you love grieve. But how beautiful is it that they trust you enough to turn to you for guidance?

Six months later, in August, shortly before mine and my mother’s birthdays, my grandmother passed. Suddenly. Quickly. As if it were no work at all. She was struggling to breathe, my mother took her to the emergency room, they were going to admit her overnight, and before my mother got all the way back home, that dreaded phone call came.

The grief in our lives compounded. It fractured us.

Somewhere between my grandfather’s passing and my grandmother’s sudden death, something shifted quietly in my life. I was no longer just someone experiencing grief. I had become someone responsible for holding space for it.

The next day, sitting in my late-grandparent’s living room, talking with my mother, my aunties, my extended family, my mother asked me to make a phone call. Up until then, she was our ‘logistics-warrior’. If anyone needed anything done, they’d call her. The phone call I needed to make was to the funeral home, to see if they had yet collected my grandmother’s body from the hospital’s mortuary service.

She couldn’t make that phone call herself. Of course not. The baton was passed. I was trusted enough with this most precious of tasks.

As I write this, the goosebumps and tears find me again. This time, though, it’s not grief. It’s gratitude. I was able to show my love for my mother and my grandmother through a simple act of service. I was able to carry them, when the road ahead was too unclear.

This is where the anger comes in. Not at anyone in particular. I couldn’t be angry at anyone for something like this. Not even at death, which feels inevitable in a way that anger rarely survives. But at the strange arithmetic of life that allows the most beautiful years of your life to unfold alongside some of its most devastating losses.

Joy and grief are rarely polite enough to take turns. They arrive together, sit beside each other at the same table, and ask you to make room for both.

The last few years have given me opportunities I once only dreamed of. They have also taken people from me that I loved deeply. Both things are true. Both things shape who I am becoming.

Sometimes I think about that moment again. Sitting in my grandparents’ living room, my family gathered around us, my mother handing me the phone.

The room was quiet in the way only grieving rooms can be. Heavy, but full of love.

I made the call. I asked the question that needed asking. I thanked the person on the other end of the line. Then I hung up and sat back down beside my mother.

There was nothing heroic about it. It was a small thing, really.

But in that moment, I understood something I had never quite understood before: this is what love asks of us, eventually. That we hold each other steady when the ground beneath us shifts.

And that, somehow, we find the strength to do it.

As the ink dries,

Riley x

We’ve all been there. Someone asks, ‘What are you reading?’ or ‘What’s that book about?’ and your mind goes blank. You try to form a cohesive thought, or an insightful commentary on a certain plot point and – nothing.

Talking about books feels easy enough. It’s something you love, something that gives you immense joy. But it’s not easy. Quite the contrary. Books are messy and intimate and full of meaning. Plot points slip through your fingers; others grip you and don’t let go. Learning how to talk about books is a skill. It’s more than memorising plot summaries. It runs deeper. It’s personal. It’s about taking what is written between the pages and translating the reading experience into a conversation that invokes a sense of excitement in others too.

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Now, this isn’t to say that everyone should become a book critic (there’s enough of those out there), or that you need to write essayistic reviews of every book you read. Quite the contrary. I love a review where someone simply says, ‘I loved this book. It made me cry.’ That alone tells me so much about the emotional power of the story.

For me, reading has never been about finishing books quickly or having the ‘right’ take. When I talk about a book I’ve loved, or didn’t, I want to always be honest. I want to share why I felt the way I did and unpack it in a way that invites conversation. There are times when I will read a book, and it will take me a couple days to finish, but I won’t be able to review for a few days, sometimes a couple of weeks. I take my time when I review. I sit on it. Brew on it. Let the book sit with me and allow myself to reflect on what worked (or didn’t) for me.

There are some books I may never review. Either it didn’t impact me enough to leave a lasting impression or maybe everything worth saying about it has already been said. And that’s okay. Sometimes saying nothing about a novel is as valid as reviewing it. Choosing what to share, and when, is as much a part of the process as reading itself.

For me, talking about books is like an extension of reading. I’m not a fan of reviews that mainly rehash plot points or character motivations. When I read a review, which I do a lot of, I want to know what it did for you. I want to hear about how it made you feel, what made you tick, what idea it sparked in you.

This kind of review becomes part of the conversation surrounding the book. It’s the greatest compliment to the author. It shows that their words carry life beyond the page.

I mentioned that I read a lot of reviews, and I do. I go through phases when I read reviews before I read a book, or after. Phases where I don’t want to read the reviews for fear that they may impact the way I read, and sometimes when I read reviews to try and make sense of what I read. All of this is to say that the community you can build by talking about the books you read is one of the strongest bonds you can form.

If you can find a space where you can talk about books that you’ve read, where you’re allowed to be open and honest, where you can say what you feel without being judged, hold onto that. Call it what you want – a book club, a friend group, a bunch of colleagues chatting about books – just knowing that you have a group of people around you who value your opinion, no matter how wild the take, is a blessing in itself.

They also hold you accountable. They ask questions. They implore you to say more, explore alternate pathways, they give you their opinion. It’s refreshing.

I saw this in action this past weekend. I was with a wonderful group of people who I review with on Fine Music Radio, and we were discussing Audition by Katie Kitamura. The opinions varied, people loved it, others couldn’t stand it. The important part? No one’s take of the book was more important than anyone else’s. Everyone was heard, understood, and validated for the things they felt. That’s community.

Talking about books, for me, is never about being right. It’s not about having the hottest take or the most ‘click-bait-y’ title. It’s about sharing the moments that floored you. The scenes that brought you to tears. The lines that gave you absolute pleasure and joy. I encourage you to create a community around your reading. Find people who listen, who challenge you, who encourage you to be the best possible version of your reader-self.

Find joy in the things you read and how you talk about them. It’s why we do it in the first place.

As the ink dries,

Riley x

I need you to hear me, and really, actually hear me when I say this: the literary canon is not a natural phenomenon. It is a record of power, preference, and exclusion. It begs the question – who chose what became ‘The Canon’, capital T, capital C, and what that tells us of the culture we have inherited.

The Canon is seen as a body of literary work, across mediums, considered to be the most important or influential works of our culture. Naturally, there isn’t just one list, but rather a rolling and evolving body that is deemed to carry the moral, aesthetic, or cultural weight of our current society. The problem is that this weight has almost never reflected the world we actually live in.

The literary canon didn’t emerge naturally. It was constructed. Critics, scholars, and educators, mostly white, male, and European, decided which books mattered, privileging certain styles, subjects, and voices while ignoring others. Institutions codified these choices, turning them into curricula and textbooks, and over time, what was celebrated became “timeless” or “essential.” These decisions were never neutral. They reflected the social, political, and cultural values of the decision-makers. The canon is, in short, a record of who had authority to decide whose stories counted.

I went to High School in the early teens, my sister shortly after me and then, much like now, they were still teaching books like Great Expectations, Moby-Dick, Heart of Darkness. Still revering books that are, at their core, racist, homophobic and endlessly prejudiced. Why? Simple: the decision makers, the powers that be, do not want their core to be shaken. It is what they were taught, and what their teachers were taught, and the cycle continues. That is not tradition, it is inertia. It shouldn’t be the standard.

Take Heart of Darkness, for example. It is highly praised for its prose, but it depicts Africa as a place of absolute savagery. It reduces Black people to background props. It centres whiteness as the moral lens through which the world should be viewed. It is, plainly put, racist and unacceptable. Or Moby-Dick, which is celebrated for its ‘narrative genius’, yet it is rife with patriarchal obsession and a worldview that pushes aside the labour, race, and the humanity of non-white characters. These are not just historical missteps; they are active choices preserved in our schools, shaping what we recognize as “important.”

By continuing to teach these works uncritically, we signal to students that some stories matter more than others, and whose stories are worth telling. We teach young readers to revere the voices of a very specific culture while marginalizing the rest.

Killing the canon, doesn’t mean burning books. It means expanding our definition of what is considered to be canon. It means deepening our understanding of what makes the current ‘cannon’ problematic and taking active steps to correct past mistakes. It means building a new, deliberate culture that centres diversity, celebrates our differences and chooses humanity over loyalty to a past steeped in hurt and pain. It is our duty to spotlight voices that have always been there but have been ignored for far too long.

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Expanding the canon doesn’t call for us to erase history. Quite the contrary. It encourages us to amplify the voices that have been sidelined in that same shared history. Contemporary literature is rich with writers whose work gives us the platform to challenge and diversify our understanding of our human experience. Ocean Vuong, for example, redefines form and intimacy while unpacking the immigrant experience in On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous. Zadie Smith, Jesmyn Ward, and Colson Whitehead interrogate history, community, and systemic inequality through stunning prose that is both urgent and lyrical.

Books in translation should also springboard us into a global understanding. Books like Sayaka Murata’s Convenience Store Woman, translated from Japanese by Ginny Tapley Takemori or Sin is a Puppy that Follows You Home by Balaraba Ramat Yakubu, translated from Hausa by Aliyu Kamal. These texts offer perspectives historically excluded from curricula, reflecting the complexity of the modern world. Updating the canon is not about replacing classics; it’s about creating a living, evolving body of literature that represents the diversity, resilience, and imagination of all readers.

This starts by challenging the way we read, both personally and as a society. It means consciously choosing books that represent the world we live in, that reflect the culture as it stands. It is up to us to bridge the gaps between people, to read in order to understand, and to uncover the divides that literature can help us mend — through beauty, freedom, truth, and love.

The canon is a choice, not a law. It’s time we choose differently.

The first lady said, ‘Does anyone actually still read anymore?’

The second responded, ‘I mean, look at him sitting there pretending. Pen in his hand and all.’

I just smiled to myself and kept on reading. I was not in the mood to argue with two Stellenbosch tannies before 8 o’clock in the morning.

This comment felt, to me, like more of a comment on our society as it stands, than on me as a reader. They saw me sitting there with my book and my pen and immediately assumed that it was a prop. That I was trying to look mysterious, or cool. Trying to give off ‘main character energy’.

To them, the assumption arrives fully formed: no one is reading because they want to read. They’re reading to be seen.

What’s striking about this reflex is not just that it misunderstands reading, but that it exposes how deeply performative our understanding of public life has become. In a culture where nearly every action is optimized for visibility, reading, a stubbornly interior, slow, and opaque act, feels suspicious.

This reflex is prevalent especially among people who do not read, who cannot imagine what it might take to want to pick up a book in the first place. What is even more concerning, however, is the judgement that comes from our own community. From other readers who assume that their way is the only ‘right’ way to do it. I’m not taking sides in this argument, I couldn’t because I’m writing this to try and understand it myself.

There seem to be two types of archetypes. These are, of course, exaggerated archetypes, but they are the ones that dominate the way we talk about reading online.

The ‘BookTok Girlies’ who tend to read more romance and fantasy, who create aesthetic videos making matcha and colour matching their books to their outfits. They are the folks who rate books on the spicy/smutty scale with the chilli emoji. They read for escapism and use radical positivity as a tool for engagement. The BookTok Girlies are almost clique-y in that manner. They find each other, stick together and tend to disagree with the folks in the opposite camp.

On the other side of the coin are those who are using reading as a tool to educate themselves. They read widely, across a broader range of genres. They tend to use books as devices for critical thinking and portraits of the state of our society and how we adapt and live within it. They are also, often but not always, critical of the BookTok Girlies, calling them shallow and reading for the aesthetic and not for the benefits of what books can actually provide.

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I struggle to identify with either of these camps. As a reader, my preferred genres are literary fiction and non-fiction centred around relevant social events. So, my brain assumes it belongs in the second group I mentioned. But, I do also post on TikTok. Actually, it is where I do most of my talk-reviews. I suppose that creates a third, and slightly more rare, group of people. Those of us who appreciate the power of social media, but do not want to firmly make camp in the BookTok sphere. Instead, I want to create an audience that engages with books the way that we do. Intentionally, and with a desire to learn.

If you’ll indulge a tangent for a moment, and this is quite political, please forgive me. This is where the consequences of aestheticised reading become visible.

The day that Charlie Kirk was shot, the world went into a tailspin of opposite and critical reactions to his death. I was quite shocked to see how the BookTok Girlies (especially some of the South African ones I see often) were heartbroken at the news. They posted RIP videos, uploaded stories and posts in which they sympathised with his family. Called him a good, Christian man. I even saw one that said she had lost a lot of followers after she posted about Charlie and she is disappointed with the community at large.

Now, I do not think that anyone should die a violent death. No one at all. Grief is human, but uncritical celebration is something else entirely. What happened was completely unacceptable, but Kirk’s life was not one that I think should have been celebrated. His views were harmful and hateful and often criticised the very communities we live in. He was racist and homophobic and seeing so many of the folks on BookTok celebrating him? That hurt. That removed the sense of community that I thought was at the very epicentre of the BookTok movement.

Needless to say, when they were called out for it, they backed each other in full force, using their positivity and aesthetics to cover up the mess they made. They came out unscathed. On the other hand, those who were critical of Kirk’s death, were ‘cancelled’ and were called heartless and weren’t ‘decent human beings’.

It was funny to me how one-sided the criticism was allowed to be and how sensitive the way it was allowed to be handled was. The BookTok Girlies banded together to protect each other with smiles and positivity, while their claws did the nasty work.

Apologies for the tangent, but I found it relevant for the argument I was making here. The BookTok space, the online language, has made it difficult to actively associate with the community online. The cancel culture fear-mongering has made it almost impossible for someone to have an opinion that goes against the grain.

What we end up forgetting is why we were all there to begin with: books.

Reading has become aestheticised and depoliticised in public discourse, and when we forget that reading shapes our values, language, and politics, we allow community to replace accountability.

Books are not just objects we gather around. They are arguments. They are histories. They are moral frameworks disguised as stories. And when we strip reading of its weight, when we treat it as something purely aesthetic or purely positive, we risk forgetting that words shape how we move through the world.

To read publicly, whether in a coffee shop or online, is not just to be seen holding a book. It is to signal that words matter. That ideas matter. That we are willing to sit with complexity, even when it is uncomfortable.

That morning in the coffee shop, I wasn’t pretending. I was reading. And perhaps what unsettled those women, and what unsettles so many people now, is not the performance of reading, but the refusal to treat it as harmless.

Reading is political, and pretending it isn’t is a luxury we can no longer afford.

The last few months haven’t been easy, and I almost hesitate to write this article. Not for fear of reaction, but for fear of my own honesty. We don’t often talk about what mental health does to our passion projects. Maybe we do and I just don’t see it when I need it most, or maybe I purposefully avoided it while I was down, deep in my own head.

Dramatic, right? Dramatic, but true.

I work a day job, one that demands a lot of me, in terms of time and brain space. The impact this has on creativity and passion projects is larger than we like to admit. We live in a hustle culture. Always moving, always going, always working on the next big thing. Not many people have the privilege of working on their projects full time, and I’m one of them. The balancing act between creating and working for ‘the man’ is hard, and the tightrope skills required to bridge that gap do not come easily. My creative projects took a knock, but the only thing that didn’t was my reading.

Books don’t demand productivity. They don’t ask you to get better first.

There is nothing that I am more grateful for than the power of a truly good story. It’s escapism, it’s joy, it’s belonging.

It’s also empathy, a place to be, somewhere you don’t have to be alone. In this time, I’ve read books that have made me laugh out loud (a difficult thing to do for me), books that have made me cry, and books that have held a mirror up to my life and shown me things I wasn’t ready to see on my own.

Halfway through November, I found myself spiraling. I backed myself into a corner and couldn’t get out. I told myself I wasn’t good enough, no one wanted to read the things I wrote, nobody wanted to watch the content I created, nobody cared. I stopped writing entirely. Only made a couple of social media posts as a Hail Mary to not lose my (very small) audience. Then, for a couple of weeks, I stopped trying. I forced myself out of bed, went to work, came home, and found my way straight back to sleep.

Now, I don’t say this for you to feel sorry for me. Not at all. I don’t even feel sorry for myself. I say it to show that creativity is not linear. There are good times and there are bad, and that, in and of itself, is fine. More than fine. It’s natural.

Books were the only thing that kept me going through it all. Somehow, there was always space for reading, and for those few weeks, that was enough.

I read for myself. I read books that had nothing to do with anything. I read books I loved and books I absolutely hated, and I was grateful for each of them. They reignited my capacity for thought and, in turn, my ability to think creatively.

New Year is always a time of reflection and for setting goals. I was intimidated by this. I saw everyone’s Instagram posts, their TikTok videos with massive aspirations and life-changing projects. I couldn’t relate to these. I couldn’t see myself committing heavily to losing those 20 kilos, or launching a business, or getting that English Lit degree. I was put off. I didn’t set any goals. Until now.

So, these are the things I am promising myself this year:

· To keep reading, even when everything else feels hard.

· To make space for creativity without asking it to save me.

· To treat myself with the same patience I give the books I love.

I won’t say anything more on them, at least not publicly, they’re mine and I’m happy to have them.

I don’t need this year to be extraordinary. I just need it to be honest.

This newsletter is returning the same way my reading did. Imperfect, slower, but present.

As the ink dries,

Riley x

Now, however, we return to main stage with the DIY MFA. Today’s guest contributor is an industry titan. With nominations for the Booker, the Women’s Prize, the Sunday Times Literary Award (the list goes on), Karen Jennings is a name many of you will recognise.

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Her novel, An Island, was nominated for the booker in 2021 (one of two South African novels to make the list that year), and her most recent novel, Crooked Seeds, was longlisted for the 2025 Women’s Prize for fiction.

Karen is a literary role model of mine and when she agreed to participate, I was over the moon. Of the DIY MFA she said:

KJ: That is a great idea. So, so, so many people cannot afford to do a degree, but why should that limit them?

With that, let’s jump right in.

A Novel for Everyone

Karen has been exceptionally generous and provided us with a list of recommendations that span from Dickens to modern day classics like Their Eyes Were Watching God. Have a look, Karen’s words are in the block quotes below:

KJ: Great Expectations and Jane Eyre - both of these are classics for a reason. They show how well first person narration can be done (too many people think first person narration is easy. It really is not!) They also are both bildungsromans, which show personal insight and growth by the main characters. I cannot recommend these two highly enough.

She then moves on to provide recommendations from the African continent and diaspora:

KJ: I think it is important for ANY author from the African continent or diaspora to read writing by and about our own people and histories. I would suggest starting out with some of the really important vanguard of African literature, so something by Achebe, something by Ngugi (these are widely available) and something by South Africa’s Alex la Guma, though I would recommend A Walk in the Night (a novella) specifically.

Lastly, for the novel section, she recommends books from the first half of the 20th century:

KJ: I would finally, recommend reading widely from the first half of the 20th century - this is when culture, as we know it, in terms of art, writing, architecture, music etc, really began to become something new (the great cry of the Modernists: “Make it new!” So, read Woolf’s To the Lighthouse for a perfect example of British Modernism, and then read Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God to get a sense of the absolutely amazing stuff that was happening in the US during the Harlem Renaissance. What a time to have been alive!

I think the joy of this list is in its diversity. There is something to be said about writing well and reading widely. I suppose it is an exercise in empathy. If we write, sure, we write from a place we know, but truly brilliant writing comes from putting ourselves into each other’s shoes and imagining what it may be like to be someone else.

Global Short Stories

Karen has also provided us with an extensive list of short stories to read and analyse. She starts with the Russians, works her way through stories from our continent and country and ends with some fantastic American short stories.

KJ: You must read something by Chekhov and by Maupassant. These were the real progenitors and masters of the short story in the 19th century. By Maupassant read “Vendetta” and Butterball (Boulle de Suif). Chekhov wrote so prolifically, so try any of these (his most famous): “The Lady with the Dog,” “Misery,” “The Man in a Case,” “The Lottery Ticket,” “Ward No. 6,” “Gooseberries,” and “The Black Monk”. Both writers are important for their realism.

From SA, I would recommend Can Themba’s “The Suite”. I absolutely love this story! It has its flaws, but it is an extraordinary story of psychological abuse/power. I know a lot of people have already “studied” it at school. But forget about the school scenario. Read it now - read it slowly and carefully. Then read it again. And again. That story will haunt you forever.

For America, I’d recommend the unsettling, spec-fic “The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson

This list, again, proves the need to read widely and extensively. I’ve read a good chunk of these stories now, and each one has left me with something different to ponder. I’ve reread some and come away with something different every time I do. I think the mark of a good story, a good book, is that it bears rereading, and these recommendations definitely do.

Poetry

KJ: Understanding the importance of how lines work - where does the line break fall and why - in free verse is one of the biggest problems that aspiring poets face. The second problem is recognising that poems aren’t just prose broken up into separate lines. Poetry is about the emotion/essence/focus. For these reasons, I recommend that aspiring poets understand what a narrative poem should/can be. For this, read Robert Frost’s Death of the Hired Man This is written in blank verse, a formal rhythm that most resembles prose, yet isn’t prose at all. Have a careful look at this poem. What is poetic about it? What does the prose rhythm contribute to it?

Karen then also encourages us to have a look at free verse and the importance of the pauses and breaks in poetry:

KJ: Then, to have a look at free verse and to try to understand the importance and significance of line breaks: Have a look at this: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50549/love-song-56d22dba19813 and then compare it with this https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?volume=104&issue=2&page=14 (George Oppen “The Forms of Love” in terms of why/how line breaks are used. What are the different impacts/effects?

In SA, have a look at the poetry of Kobus Moolman as a good example of free verse that is tight, powerful, masterful.

Conclusion

What I love most about Karen’s contribution is how deeply it embodies the spirit of the DIY MFA itself: a belief that learning is not confined to institutions, and that literature, at its best, belongs to everyone. Her reading list is not a syllabus in the traditional sense — it’s an invitation. To read bravely. To think expansively. To keep returning to the page with curiosity and care.

I’m endlessly grateful to Karen for her generosity and insight, and I hope her recommendations inspire you as much as they’ve inspired me. Whether you’re just beginning your writing journey or refining your craft after years of practice, there’s something here to ignite your imagination and remind you why stories matter.

Until next time, keep reading widely, writing boldly, and finding joy in the work.

As the ink dries,

Riley x

I’ve read the longlist for 2025, with the exception of The Land in Winter, which is only due out in South Africa at the end of this month. I’ve had a lot of thoughts about this list and what it brings to the table. I’m also deeply interested in the thought-processes of the judges and how they selected the 13 books (or Booker dozen) that made the longlist.

The Booker has always provided us with a snapshot of the cultural weather. It covers topics that we are grieving, questioning, unraveling, even things we haven’t yet said out loud. This year, even with the split of the shortlist being evenly three males and three females, the general theme of the novels feels distinctly male. More distinctly, the collapse of the traditional male lens and the introduction of the modern male. These books aren’t interested in the perception of being male, but focuses more on its unraveling — the silences, the tenderness, the failings that define it.

By reading these books together, you sense a collective asking of what it means to be caught between the old scripts and new expectations, and how these male characters navigate their way through the wreckage of their lives.

I’ll discuss the books that I have read from the shortlist in this article.

The books on the shortlist are:

Flashlight by Susan Choi

In Flashlight, ten-year-old Louisa survives a mysterious incident on a Japanese beach, which leads to her father’s presumed drowning. The novel is told through the perspectives of Louisa, her mother Anne, and her father Serk.

Serk’s chapters focus on navigating cultural and personal dissonance, exposing a fragility in his self-assurance. Though his intentions are deeply felt, his personality is often uncertain and marked by internal conflict. He struggles with his own emotions and his anger at the world, while remaining passive and accepting of his fate. It’s a striking portrayal of decision-making and the far-reaching impact of our choices.

The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny by Kiran Desai

In Desai’s latest novel, that was 20 years in the making, we meet aspiring writer Sonia and AP journalist Sunny.

The character of Sunny interested me in the way he was portrayed. He holds a dual identity as an Indian immigrant in America. He often gets caught in the pull towards his family’s cultural tradition, while his actual lifestyle in the States pulls him towards his own desires. He navigates and challenges the stereotypes of arranged marriages and his mother’s involvement in his life. He often tries to avoid her presence as it reminds him of his cultural expectations. It was a deeply moving portrayal of a traditional man tempted by western norms.

Audition by Katie Kitamura

In Audition, Kitamura presents a novel told in two parts and the reader is asked to find the connection between them — that is, if there is one. An unnamed actress in New York lives with her husband Tomas, and is approached by a young man named Xavier who thinks that he may be her son.

The character of Tomas is a pivotal figure to our main character. His presence is both grounding and severely unsettling. Kitamura’s portrayal of him is both nuanced and integral. She explores the nuance of our roles as spouses and the masks we wear to protect each other. She also explores what happens when the masks are dropped and our true selves shine through.

Interestingly, Kitamura reflects on the nature of contradiction in our lives. She said in an interview with the prize:

‘As a culture, we’re becoming quite bad at holding a contradiction in our heads. And yet we live in a time of profound and increasing cognitive dissonance.’

I think this perfectly captures the ambience of the novel where reality and perception blur.

The Rest of Our Lives by Ben Markovits

Tom Layward, a 55-year-old Law Professor makes a promise to himself: since his wife cheated on him when his kids were young, he decided that when their youngest went off to college, he would leave her.

And so he does. After he drops his daughter at school, he takes a road trip across the states and meets with people from his past. He is also battling an unknown illness that the doctors are not able to diagnose.

He is emotionally reserved, but candid in his reflections. His internal conflict is strong due to previous betrayals and his current declining health.

Many people couldn’t connect with this novel, and I wonder if it was due to not knowing how to confront the honesty with which the book was written. The author has since said that the character was largely based on his own life and mysterious illness. Having reread this book with that in mind, it deepened the sense of empathy I had felt on the initial reading and really made me consider how fragile our lives are, and by extension, our roles as husbands and fathers.

Flesh by David Szalay

Flesh is a novel that moves like a slow-motion car crash: you can’t look away, but you’re not sure you want to see what’s coming. It follows István, a Hungarian man whose life unfolds in a series of disconnected episodes, each one a snapshot of survival, passivity, and emotional detachment.

Each chapter jumps in time. We start with István at 15, where he falls into a clandestine relationship with a woman in her 40s. He then moves his way up through the military, into private security and finally into the upper echelons of London’s elite.

This is a novel of trauma and how the repression of these events impacts us and the decisions we make. The text is spare. The narrative is told from an arms distance, not often dipping into the feelings or inner thoughts of our protagonist. It’s almost as if he is too afraid to confront his own story, and so we as the readers are left to make assumptions about what happens.

It’s a haunting exploration of masculinity, trauma, and the quiet despair of a man who never learns how to be fully alive.

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In summary, the prize this year is eye-opening and as relevant as ever.

When it comes to predicting a winner, I’m hardly ever right. It would be wonderful to see Desai win. She won initially in 2006 with her novel The Inheritance of Loss. Her winning again puts her into a very small group of double-winners.

However, I can see a novel like Audition or Flesh taking the win. Something different and intriguing that challenges what we know about the confines of storytelling.

I am exceptionally grateful to not have to make that decision myself and leave it in the ever-capable hands of our esteemed panel of judges.

Stay tuned for next week’s Substack where we return to our Independent Writer’s Workshop series!

As the ink dries,

Riley x

Like most writers, Nadia was writing long before she got published, and it shows in the polished and highly moving nature of her prose.

My review for Not Another Samoosa Run! can be read here.

Nadia’s work carries both humour and heart, grounded in sharp observation and deep cultural texture. I wanted to understand how she builds that balance and how her stories come together on and off the page. Here’s what she had to say about her process, inspiration, and the journey behind her books.

Part One: The Writing Process

RHH: Your book, Not Another Samoosa Run!, blends humour, cultural commentary, and everyday life. How did you find the balance between telling a personal story and keeping it universally relatable?

NC: This is a difficult question because I don’t ever think too hard about what I’m writing. I just write and hope for the best. Sounds awful, I know, but it’s the best way I can describe it. With Not Another Samoosa Run! in its final form, I believe the rewriting and editing process, guided by mentorship and two very different reader’s reports, contributed to the balance needed to keep the story universally relatable. The very first draft was heavy in its focus on one particular theme (HIV) which weighed it down and, as one publisher candidly put it, did not make the book commercially viable. Writing this book was a lengthy process, and it took a lot of back-and-forth to get it “just right.”

Such an important insight to the writing process here. There is a certain ‘surrendering’ that needs to happen when you write, and I suppose that different writers need to give themselves over to the process in different ways. I’ve always admired writers who can just let go and let the story lead. Some of my projects were outlined to within an inch of their lives! Haha.

RHH: Food plays an important role in the book. What do you think food allows writers to explore that other entry points sometimes don’t?

NC: Food is a big part of life and, in the real world, it brings people together — think celebrations both big and small, conversations over the kitchen table with loved ones, chatting while prepping supper, or Sunday breakfasts after a hike. Writing about food breaks the ice, so to speak. It draws the reader in, gives them permission to become familiar and intimate with the characters, and makes those characters more human. After all, we all need to eat!

Hear, hear!

RHH: Were there any parts of the book that you found particularly difficult to write? Either emotionally or technically?

NC: Emotionally, no, simply because a lot of what I write about I’ve already healed within myself. Technically, I’d say the whole book was a challenge (ha ha!). But seriously, writing a book without any formal education in how to write one can be a massive wake-up call, not to mention an ego killer. I wrote and rewrote NASR! over five years, so that should say a lot.

I love that you mention having no formal education. Just another reminder to the reader that these things can be done without one. The learning curve is steep, but well worth it.

RHH: What does your writing routine look like?

NC: With two kids, I wish I had a routine. I try to write in the morning, in between emails (don’t tell my boss), outside the school gates in the afternoon, and in the car later in the day to avoid being harassed with homework questions. Basically, I write wherever and whenever I can.

It’s becoming evident to me that most writers in South Africa are not writing full time. What a luxury that would be! (God, if you’re listening, you know the dream!) Many of them are writing in between their day jobs, their kids, their families and making it work around their schedule. Gail Schimmel, author and podcast host, often says, ‘200 words are better than zero words’. Simple, yet effective advice. Grab the time you can, when you can.

RHH: Lastly for this section, do you write with an audience in mind, or do you write for yourself first?

NC: Can I say neither? I write intuitively, which for me means surrendering to whatever creative force needs to work through me. I don’t ask myself whether something I’m writing will mean anything to me or to a future reader. I simply trust the process and believe that what comes through will be of value if it is done in an authentic and truthful way. That’s also why I’m okay if what I write gets rejected. It will find its home somewhere, when the time is right.

Her reflections on intuition, surrender, and authenticity feel like a masterclass in trusting the work to find its own rhythm and, in many ways, its own reader. It’s the kind of creative wisdom that lingers long after the conversation ends.

Of course, no edition of The DIY MFA would be complete without a few bookish gems. So, before we wrap up, I asked Nadia to share some of the books that have inspired her, the stories she returns to, learns from, and recommends to fellow writers.

Part Two: Teach Us, Nadia!

Here’s what Nadia would teach if she was delivering a creative writing course, all of which together curate a brilliant and wide-ranging curriculum.

Novel:

NC: I am a lover of the classics when it comes to novels, and I often pick one or two to read or revisit every year. While some kids may not have enjoyed certain setworks in school, I adored Shakespeare, Fitzgerald, Dickens, and Twain. My personal favourite, if the world doesn’t know it by now, is Austen. I believe it is a good starting point for every student of literature to engage with the classics, not only to become familiar with how writers used their words to empower readers and speak the unspoken, but also to explore how language was used to create atmosphere and bring colour to characters.

Instead of a novel, I’d recommend a novella: The Woman in Black by Susan Hill. It’s a great example of how a more recent publication (first published in 1983) can embody traditional Gothic horror tropes. It is beautifully written, packs a punch, and has great atmosphere.

I’d not heard of The Woman in Black before and now am on the edge of my seat ready to read it!

Short Story:

NC: I have only in recent years learned to appreciate short stories, so I’d recommend two. The first is Saaleha Idrees Bamjee’s Out of the Blue, which won the 2014 Writivism Award for best short story. It tackles infertility and death in such a haunting yet beautiful way. The second story I’d recommend is David Mann’s highly commended This is Graffiti, featured in the Short.Sharp.Stories One Life Anthology. I absolutely love the way Mann explores identity through the eyes of a young man, using graffiti as a medium of connecting the dots.

These are two fantastic short stories, so different from one another, but such essential depictions of life and love and belonging. I highly recommend reading both of these, for pleasure and for craft.

Poem:

NC: Poetry has always been either a hit or miss for me, so I won’t say that there is a particular poem that stands out. What I can do, though, is recommend Khalil Gibran’s works, because they take me back to childhood and my first introduction to the genre. My mother loved his works, and I love my mother, so there must be some magic there.

If I’ve learned one this in this wild and eventful life, it’s that mama knows best. I’ll be taking your moms word on this one, Nadia, and getting stuck in to Gibran’s words.

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What I love most about conversations like this one is how they remind us that writing doesn’t have to be lofty or distant — it can be lived, felt, and fitted into the small corners of our everyday lives. Nadia’s words are a testament to that. Her journey from short stories to a breakout debut, from car park writing sessions to national recognition, is proof that there’s no single path to becoming a writer, only the one you carve for yourself, one word at a time.

Here’s to trusting the process, to surrendering when we need to, and to finding joy in the work itself.

Follow Nadia on Instagram for more!

Thank you again, Nadia, for your time, for your words and for your friendship.

As the ink dries,

Riley x

As part of the DIY MFA series, I had the chance to chat with him to talk about the craft of writing. We discuss what he believes makes a short story sing, what sustains a novel, and how poetry can cut straight to the bone.

You’re in for a treat. David is a born teacher, and his answers will inspire you as much as they educate you. I have broken this stack into two parts: a Q&A with David, followed by his suggestions. Grab the snacks and here we go!

Part One: David, in Conversation

Having read his latest novel, I was intrigued to hear more about how David approaches his craft. His words are in the block quotes below:

RHH: Narrative voice is such a crucial decision. How do you choose the voice through which to tell a story, and how do you think first-person versus third-person narration shapes a novel differently?

For me, voice is the most essential element in narrative because it’s the vessel for everything else. It’s the story’s consciousness, its worldview. It determines what is noticed and what is ignored, what is celebrated and what is criticised as the plot takes shape.

Point of view has a huge influence on voice, so deciding between first- and third-person narration is definitely one of the fundamental decisions you have to make when you start a new project. It depends on the kind of story you are wanting to tell and what kind of effect you want to create for the reader.

You’d probably choose a first-person narrator if the story is rooted in the subjective experience of one main character. It’s a classic choice for coming-of-age stories, because we co-experience the character’s transformation, and it’s also the perfect vehicle for an unreliable narrator, where the reader gradually realises the person telling the story can’t be trusted. Choosing the more ‘authorial’ third-person point of view, on the other hand, provides other opportunities. I tend to find it easier to write action scenes when I’m ‘looking over a character’s shoulder.’ Another strength is the potential for polyphony: the ability to weave together multiple voices and distinct points of view.

Sometimes this decision comes intuitively, but sometimes it can be difficult to tell what the ‘right’ perspective is going to be – so I’ll write just one scene that I know I want to put in the story I’m working on, and then rewrite it from a different point of view. Usually this will help me settle on an approach because it gives me something to react to as a reader, and I can start to get a better understanding of which set of tools are best suited to the job at hand.

Some really sage advice here. Advice I will be taking on immediately.

I’m always curious as to how writers get the job done, and when, considering the intense schedules we keep.

RHH: Some writers prefer early mornings and coffee, some late nights and whisky. What’s the David Cornwell writing routine?

I wish I had more time to give to writing every day, but at the moment I wake up very early and squeeze in a couple of hours before I start my day job. So I make slow progress in the dark - like the “labour of moles” from that Ivan Vladislavic book. Coffee is always involved.

Labour of moles! That’s the first time I’ve heard that one, and now I’ll never be able to see it any other way.

Another thing that I am deeply interested in is where a writer draws their inspiration from. David’s latest reminds me of the spare yet impactful writing found in books like Flesh by David Szalay. (What’s in a name?)

RHH: Who are your literary greats—the writers you turn to for guidance or inspiration?

Denis Johnson is unquestionably my favourite writer. He belongs in his own category. But, behind him, I tend to do as much re-reading as new reading, so there are a whole bunch of writers I revisit all the time – honestly, too many to reel off and not feel regretful about forgetting others. (At the moment, in the pile next to the bed, I’ve got a collection of Eudora Welty short stories, poetry by Edgar Allan Poe, Dominique Botha’s brilliant debut novel False River, and Caryn Dolley’s non-fiction book about André Lincoln, Man Alone.)

These are some fascinating choices and definitely reflect in the way David writes. I was out to dinner with friends recently and the topic of whether or not writing is teachable came up. I had to ask a professional for their opinion, and I’m glad I did!

RHH: You have both studied and taught creative writing. Is there a part of writing that you think is, perhaps, not teachable?

Once the words are on the page, there are all kinds of skills a writer can learn and improve. Musicians absorb theory, painters study composition, and dancers practice technique for years. Why wouldn’t writing share this quality with other arts?

But, on the other hand, yes - there is also a dispositional quality to writing (and all art-making) that is less teachable. This has more to do with the writer’s unique way of seeing the world - what they notice, what moves them, and where their inspiration comes from. It’s the thing that makes people want to write in the first place, the impulse that Albert Camus described as “this slow trek to rediscover, through the detours of art, those two or three great and simple images in whose presence [their] heart first opened.”

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After unpacking his own writing process and philosophy, David turned his attention to the works that have shaped him as both reader and writer. True to his generous spirit, he offered a set of recommendations in the form of a short story, a poem, and a novel. Together, they reflect not only his literary taste but also his deep belief in the power of voice, history, and revelation in storytelling.

Part Two: From His Shelf to Yours

Short Fiction

David begins with the form he loves most: the short story. For him, the very best examples do more than tell a tale on the page; they sound like someone speaking directly into your ear. His top picks, Denis Johnson’s “Car Crash While Hitchhiking” and Tim Winton’s “Big World,” capture that raw, spoken quality while guiding readers toward moments of quiet but powerful revelation.

I love short stories more than any other form of literature. And my favourite kind of short story is exemplified by two of my all-time favourites, “Car Crash While Hitchhiking” by Denis Johnson (from the collection Jesus’ Son) and “Big World” by Tim Winton (from The Turning).

As a pairing, they are incredible examples of what theorists sometimes call skaz narratives – a literary style where the story feels like it’s being told aloud by the character, complete with their unique rhythms of speech. In other words, a style where the power of the language is in its ‘spoken’ rather than ‘written’ qualities.

But the other thing that links these two stories is how the voice leads the narrator - and us - to a moment of personal insight over the course of the story. I just love stories like this, where the action is centred around quietly revelatory moments (what you might call ‘low-key epiphanies’).

In “Car Crash While Hitchhiking,” Johnson throws us directly into the hazy, drug-addled consciousness of his unnamed narrator. The voice is the story: it’s fragmented, unreliable, and yet possessed of a strange, desperate poetry. You’re not just reading about a series of events; you’re experiencing them through the narrator’s disjointed perceptions. After he witnesses a horrific accident, the fog momentarily lifts, and while he’s staring at the victim of the car crash he’s struck by a moment of terrifying clarity about fate and his place in the universe: “I looked down into the great pity of a person’s life on this earth. I don’t mean that we all end up dead, that’s not the great pity. I mean that he couldn’t tell me what he was dreaming, and I couldn’t tell him what was real.”

Tim Winton’s “Big World” is about a working-class Australian teenager chafing at the confines of his small town, his dead-end job, and his seemingly foreclosed future. He’s telling the story of an impromptu road trip he takes with his friend, Biggie, which ends with their old van breaking down in the desert. Staring out at the vast, open landscape, the narrator has a sudden realisation of what freedom, friendship, and the terrifying uncertainty of the future truly mean. It’s a perfect, shimmering moment where his voice is imbued with the weight of feeling on the cusp of the rest of your life: “In the hot northern dusk, the world suddenly gets big around us, so big we just give in and watch.”

Poetry

When it comes to poetry, David looks to work that balances emotional depth with precision of craft. His choice, Gabeba Baderoon’s “How Not to Stop,” is a moving meditation on memory, loss, and silence, written with an economy of language that lingers long after reading.

Read the poem here.

I’ll go for a local poem recommendation: “How Not to Stop” by Gabeba Baderoon. I find her poetry incredibly moving and skilfully constructed, and this poem in particular was very useful to me during my research for Hell of a Country.

It’s a short poem meditating on the speaker’s father, a man who – we are told – was forcibly removed from his home in 1968 during the destruction of District Six. The father figure is presented to us in a series of succinct images, all of which have an ambivalent quality of great presence and haunting absence: “Pa sat at the head of the table, /not talking at supper”; “Pa stood in the driveway /with his back to us.” Notice how the diction of the poem is almost entirely monosyllabic, its language reflecting the clipped and withdrawn nature of its central subject.

The aloofness of the father figure is eventually explained when the speaker reveals how her Pa, when going to buy his groceries from the same neighbourhood in which he used to live, “rehearsed how not to stop” whenever he drove past his old house, practicing “how not to get out/and walk to the front door he had made.”

This image of the father being driven by a negative force – of forever being caught in that central tragedy of his dispossession, of life moving on around him while he remains stuck – is a powerful evocation of the lasting trauma caused by the forced removals and how it can be passed down to the next generation. The poem speaks eloquently of how the effects of such grief can be felt in the life that doesn’t happen, in the things that are never said.

The Novel

For his novel choice, David highlights a South African classic that captures the social and political pressures of its time with unflinching clarity. Alex La Guma’s A Walk in the Night is a novella of sharp detail and tragic inevitability, a story where setting and circumstance bear down on its characters until recognition comes too late.

For my novel recommendation, I want to talk about another South African text, Alex La Guma’s A Walk in the Night. This story is set in District Six in the early-1960s, and it depicts the downfall of Michael Adonis, who is unfairly fired from his job and – in his rage – is quickly swept up into a life of crime and gangsterism. (Quick disclaimer: A Walk in the Night is technically a novella, you can read it in a single sitting. But I think despite its brevity it’s able to achieve a couple of things that many of my favourite novels do.)

The book is ambitious, with its title (a reference to Shakespeare’s Hamlet) firmly placing it in the tragic tradition. It attempts to provide insight into the human condition by presenting the inevitable downfall of its protagonist, Michael Adonis, including a powerful moment of what the Greeks called anagnorisis - that devastating point of recognition when a character finally sees the true nature of their situation. Michael comes to understand that he is trapped by forces far larger than himself. He doesn’t simply make a bad choice; he is the inevitable product of a world designed to destroy him.

The power of the book also emerges from its use of language, which effortlessly explores a grand theme: it takes a huge, abstract idea and gives it flesh and blood. The descriptions of the physical world of the novella are so vivid that they almost entirely suffocate the characters’ interior lives. La Guma was a committed Marxist, and I think it’s fair to say that this text is an enactment of the idea that “it is not the consciousness of men that determines their existence, but, on the contrary, their social existence that determines their consciousness.” The oppressive atmosphere of Apartheid-era District Six isn’t just a backdrop; it’s an active force that presses in on every character, shaping their thoughts, fuelling their desperation, and ultimately sealing their fates.

A Final Thought

After sharing his reading recommendations, I turned the conversation back to Hell of a Country itself. The novel has often been described as a “creative reimagining,” a phrase that intrigued me because it sits somewhere between history and invention. I asked David what that label means to him.

RHH: Finally, because I have to ask: what, to you, is a creative reimagining?

When adapting a true story into a work of fiction, like I did with Hell of a Country, you basically have a few conventional phrases to choose from, each signalling a different relationship to the factual events. Terms like “based on a true story,” “inspired by true events,” “fictionalised retelling,” or “creative reimagining” all set different expectations for the reader.

Initially, I considered calling Hell of a Country a “fictionalised retelling,” but I felt that phrase didn’t quite capture what the project was trying to achieve. A “retelling” suggests the main goal is to narrate the known sequence of events, filling in gaps with imagined dialogue while staying faithful to the established facts of the case. But I wanted to do something a bit different. I wanted to use the framework of that shocking crime not just to tell a story about the individuals involved, but to explore the social pressures that shaped their actions. The novel tries to reimagine the Scissors Murder as a lens to examine the sickness of the society that produced such a tragedy.

I want to end by offering my heartfelt thanks to David Cornwell for taking the time to share his insights with such generosity and clarity. It’s not every day that a writer opens up both their craft and their bookshelf in this way, and I’m deeply grateful for the wisdom he’s offered here.

David is, quite simply, an extraordinary talent. His ability to balance narrative drive with psychological depth makes Hell of a Country one of the most compelling and important novels I’ve read in recent years. If you haven’t already, do yourself a favour and pick up a copy. You’ll be moved, challenged, and reminded of what powerful storytelling can do.

Stay subscribed for more conversations like these over the coming weeks!

As the ink dries,

Riley x

His second novel, The Child, was an absolute masterpiece. Alistair weaves through themes of belonging, identity and mental health. He talks about his character’s desire to fix things that, in turn, break further. It is one of the most honest and moving studies of the human psyche I have ever read and I cannot recommend it emphatically enough.

Most recently, Alistair released a collection of short stories called The Lucky Ones, which I reviewed on Book Choice for Fine Music Radio, hosted by the wonderful Paige Nick. Not to be the guy who quotes himself, but here’s a quote from that review:

Once in a while, a book comes along that feels as if it perfectly captures the human condition. It lays itself bare for the reader and says, ‘Here, look at yourself. See what you are made of.’

Alistair’s writing hooks you. It sinks its teeth into you and doesn’t let go. It is unflinching in its message and asks you to be okay with sitting with discomfort. It is real and raw and utterly magnificent.

That said, when this project came to me, I knew that I absolutely had to ask him to be involved. To our luck, he said yes.

Alistair wanted to provide us with some context for his choices. His words are in the block quotes below.

Structures and Blueprints

Alistair Mackay: I love the idea of a DIY MFA. I adored my MFA and did get a huge amount from it, but I know that it is a privilege to get to do one, and there is no reason why people can’t train themselves :) I would say the benefit, for me, was equal parts:

1. The readings we were assigned (and the exposure to new and varied writers that came with those readings, their techniques and approaches that we discussed in seminar) and,

2. The workshop, where we produced a story or chapter every 2-3 weeks. Producing work and giving and receiving critiques on creative works-in-progress is also hugely valuable.

Anyway, enough about that. On to what I would teach…

Choosing just one piece is so difficult. We had to read so much over the course of our MFA. I always tell people it was 100 books a year, and even though that figure now almost seems like it can’t be real, I think it was! Plus short stories and essays and each other’s work.

So instead of agonising over this decision for days, I’m going to choose from readings I got assigned in the MFA that have really stuck with me and influenced me. They came immediately to mind, and so I think that tells me all I need to know :)

A Snap-Shot of Fiction

His short story was up first. I had never read his recommendation before, and having read it since, I keep going back to it. It is the perfect short story. It captures a moment in time perfectly, and Alistair explains why he chose it so well:

Short story - Bullet in the brain, by Tobias Wolff (New Yorker, September 1995). It’s only two pages long, and takes place over the course of about 5 minutes, when someone standing in a bank queue is shot in the head by robbers. It’s a master class in making the reader feel deeply in a short space of time. There is so much emotion in it (from irritation with the protagonist in the beginning, to fear, to nostalgia and deep sadness.) Wolff does such interesting things with character and perspective and time - playing with our sympathies as readers, and proving the axiom that we access the universal through the specific.

The story is accessible here. Read it once, then come back and read Alistair’s comments, then go back and read it again. I promise that you will gain so much from it.

A Novel Impact

For his novel, Alistair recommended a speculative fiction classic. Something that, after reading his work, you can see the influence it has had on him.

Novel - The Invention of Morel by Adolfo Bioy Casares. A speculative fiction classic (published in 1940) that I had never heard of. I love eerie and thought provoking spec fiction (I would love to prescribe Margaret Atwood too, but we’re only allowed one and people already know Atwood). This story is about a man who attempts to escape society by fleeing to a remote island, believed to be deserted and cursed, then he starts seeing apparitions. He falls in love with one of them. The idea behind this story is so clever, and so relevant - maybe even more so today, when our ‘inventions’ have taken on so much more power - and the way he writes makes the reader question their own sanity, and the meaning of death, all while being haunting and beautifully written. So many craft and plotting lessons to take from this. (We read it alongside The Island of Doctor Moreau, which it's in conversation with, but it stands strong even on its own.)

I have ordered my copy and I cannot wait to dig in when it arrives. I adore speculative fiction, and think we should read more of it. Tangent here — but I know that a lot of people hear the big ‘S’ word (speculative - get your mind out of the gutter) and immediately jump to the defense of, ‘I don’t read that kind of thing’ or ‘I’m not a fantasy person’. I remind them then of all of the things speculative fiction encompasses, and we soon come to realise that, yes, actually, they did enjoy The Handmaids Tale or, they didn’t realise that Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go is actually speculative.

It is a broad and all encompassing genre with some of the most human and empathetic writing around.

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To Poem, or Not to Poem — that is the question

Initially, Alistair was hesitant to recommend a poem. He said:

I must confess, poetry was a separate stream in my MFA (There were three - fiction, non-fiction, and poetry) so I haven’t ever taken any poetry classes and I don’t read enough poetry myself to know what I’m talking about!

Which was fair enough, but then, through the beauty and magic of this community, Alistair read our previous post with Sven Axelrad and joyously emailed me back saying:

Okay, you know what? I am going to suggest a poem :) I loved what you and Sven said about poetry in the first instalment of the DIY MFA - that we don’t need to understand it to be moved. I may not understand how poetry works very well, but I love to be moved. And so, a poem that makes my skin tingle (I first heard it narrated by Helena Bonham Carter on Instagram, which is maybe not a very literary way to discover poetry, but poetry is meant to be read aloud!):

Small Kindnesses, by Danusha Laméris

Please watch Helena Bonham Carter recite this poem, it is such a beautiful recitation:

Alistair’s recommendations have so much to teach us, his own books too, about being human. Being alive and living and the difference between the two. If there is any takeaway from this post, let it be this:

Step outside of your comfort zone. Experiment with genre, voice and direction and do not be afraid to stray from the status quo. The best things are found at the edges of life (or the edges of the cake pan, same thing really).

Thank you, Alistair, for your words, your recommendations, and for the value you bring to our lives.

As the ink dries,

Riley x

I first read Sven a couple years ago with his debut novel, Buried Treasure, where he took us on a journey into the fictional town of Vivo and touched our souls with the meaning of something as simple as a name. Then, there was God’s Pocket, the beauty of which cannot be understated. I think about a lot of books in a day, but God’s Pocket is always there, simmering in the background. It’s a thing of wonder. The way Sven writes friendship is unchallenged, raw and emotional. There’s nothing I wouldn’t give to read that book again for the first time. Lastly, earlier this year, Sven released his third, and most personal, novel, The Nicotine Gospel. Part religion, part zodiac, the gospel claims to tell everything that you need to know about a person can be deciphered from the brand of cigarettes they smoke. More than that, it explores the bonds of siblings, parenthood and the things we do to try to survive in this crazy place.

All of this to say, of course, that when Sven agreed to answer some questions for our DIY MFA syllabus, I was astounded again at his generosity and kindness.

From each author, I requested a novel, a short story and a poem that they would teach if they were lecturing a creative writing degree. The only requirement being that the book moved them and shaped their own writing.

Sven’s words are in the block quotes. Let’s dive straight in.

Sven wanted to provide us with some context for his choices upfront. He said:

About the Selection Process / Caveat

The world is full of good books to choose from and even bad books can be fun to read/recommend, but this is different. This is about recommending literature I believe has value in terms of a bootleg writing education. Of course, all books have value, especially the bad ones, as long as they are read while awake and with a critical / wondrous / open mind. Here I am, lying awake at night thinking about all the remarkable books I’ve read and where I was when I read them. Things are going great, I have a list, but then the doubts creep in… Is it okay to recommend All the Pretty Horses? Wasn’t there some scandal? Does this matter? I learned so much from All the Pretty Horses. I learned I couldn’t write like McCarthy (a wonderful lesson on limitations). All the Pretty Horses is the opposite of my writing style, allowing no access to the characters inner thoughts. It’s really really good, but I won’t choose it. Riley has asked for one novel, one short story and one poem. Here’ we go:

I loved this introduction, if for nothing more than it being the perfect introduction to the mind of Sven Axelrad. Let’s hop right (or ‘write’?) in.

For Sven’s novel, he recommended Chilean Poet:

Novel / (Good Books are like Good People, Not All Good)

I bought a copy of Alejandro Zambra’s Chilean Poet from La Social on a trip through Barcelona, reading it while drinking alone in bars and eating sandwiches on park benches. My first lesson, if you give any kind of shit about what I think about literature, is to get a little swept up in it. For me, the sweep is something you must learn, and you must be swept to learn how to sweep. I think it was Pablo Neruda who said, kick over any rock in Chile and five poets will scamper out. Zambra kicks over a rock and we get to watch what happens. Nicanor Parra, the anti-poet, even makes a cameo, which was delightful to me. Enjoy the hell out of this book but also pay attention to what the poets say, they are full of opinions and full of shit too, but this doesn’t mean they don’t know things. Make notes about who they are reading and look them up. Be curious. Get swept.

Now, I have my copy on backorder and can’t wait to dive into the text. I’ll make notes and feedback. And I promise to get swept.

Sven found a loophole on the short story ask and recommended a novella instead. Cheeky! But, worth it:

Short Story / Novella / Brace Yourself

I’ve cheated and chosen a novella, Grief is the Thing With Feathers by Max Porter. Sorry. This strange, short little book was performed on the stage with Cillian Murphy acting as a crow. If that doesn’t sell it to you, then it also has a cool cover and fits into the back pocket of your jeans. I didn’t exactly know what was going on all the time (Crow’s dialogue is WILD), but I went with it. This is form-pushing stuff and while form pushing isn’t necessarily my thing, it is wildly interesting to see what is possible. Lots of heart. Lots of weird. Also, like my last novel (The Nicotine Gospel) this one is about two boys dealing with the loss of their mother with a weird twist (instead of a cigarette religion we have a giant metaphysical crow). I think I’ve said enough.

This is one I’ve read and wholeheartedly agree with the recommendation. It is full of love and grief and how we recover from them. Max Porter was chair of judges for the International Booker this year and even listening to him speak at the ceremony and in the interviews, you can see the intensity with which he believes what he says. Such conviction is rare. So read this book for sincerity, tenet and true beauty.

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Sven’s poem recommendation made me cry when I read it, so now you have to cry too:

Poem / The Shaking of Bones

Bob Dylan said that a poet is anyone who doesn’t call themselves a poet. I’m not sure I understand poetry and I think that Bob would be fine with that. Even so, I’ve read a fair amount of it over the last three years. I love Bukowski (sometimes) and Parra (most of the time) but Frederico Garcia Lorca moves me. Sometimes I don’t understand much but then a line appears and shakes my bones. Music is much the same for me, the out-of-context lyric has the power to change my day/life/mood. For my poem, I have chosen Ghazal of Dark Death because I too wish to sleep the sleep of apples, whatever that means.

I agree with the understanding of poetry being such a subjective thing. I only understand what I understand of it, and your and my understanding will, by the very nature of poetry, be vastly different. But isn’t that the beauty of the thing? That art can be created and shared and dissected and ruminated on, only for us to reach different conclusions. How lucky are we to be able to share in something so elusive and untouchable?

I think Sven’s recommendations have a lot to teach us. They are form-pushing and unique but speak about things we are all familiar with. They break boundaries but mend hearts and that, in and of itself, is surely enough.

I’ll report back once I’ve read Chilean Poet, but for now, I’ll leave you with these recommendations in hope that you read something from them and learn from it.

Sven, my heartfelt thanks and greatest appreciation. You are a living legend, and your stories are the stuff of dreams.

If you enjoyed Sven’s section headings in this Substack, his books are filled with the clever little buggers!

Follow Sven on Instagram for more.

As the ink dries,

Riley x

The thing about the Open Book Festival is that you will always feel at home. Diversity and belonging are core pillars in the planning of the festival, and it is evident in the sheer range of sessions and panelists they bring.

Another thing this festival will do is challenge you. The way you think, the way you perceive the world and the things you are doing to amplify the causes that matter. The conversations I had this weekend were deep, personal and highly connected. We spoke about accountability in publishing, the diversity of what we read, how we choose what we read, but also the joy of reading, why we love what we do and how we can bring that joy and love to other people.

Preparing for my panel was both exhilarating and terrifying. I read and re-read my panelists’ books, scribbled down far too many questions, and kept practicing how I’d introduce myself without sounding like I was making it all about me (I’m a perpetual people-pleaser and talking about myself makes me so uncomfortable). But the moment we sat down, the nerves faded. The conversation flowed so naturally. Ntombi, Paige, and Bonnie were generous, funny, and insightful, and I found myself forgetting the “performance” aspect and just sinking into the joy of talking about books with people who love them.

Chairing a panel at this festival was a dream come true for me. It becomes so easy to feel like an impostor in any industry. We think that the people around us are smarter than us, better read than us, better connected than we are. However, this weekend, that feeling went away (even if only for a little while) because Open Book is for everyone and you are never made to feel like an outsider. Ever. I am so deeply grateful for the opportunity.

The Open Book Festival reminded me that the literary world doesn’t exist in ivory towers or hidden away in university halls. It thrives in community. In laughter-filled panels, in readers eagerly asking questions, in the wide-eyed debut authors (and first time panelists) who can’t believe they’re sharing a stage with their heroes. I left the weekend feeling both humbled and lifted, reminded that storytelling is, at its heart, a collective act of connection.

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A personal highlight was meeting a literary icon and role model, Antjie Krog. I disturbed her for a photo and while I was adorning her with compliments and thanking her for her work, and all she said was, ‘Your partner is wearing a nice jersey',’ and honestly? Werk. (That cardigan has now been christened the Antjie baadjie).

Before I go!

Bonnie Espie has very kindly donated a copy of her book Making a Killing to be given away to one of you lovely readers! Be sure to check out my Instagram tomorrow afternoon for more details on how you can win.

Here are a couple of photos before I go…

For the gallery:

As the ink dries,

Riley x

P.S. The first Independent Writer’s Workshop post is coming on Monday next week (and it is a banger!).

Over the next few weeks, I’m taking on a personal experiment: the Independent Writer’s Workshop, a homemade MFA of sorts. I’ll be reading, thinking, and writing my way through recommendations from some amazing authors and sharing what I discover along the way. It’s my way of proving to myself that dedication and curiosity can take you just as far as a graduate degree.

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The authors whose recommendations I’ll be exploring are:

• Nadia Cassim (Not Another Samoosa Run!)

• David Cornwell (Hell of a Country)

• Sven Axelrad (The Nicotine Gospel)

• Alistair Mackay (The Lucky Ones)

• Paige Nick (Book People)

• Bonnie Espie (Making a Killing)

• David Mann (Once Removed)

• Karen Jennings (Women’s Prize longlisted, Crooked Seeds)

• and many more as the project continues!

Through close reading, practice, and a bit of stubborn perseverance, I hope to show, and remind myself, that anyone who sets their heart to it can be a writer.

If you’re curious about what these writers recommend (everything from Chekov to Coetzee) or want to see how a do-it-yourself MFA plays out in real time, stick around. I’ll be sharing my findings, my experiments, and probably a few confessions about what works and what doesn’t.

The first instalment will be with you in the week following the Open Book Festival!

Speaking of which…

Have you booked your tickets yet?

I am hosting a panel on Unlikely Friendships alongside Paige Nick, Bonnie Espie and Ntombi Nkabinde this Friday (05 September 2025) at the Open Book Festival.

Tickets are limited but there are still a few left. I hope that I’ll see you there?

Book now to avoid disappointment. Bonnie has also agreed to gift one of you, dear subscribers, a copy of her novel Making a Killing, so be sure to keep an eye out here and on my Instagram for how to win.

As the ink dries,

Riley x

At the helm is Marius du Plessis, CEO and publisher, whose vision is as much about passion as it is about disruption. We spoke about the heart behind Mirari, what makes a “Mirari book,” and what’s next for this unapologetically daring press.

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RHH: Let’s start with the heart: why did you start Mirari Press? What do you hope to offer the literary world that wasn’t there before?

MDP: At the risk of sounding trite, I started Mirari Press because as a reader I wasn’t seeing local publishers putting out the books I want to buy. South Africa has a robust speculative fiction (which includes sci-fi and fantasy) reader and writer ecosystem, which has historically not gotten a lot of love from local publishers.

I started Mirari to give a platform to spec-fic authors from particularly the Global South who wish to pursue the traditional publishing model. And because I love the genres! I figured it’s not too bad an idea to build a company where my job is to read and publish really cool books that I love.

It’s refreshing to see people still actively advocating for underrepresented voices, and if you know Marius, or follow Mirari on any social media platform, you’d be able to see, clear as day, his and their commitment to that. I wanted to know what would qualify a book to be published by Mirari.

RHH: What’s the vision behind the kind of books you publish? What makes a “Mirari book”?

MDP: In the most general terms, Mirari books (at least, under the Mirari Press imprint) will always be speculative fiction. This varies from literary fiction with dustings of weirdness, like our upcoming release Out of the Dead Lands by Conrad Kemp, to good ol’ epic fantasy with swords and magic like Rhett Sinnema’s Swordlords and Sorcerers of Semble, coming out next year.

I’m particularly interested in experimental writing, boundary-pushing, risky books. Our first book was The Tilted Pentagram, which literally had a burning pentagram on the cover. Do with that what you may. And then of course we’re vocal and visible about queer authors and queer stories.

I bristle at the notion of a monotonous book industry where people are afraid to challenge the status quo. I’m hoping to attract authors and readers who resonate with me when I say ‘fuck that’.

Hear, hear! With Mirari, I think I have seen one of the most diverse and supportive readerships I have ever come across. With the Mirari Luminary program and its deep connection to its readers, it is no wonder why Mirari Press has become the social media it-girl she is! Check out their Instagram for the shenanigans and diva-ish behaviour I’m speaking of!

Aside from the good books and community, I was curious about what starting a small press in South Africa was like.

RHH: What’s something unexpected or unusual about running a small press in South Africa today?

MDP: I did not expect the level of social media support and engagement we’ve been getting. Our first book came out about a year ago only, and in a very short span of time we’ve managed to create a space where readers can laugh, be irreverent, and get together and just have fun.

I’m also so delighted by the industry at large’s response: other publishers, bookstores, authors – the support I get is amazing.

RHH: What’s on the horizon for Mirari? Any upcoming releases, dreams, or experiments you’re excited about?

MDP: Ooh! Many exciting things. In September we’re launching Conrad Kemp’s Out of the Dead Lands. Conrad is a well-known actor: he’s been on the West End, Broadway, in films across Forest Whitaker, Orlando Bloom, Viola Davis and more. So it’s so great that Mirari get to publish his debut novel – it’s deeply moving, deeply personal, and deeply beautiful. I think readers who prefer more literary pieces will like this one – it sits more on the Booker Prize side of things as opposed to the Locus.

Then in October we’re bringing a dark fantasy duology from Canadian author Laura R. Samotin to South Africa. These two books (The Sins on their Bones and The Lure of their Graves) are gothic, sexy (with lots of spice), wonderfully queer, and they pack a massive punch. These ones are for readers who like romance with their dark magic. I’m so proud that Laura decided to go with Mirari in SA for these books; they’re two of my best reads of the decade so far.

Obsessed and OBSESSED! I cannot wait to read these books.

Dear reader, if you are interested in Mirari books, stay tuned! I’ll be announcing a special giveaway on my Instagram tomorrow! Be sure to check it out. You get extra entries if you’re subscribed to the Substack. So do that now, you legend:

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I had one more question for Marius, before we let him go.

RHH: And finally, what’s a literary hill you’re willing to die on?

Easy! Genre fiction is not lesser to “normal” fiction. People who “don’t read fantasy or sci-fi” are missing out on some of the best writing humanity has produced.

And that’s that on that!

As our conversation winds down, it’s clear that Mirari Press is more than just a new name in publishing—it’s a vision for a more daring, more inclusive literary landscape. Marius du Plessis’s belief in giving writers the freedom to experiment, and readers the chance to discover stories that truly surprise them, reminds us why small presses matter. In a world where so much feels homogenised, Mirari is setting out to publish the kind of work that unsettles, delights, and lingers long after the final page.

I am so grateful to Marius and Mirari for their time and for agreeing to chat to me. For this kind of content, and so much more, be sure to subscribe and stick around.

As the ink dries,

Riley x

I’m a scribbler and a margin writer. I underline passages that resonate, dog-ear pages I want to return to, and keep a notebook nearby for the lines and themes I can’t let slip away.

Of course I notice theme, style, and language, but what holds me most is how a book makes me feel—what pulls me back, what makes me reluctant to put it down. Lately, I’ve been thinking about how Terry Gross reads in preparation for her interviews, and how her way of approaching a text has shifted the way I think about my own reading.

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Terry Gross: The Interviewer we all long to be

For almost 40 years, Terry Gross has been at the helm of one of NPR’s most famous shows — Fresh Air. Terry interviews heavyweights (think Bowie, Ray Charles, Stephen King, etc.) and does it with phenomenal gravitas.

The other day, while scrolling TikTok, I came across a video posted by her parent station in which she chats about the way she reads for an interview. In the video she explains that when she reads, she renders the book almost unreadable to anyone else. She dog ears things she wants to remember, then if she dog ears a page at the bottom, she wants to use it for the introduction of her interview. She circles, underlines, really pays attention to the text. I think it’s a great watch. It’s only a couple of minutes. It will really inspire you to spend more time appreciating the text you’re reading.

Smaak ‘n Samoosa?

I’m currently reading Not Another Samoosa Run! by the incomparable Nadia Cassim and couldn’t help myself. I had to take a photo of the book with a samoosa. How could I not!

I’m drawn to Nadia’s Austen-esque sentences—elegant yet precise—and the themes she tackles feel vital to our current moment, all while she sustains both humour and momentum throughout the story.

Nadia’s very kindly agreed to let me interview her for the Substack in the near future so keep an eye out for that. You won’t want to miss it:

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Open Book Festival 2025

It’s that time of the year again! OBF is back and bigger than ever. Most excitingly, I’ll be hosting a panel this year, interviewing 3 brilliant authors — Paige Nick, Bonnie Espie and Ntombi Nkabinde.

I’ll be chatting to them about their books and the Unlikely Friendships they’ve written into them. Book your tickets (only R50!) below for this and many other exciting panels:

TICKETS | OBF 2025

How do you read?

What are you looking for when you read? Are you looking for a theme that meets you where you are? Do you stick to your preferred authors and genres? Or are you like me and are someone who will read anything that feels good in the moment?

Let me know in the comments!

At the heart of it all, we all do it for the love of literature. Terry Gross taught me that the way we read shapes the conversations we’re able to have, and I carry that with me whether I’m reviewing, recommending, or sitting down with authors at a festival. Reading isn’t just about what’s on the page—it’s about the exchange it sparks: between writer and reader, between book and world, and between each of us who loves to ask not only what are you reading, but how it makes you feel.

As the ink dries,

Riley x

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On Writing: Alistair Mackay

Very excitingly, we have some advice from local ‘literary it boy’ (I still love this title and am jealous I didn’t think of it first. I am sworn to secrecy to never share who dubbed him that. Haha!), Alistair Mackay. Alistair is the author of It Doesn't Have to Be This Way, The Child, and, most recently, his highly affecting collection of short stories, called The Lucky Ones.

I asked Alistair for some of his favourite writing advice. Here’s what he had to say:

RHH: What’s the best piece of writing advice you’ve ever received — the one that’s stuck with you through rejection, doubt, and the blank page?

AM: I’ve got two for you, that I’ve found very useful. The first is that you should “write faster than your demons can catch you”. This might only be relevant to a certain kind of writer, but it’s something I come back to whenever I’m feeling stuck. My tendency is to try to perfect every sentence as I go, and this reminds me that even if the sentence or paragraph or even page isn’t working — keep going. I can come back to it and fix it in the edits. Don’t lose momentum.

The second is more technical, but I think useful. It’s that if you’re using an adverb it means you haven’t found the right verb yet. One of my writing professors was fanatical about this. We were only allowed one -ly in any piece we submitted, and so that advice still flashes in my mind as I’m writing. It stops writing from becoming too flowery.

Alistair’s given us some brilliant advice here. I think we can all learn a thing or two about getting the words onto the page first before we start editing. I asked him, also, what his own advice to new writers would be:

RHH: And if you could offer one piece of advice to someone just beginning their writing journey, what would it be?

AM: My advice would be to experiment. Try out different styles and moods. First person, second person, third person. Write from the perspective of someone totally different from yourself. People always talk about finding your authentic voice, and that is so important but it shouldn’t inhibit playfulness and freedom - the sense that anything is possible. And especially when you’re starting out, trying out different approaches will help you find what works for you.

Thank you, Alistair, for your brilliant advice and even better books. If you want to keep up with what’s happening in Alistair’s world, follow him on Instagram.

Open, Heaven by Sean Hewitt

This book is hands down my favourite book of the year so far. I feel about this book the way I felt about Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar last year. I read this book slowly, like I didn’t want it to end. Hewitt writes with a startling stillness, a sacred quiet. I found myself holding my breath while I was reading certain passages.

It is a beautiful and painful exploration of first love. Set over the course of one year and told in four seasons in the idyll of the north English countryside, we meet James. At sixteen years old, he has already come out to his parents and his friends, and he has decided that he knows who he is. That is, of course, until he meets Luke who is visiting for a year and working on one of the local farms. Luke’s mother had abandoned him, and his father was in prison. When these two worlds collide, what follows is a cacophony of colour and light, kaleidoscopic in its nature and sprawling in its scope.

If I were to try and convince you to read this book based off of a single quotation from it, it would be this one:

I post more book reviews as I read on my Instagram and TikTok. Follow along!

Writer’s Corner

I had the unique privilege of attending a workshop led by the incomparable Jen Thorpe. It really got the creative juices flowing and I’ve written more in the days after that workshop than I had in the months leading up to it.

It left me thinking that sometimes, all we need is a little nudge in the right direction. A prompt to get us started. So, if you’re a writer, I challenge you to pick up your pen and use this prompt to get the creative juices flowing:

Think of a character, this could either be from a piece you’re working on now, or a new character, or even yourself if you’re writing memoir. Now, think of their motivation, what get’s them out of bed in the morning. Using that information, write for however long you are comfortable, starting with the sentence…

“If you’d asked me yesterday, I would’ve said…”

If you’re feeling up to it, pop me a message! I’d love to read what you’ve written.

Did someone say giveaway?

Why, yes, dear reader, I did.

Anyone who subscribes to the Substack in the month of August will be entered into a draw for a fantastic prize. Details of the prize will follow in the coming posts, but I can promise you, you won’t want to miss this one.

That’s all for now, folks. Thank you again for your support and for subscribing to my new venture. I am beyond grateful for each and every one of you.

As the ink dries,

Riley x

Underline is an outlet for me to do a bit of both, while sharing those joys with you, dear reader. I find myself, very gratefully, more and more immersed in the world of literature. I review on the radio, I edit novels for local publishers, I write, and I post on social media. Substack allows me to bring all of that together!

This space will be part late-night voice note, part dog-eared notebook — a place for underlined sentences, half-formed thoughts, and the books that won’t leave me alone.

I’ll also share things I stumble across — writing that moves me, news about upcoming books and launches, literary awards and author interviews. Think of Underline as your one stop shop for everything literary from someone who would live between the pages of a book if he could.

Subscribe now

Here’s what you can expect:

Underline will publish once a week and I’ll share a few of my favourite things with you (if you just sang The Sound of Music you definitely belong here).

Here, you’ll find:

✅ Book reviews

✅ Writing samples

✅ Author interviews

✅ Book World news

✅ Writing prompts

…and so much more! Really, if it has anything to do with books and writing, I’ll likely talk about it.

The first full post will drop on Monday, 11 August 2025. Mark your calendars, and bring a pen, I promise it will be brimming with recommendations. In the meantime, if you want to get a feel for what kind of books I read, watch my 2024 reading wrap up on TikTok.

P.S. I’m always keen to hear what you’re reading! Pop it in the comments. Can’t wait to chat.

Thanks for being here. I’m glad we found each other in the margins.

As the ink dries,

Riley x