Hello you lovely people!
It's that time again. Time to send in your...okay, let me just put up the official statement and...yeah...
2014 Farafina Trust Creative Writing Workshop Sponsored by Nigerian Breweries Plc
Farafina Trust will be holding a creative writing workshop in Lagos, organized by award-winning writer and creative director of Farafina Trust, Chimamanda Adichie, from August 5 to August 15 2014. The workshop is sponsored by Nigerian Breweries Plc. Guest writers who will co-teach the workshop alongside Adichie are the Caine Prize Winning Kenyan writer Binyavanga Wainaina, Aslak Sira Myhre and others.
The workshop will take the form of a class. Participants will be assigned a wide range of reading exercises, as well as daily writing exercises. The aim of the workshop is to improve the craft of Nigerian writers and to encourage published and unpublished writers by bringing different perspectives to the art of storytelling. Participation is limited only to those who apply and are accepted.
To apply, send an e-mail to Udonandu2014@gmail.com
Your e-mail subject should read ‘Workshop Application.’
The body of the e-mail should contain the following:
1. Your Name
2. Your address
3. A few sentences about yourself
4. A writing sample of between 200 and 800 words. The sample must be either fiction or non-fiction.
All material must be pasted or written in the body of the e-mail. Please Do NOT include any attachments in your e-mail. Applications with attachments will be automatically disqualified. Deadline for submissions is June 30 2014. Only those accepted to the workshop will be notified by July 22 2014. Accommodation in Lagos will be provided for all accepted applicants who are able to attend for the ten-day duration of the workshop. A literary evening of readings, open to the public, will be held at the end of the workshop.
Okey Adichie
For Farafina Trust
Showing posts with label Farafina workshop. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Farafina workshop. Show all posts
Thursday, April 24, 2014
Monday, April 14, 2014
Wowwy Wow Wow!
Just one post this year!
Wow!
I did not know that...I had put up only one post (so far) this year.
How did that happen? Well, I'm glad you asked.
First off, internet woes - here's looking at you Spectranet *wink*
Then, been busy busy busy - edited one anthology.
It's been sent off to a couple of publishers, now we wait with fingers crossed, on bended knees.
Then edited one book for a client.
Now in the middle of editing another anthology.
Details coming very soon (soon and very soon), just waiting for certain people to send in their stories. I won't be calling names or pointing fingers, but they know who they are.
Also been busy with non-work stuff - like being The Goo's Social Director and Stylist and Escort.
Participating in a Married vs. Single Ladies Cooking Competition (a cook-off?) at Church,
and just being generally busy, and tired and living life...like it's golden.
Hee hee.
Anyway, here's a little something something from me to you. Enjoy!
The recently developed off-planet colony of Nirvana was up and running. Marketed by the Relocate Earth Department of the United Nations as the home of the future for all who loved beauty and creation, it had drawn the brightest and the best of Earth's Recreative Movement. Of course, the brightest and the best needed their support system, so Nirvana was also home to maids, drivers, cooks, teachers, and spiritual directors.
Oh and Tech Support. You can't have an off planet colony running like clockwork without Tech Support. Enter T.
"Call me T", she was known to say. She loved Nirvana. She had always been idealistic, believing that Utopia was out there somewhere, so when she heard that the United Nations and a few Mega Corporations had been secretly developing an off planet colony just outside Earth's solar system, she was ecstatic.
"Nothing to get excited about babe", her friend Z, had told her, "I mean daddy says it will take forever before it's finished, and even then it will be an uber-exclusive set of people who will be relocated".
"I'll find a way", T had replied, and she had. Her friendship with Z had been instrumental. You see Z's daddy was a cosmetic surgeon. He straddled the line between recreative and support system. He was definitely getting on The Nirvana List.
"Big Daddy", T said to him, over the phone, "how are you going to get me on that list?"
"Why are you calling? Aren't you coming over?"
"Nah. Z asked me to go clubbing with her, and she'll get suspicious if I blow her off".
"Come home with her then. You can come to my room when she's asleep".
"Yes sir", she said, grinning, and hung up.
That night, he promised to think about it, but T knew he was lying, so she when she snuck back into her friend's room in the wee hours of the morning she put Plan B into play.
"Z, you know you and your dad are getting on the list".
"Probably, but The United Nations isn't as squeaky clean as it used to be. That list is going to be up for grabs to the highest bidder".
T sighed, "I wish I had money like you guys. I would so pay for a place on that list".
"Aaaw. Don't worry. You know you're my girl. I'll talk to daddy. We'll find a way".
Two days later, Z called. "T baby, guess what?"
"What?"
"Your name's getting on the list", Z screamed.
T screamed too, "Oh thank you, thank you, thank you. I love you so much. You are the best friend ever".
"You know it. You’ll be on the list as my Backup Buddy".
"Backup Buddy?"
"Don't worry. It's just a new department. It's a not a lot of work, and you get paid Mega Bucks".
Mega Bucks? T was sold, in more ways than she realised.
When they got to Nirvana, Z and her daddy moved to The Estate. T moved to a nameless shanty town. A few days later, Z drove her hovercraft too close to a gas flare. She survived, but lost an arm.
Enter the Backup Buddy.
Two years in, and Z's reckless living had cost T two arms and both legs. Cutting edge technology ensured the perfection of Nirvana a la Z remained unmarred. T was support system. Perfection was not a requirement.
But at least she was in Nirvana.
THE END...so far
Tomorrow (hopefully) - Pictures and Stuff. Have a great day!
Wow!
I did not know that...I had put up only one post (so far) this year.
How did that happen? Well, I'm glad you asked.
First off, internet woes - here's looking at you Spectranet *wink*
Then, been busy busy busy - edited one anthology.
It's been sent off to a couple of publishers, now we wait with fingers crossed, on bended knees.
Then edited one book for a client.
Now in the middle of editing another anthology.
Details coming very soon (soon and very soon), just waiting for certain people to send in their stories. I won't be calling names or pointing fingers, but they know who they are.
Also been busy with non-work stuff - like being The Goo's Social Director and Stylist and Escort.
Hee hee.
Anyway, here's a little something something from me to you. Enjoy!
The recently developed off-planet colony of Nirvana was up and running. Marketed by the Relocate Earth Department of the United Nations as the home of the future for all who loved beauty and creation, it had drawn the brightest and the best of Earth's Recreative Movement. Of course, the brightest and the best needed their support system, so Nirvana was also home to maids, drivers, cooks, teachers, and spiritual directors.
Oh and Tech Support. You can't have an off planet colony running like clockwork without Tech Support. Enter T.
"Call me T", she was known to say. She loved Nirvana. She had always been idealistic, believing that Utopia was out there somewhere, so when she heard that the United Nations and a few Mega Corporations had been secretly developing an off planet colony just outside Earth's solar system, she was ecstatic.
"Nothing to get excited about babe", her friend Z, had told her, "I mean daddy says it will take forever before it's finished, and even then it will be an uber-exclusive set of people who will be relocated".
"I'll find a way", T had replied, and she had. Her friendship with Z had been instrumental. You see Z's daddy was a cosmetic surgeon. He straddled the line between recreative and support system. He was definitely getting on The Nirvana List.
"Big Daddy", T said to him, over the phone, "how are you going to get me on that list?"
"Why are you calling? Aren't you coming over?"
"Nah. Z asked me to go clubbing with her, and she'll get suspicious if I blow her off".
"Come home with her then. You can come to my room when she's asleep".
"Yes sir", she said, grinning, and hung up.
That night, he promised to think about it, but T knew he was lying, so she when she snuck back into her friend's room in the wee hours of the morning she put Plan B into play.
"Z, you know you and your dad are getting on the list".
"Probably, but The United Nations isn't as squeaky clean as it used to be. That list is going to be up for grabs to the highest bidder".
T sighed, "I wish I had money like you guys. I would so pay for a place on that list".
"Aaaw. Don't worry. You know you're my girl. I'll talk to daddy. We'll find a way".
Two days later, Z called. "T baby, guess what?"
"What?"
"Your name's getting on the list", Z screamed.
T screamed too, "Oh thank you, thank you, thank you. I love you so much. You are the best friend ever".
"You know it. You’ll be on the list as my Backup Buddy".
"Backup Buddy?"
"Don't worry. It's just a new department. It's a not a lot of work, and you get paid Mega Bucks".
Mega Bucks? T was sold, in more ways than she realised.
When they got to Nirvana, Z and her daddy moved to The Estate. T moved to a nameless shanty town. A few days later, Z drove her hovercraft too close to a gas flare. She survived, but lost an arm.
Enter the Backup Buddy.
Two years in, and Z's reckless living had cost T two arms and both legs. Cutting edge technology ensured the perfection of Nirvana a la Z remained unmarred. T was support system. Perfection was not a requirement.
But at least she was in Nirvana.
THE END...so far
Tomorrow (hopefully) - Pictures and Stuff. Have a great day!
Thursday, August 29, 2013
Memoirs of A Workshop
Howdy!
Due to popular demand, and mostly so I can hold on to that Workshop feeling a little longer. I'll be putting up posts about our exercises.
Today is non fiction day.
The facilitator for non fiction was Aslak Sire Myhre, whose Wikipedia page does not do him justice.
(Picture shall be put up as soon as internet allows)
This tall, blonde Norwegian is a politician (not the rich kind) and an author who gave us a couple of exercises in writing non fiction, and made us think of our place in the global narrative as African Writers.
Who gets to tell our stories? Some well meaning European with no understanding of our culture or situation, or us?
He made us think.
I'm still thinking.
I get paid for writing non fiction, but wouldn't it be something to write about the lives of Ijaw people - their history, their culture, their struggles? Wouldn't it be something to write about the lives of militants? Cos let's be honest - we talk a lot of smack, especially on the internet, but you don't know what their lives are like. I'm Ijaw, and I know I don't know.
Anyway....
On Aslak's first day, he asked us to write a memoir piece about ourselves, telling a story that would showcase something larger than us. This is what I came up with:
It was going to be the last time I would go to campus to read at night. The next day I would be writing my last exam as a student of the University of Benin, and all things being equal, would not have to go to class anymore.
I went out to read by myself, then joined my study group for last minute discussions till about 2am.
When I looked around, none of my off-campus neighbours were in the hall. The Social Science Faculty had been the last to put up an exam timetable, and consequently, its students were the last to finish exams, and to leave campus. My classmates were planning on staying to read some more but I needed to sleep. I needed to leave, but there was no one to walk me home. My on again, off again boyfriend was around somewhere, but at the moment, we were off again, and he wasn't talking to me. I was on my own. So I decided to walk home by myself. I walked out of the hall, out of the building we called Basement, because it had a basement, walked past the hostel for medical students, and past the campus gate to my off campus neighbourhood of Osasogie. The security men stationed at the campus gates were not paid to concern themselves with what happened outside their stations so as I walked past them I started praying.
"Oh God please don't let anything happen to me", I whispered in the darkness, and it was very dark. There was no light, no electricity, and it was oh so quiet.
"Oh Father, I will never do anything so stupid again", I mumbled, as I twitched at every imagined sound I heard in the dark, and remembered the girl who had been kidnapped just a few paces from where I walked. She had returned a week later, 'walking funny' as a friend had put it. I remembered my friend Sammy who had been apprehended by robbers and then beaten up for having a cheap Nokia phone. I remembered the girl whose arm had been cut off by a cutlass wielding thief because she started speaking in tongues when she was attacked.
"Father, please let me get home safely. Let them not see me. Let it not be said anything happened to me the night before my last paper. Please don't let me suffer for my foolishness".
The End
What do y'all think? If you're up to it, you can email me (deocentric@gmail.com) a short piece (200 - 400 words) telling a story that tells a bigger story.
Due to popular demand, and mostly so I can hold on to that Workshop feeling a little longer. I'll be putting up posts about our exercises.
Today is non fiction day.
The facilitator for non fiction was Aslak Sire Myhre, whose Wikipedia page does not do him justice.
(Picture shall be put up as soon as internet allows)
This tall, blonde Norwegian is a politician (not the rich kind) and an author who gave us a couple of exercises in writing non fiction, and made us think of our place in the global narrative as African Writers.
Who gets to tell our stories? Some well meaning European with no understanding of our culture or situation, or us?
He made us think.
I'm still thinking.
I get paid for writing non fiction, but wouldn't it be something to write about the lives of Ijaw people - their history, their culture, their struggles? Wouldn't it be something to write about the lives of militants? Cos let's be honest - we talk a lot of smack, especially on the internet, but you don't know what their lives are like. I'm Ijaw, and I know I don't know.
Anyway....
On Aslak's first day, he asked us to write a memoir piece about ourselves, telling a story that would showcase something larger than us. This is what I came up with:
It was going to be the last time I would go to campus to read at night. The next day I would be writing my last exam as a student of the University of Benin, and all things being equal, would not have to go to class anymore.
I went out to read by myself, then joined my study group for last minute discussions till about 2am.
When I looked around, none of my off-campus neighbours were in the hall. The Social Science Faculty had been the last to put up an exam timetable, and consequently, its students were the last to finish exams, and to leave campus. My classmates were planning on staying to read some more but I needed to sleep. I needed to leave, but there was no one to walk me home. My on again, off again boyfriend was around somewhere, but at the moment, we were off again, and he wasn't talking to me. I was on my own. So I decided to walk home by myself. I walked out of the hall, out of the building we called Basement, because it had a basement, walked past the hostel for medical students, and past the campus gate to my off campus neighbourhood of Osasogie. The security men stationed at the campus gates were not paid to concern themselves with what happened outside their stations so as I walked past them I started praying.
"Oh God please don't let anything happen to me", I whispered in the darkness, and it was very dark. There was no light, no electricity, and it was oh so quiet.
"Oh Father, I will never do anything so stupid again", I mumbled, as I twitched at every imagined sound I heard in the dark, and remembered the girl who had been kidnapped just a few paces from where I walked. She had returned a week later, 'walking funny' as a friend had put it. I remembered my friend Sammy who had been apprehended by robbers and then beaten up for having a cheap Nokia phone. I remembered the girl whose arm had been cut off by a cutlass wielding thief because she started speaking in tongues when she was attacked.
"Father, please let me get home safely. Let them not see me. Let it not be said anything happened to me the night before my last paper. Please don't let me suffer for my foolishness".
The End
What do y'all think? If you're up to it, you can email me (deocentric@gmail.com) a short piece (200 - 400 words) telling a story that tells a bigger story.
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