Correspondence from Moxyland by guest columnist Lauren Beukes.
A week ago, I was mistaken for a terrorist. Or possibly a dodgy amateur chemist cooking up home-brew tik. This is not par for the course in organising a book launch. Or at least I hope not. It’s only my second, what do I know?
The thing is that my first-born fiction*, Moxyland, isn’t exactly a conventional novel, so having a conventional launch with wine and canapés seemed a tad, well, out of character.
In describing that character, I could drop loads of impressive-sounding adjectives, like “pyrotechnic” or “compelling” or “whirlygig”. (Actually I think the latter is a noun, perfectly illustrating why writers have editors.)
But if I were to strip it naked and expose the wireframe to the world sans pretty adjectives or evocative snarls and whorls of words, I’d describe it as a book about where we are now and where we’re heading.
It’s a story about social networking and surveillance society, scary epidemics, graffiti, economic divides, pop culture, AIDS orphans, virtual worlds, township soccer, brand names, biotech artworks, the cute face of sinister regimes and corporates with their sticky fingers in government’s panties. (You can read the full blurb at www.moxyland.com.)
So how does this lead to my being mistaken for a terrorist and / or a methamphetamine manufacturer?
Between Maggie, Mervyn and I (publisher, owner of The Book Lounge and author – respectively), we determined that the launch should be more than just a soiree celebrating type on paper; it should evoke a sense of the world of Moxyland. Which meant obtaining certain artefacts and evidence, including test tubes, syringes and a mostly harmless chemical which is sometimes used in forensic presumptive blood tests, invisible inks and Hollywood Barbie’s hair.
It’s not, as far as I can ascertain, any good for home-brewed explosives or pharmaceuticals or any other potentially dangerous or illegal purposes. Nevertheless, within minutes of emailing a quotation request to the chemistry equipment company a science teacher friend had recommended, I got a gruff phone call from a senior sales executive demanding to know, in no uncertain terms, “What exactly is this for?”
I explained.
She seemed disbelieving.
Then bemused.
She still asked me for all my contact details, Jacana’s contact details and my police record.
My package arrived two days later.
And I’m pleased to say I haven’t managed to blow anything up. Yet.
* My first book was a non-fiction, a rollicking collection of biographies of renegades, raconteurs and reprobates, Maverick: Extraordinary Women From South Africa’s Past (Oshun, 2005)
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