Keeping The Bird Alive: A Dialogue with Lillian Akampurira Aujo

Lillian: I felt so exposed after being published! I thought, “Oh! My God! People are going to see exactly how stupid I am!” Imposter syndrome, which does not really go away. But before that I was convinced all I wanted was to be published. It’s a common romanticism. I understand the hurry to get published because it signals validation for the writer. Think of it as the test we all want to pass.

However, nowadays, I remind myself that once what I’ve written is out there, I cannot take it back. So that makes me more cautious.

Davina: We are lucky to be living in a time where every other month there’s an announcement of a new literary magazine. How do we focus more on craft? How do we get students in their form four vacation to slow down long enough to write what they’ll be proud to have published?

I worry that there are more young writers preoccupied with when they are going to be published than there are those obsessing about the quality of their writing. I’m always alarmed when the first thing someone asks isn’t “How can I improve my writing?”

Lillian: Writing as you know, is a deeply personal thing. There are choices that only the writer can make themselves. The best you and I can do is to sound the ‘better your craft’ drum as loud as we can to whoever is willing to listen.

I must say though that the new writer who cannot wait to get published has confidence in their ability. That’s a good thing, as long as it’s in moderation and is tempered by hard work.

The mushrooming of literary magazines means more space for more writers and that is a good thing. I imagine anyone who curates the content that goes into a literary magazine is constantly looking for quality writing, which should be an indication to new writers for what standards to strive towards.

That’s not to say that considerations of what good writing is are preserves of literary magazines; good writing may be rejected because it doesn’t lend itself to a particular theme, or some unmentioned politics. The solution to this is to send one’s writing to different outfits; you never know where your work will ‘find a home.’

Davina: I know what you mean. A few days after one of my short stories was rejected by one magazine, I sent it to another magazine. A day later, the editor of the second magazine emailed to say that he liked the story and would publish it. 

So, yes, sometimes you’re rejected for reasons that have nothing to do with the quality of your writing. But it takes a while to get to a point where this becomes obvious; when you’re starting out it’s hard not to take things personally.

Lillian: Yes, at first it is hard not to take things personally because you feel you’ve made an effort and it’s not been appreciated. Apart from the quality of the work, a publisher’s taste or subjectivity can influence their decision to accept or reject your work.

If it’s an anthology, it might be that they are looking for a certain cohesiveness with all the pieces they intend to publish and yours does not offer that. So, as in your experience, pitching to different publishers is good practice for a writer.

Davina: A novel always feels like ‘the next logical step,’ if you’ve been writing short stories, especially in spaces where it’s made to seem as if the short story form is insufficient and frivolous (unless of course it won a major continental or international award). Tell people that you’re a writer and they’ll usually say “What’s the title of your book and can I get it in Aristoc?”

Sometimes, I wonder if I want to write a novel because I’m genuinely interested in writing one or because I’m terrified that Ugandans will never take me seriously if I don’t.

Lillian: To attempt to discuss regression or progression of different forms of literature on the same plane is somewhat defeatist. Although they share elements, the poem, short story, and novel are each unique projects. I know writers for whom one form comes easier than the other. Yet, maybe because of interest or training, other writers have successfully written poetry and short story collections, as well as novels.

A poetry collection is considered full length, is it not? As is a short story collection. As is a novel. All of them can be adequate and serious in their expansiveness or brevity. But then of course sometimes the market dictates what is easier to make money from; hence the dictum that it is easier to make money from novels than from, let’s say, a collection of poems.  

Davina: Surely there are plenty of other things that a writer can do to make money? Get an MFA and teach creative writing at a university. Facilitate writing workshops. You know the drill.  

Lillian: Yes, you can do all that and more. But getting an MFA is not a guarantee that one will be a good teacher of writing. I know some very good teachers and writers who do not have MFAs, so again nothing is set in stone. You can facilitate workshops, yes, but the reality is that very few Ugandans would be willing or able to afford them right now.

The sad reality is that creative writing is not something many people here take seriously enough to invest in. Then the few that do may not have the resources to pay someone for lessons or mentorship. Our creative writing structures are still growing.  

Davina: Poetry in Uganda is currently enjoying a revival. In pre-covid-19 Kampala, for instance, there was a poetry-themed event almost every weekend; these events attracted a wide range of speakers, readers, and writers, everyone from so-called established writers, through the young and upcoming speaker, to well-wishing members of the general and specific reading publics.

That public interest in poetry is currently surging against public interest in say, fiction or creative non-fiction, especially among high school and university students, is encouraging. But some people I’ve spoken to think said interest is due to poetry being easier to write and understand than, say, short fiction.  

Lillian: It’s a good thing poetry in our public spaces is enjoying a revival. We need more poets and more readers if we want to grow communities that are self-aware but also conscious of what’s happening around them and why it’s happening. If a poet succeeds in making poetry look ‘easy’ to the listener or reader, then that is a good thing. Although I disagree with the notion that poetry is easy to write or understand. What I can say is that both readers and writers of poetry need to expose themselves to as many forms of poetry as possible. Then we can all discuss what’s easy, or what’s good or bad.

Davina: There’s an interesting blend of poetry and theatre here, of which I expect to see more of within the next 10 – 20 years. What other trends do you anticipate within the Ugandan writing scene?

Lillian: I hope that goes on—theatre pulling theatre-lovers into poetry loving—this widens the audience for poets as well. I don’t know how long it will take, but hopefully we’ll see Ugandan fiction being adapted to film.

Davina: Well, that’s already happening. Wanuri Kahiu’s Rafiki was adapted from Monica Arac de Nyeko’s Jambula Tree. And you, of course, have a poem titled Jambula Tree! So let’s hope that that will soon be adapted for theatre. 

Lillian: Ahhh! That would be sweet!

Davina: Wouldn’t it? But we need to end this here, otherwise the puns might continue well into next week.

Lillian: No good deed goes unpunished, I see!