Lost property
Megan Choritz
Publisher: Melinda Ferguson Books
ISBN: 9781990973680
Review
“Lost property” refers to something which was once owned but which no longer belongs to anyone. The words make me think of someone or something looking for a home. The lost property of the title of Megan Choritz’s book refers to the protagonist, Laine, who reviews her life and the seminal moments which lead up to her becoming lost property herself.
During her childhood, her disinterested mother is far too busy making scenes to make a home, but their housekeeper, Dora, along with Laine’s father, make up for the lack of maternal love. Both these two safe harbours are long gone when Laine contemplates her present. She had thought her husband, Mark, would be a port in life’s storms, but early into her marriage she discovered that Mark was a solitary and secretive stranger who was completely disinterested in Laine and her life. Now, she is alone, going to her job every day, seeing her therapist (“Graham, not his real name”) and making a home of sorts for herself and her beloved dog, Arthur. That is, until a six-year old girl named Tina walks across the road from a house where a multi-layered and multi-generational family lives. Fierce and determined, Tina asks if she can live with Laine. She doesn’t say, but she intimates that she’s afraid of someone in the home where she lives. Laine becomes entangled in the domestic affairs of the people across the road, and discovers that she’s more connected to them than she ever thought possible.
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In the final analysis, Lost property is about belonging, perhaps even about motherhood and the scars left on those who are not mothered well.
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In the final analysis, Lost property is about belonging, perhaps even about motherhood and the scars left on those who are not mothered well. Choritz writes a compelling and lyrical novel where a dark undercurrent draws one on relentlessly to the great reveal. I found it un-put-downable. The writing is beautiful, and the sense of life’s tragedies unfolding is mitigated by the surprising and hopeful resolution. It is one of my top reads of the year.
Q and A
I read that you are a playwright and improviser, among many other things. What made you decide to write a novel instead of a play? And what are the challenges of writing a novel compared with writing a play?
I wanted to be a bit more expansive with my expression. When I write a play, it usually has one or two themes, one or two locations and a few characters that hold the story. Here, I wanted to “travel” more, to have more freedom. Also, I didn’t entirely know where I was going, and I wanted to follow the journey more. Does that make sense? I think I wanted to get more personal with memory, history and point of view, and I didn’t think that could be performed.
Your style of writing is very idiosyncratic, as it’s lyrical and profound. In some ways, it feels poetic, and your use of birds as a motif throughout the novel enhances this feeling. Have you written poetry before, or is all your writing lyrical?
I have been moving into this style of writing more and more. I wrote a play called Clouds like waves, which is non-linear, without set or defined characters and very enhanced prose. I really enjoyed playing with writing and breaking away from the literal, the natural. I think working across genres allows me to consider style without being limited by it. This all sounds very deliberate, but mostly it’s how it comes out. I think, because I am a performer, I listen to the words; I speak them and hear their sounds. I fall for them.
The birds are another story altogether. While I have had a preoccupation with and appreciation for birds for my whole life, they started taking on a deeper meaning for me after some great personal loss. They became symbols and signs, and I couldn’t refuse them. I am sitting on a stoep in Joburg as I write this; I am visiting for work and family time, and I am being shouted at by a one-legged yellow weaver.
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While I have had a preoccupation with and appreciation for birds for my whole life, they started taking on a deeper meaning for me after some great personal loss.
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Your LinkedIn profile states that you are an improviser. How did you adapt your ability to improvise – thinking and acting on the fly, as it were – to nailing down words in a literary text? Do you think the talent of improvising enabled your writing in any way?
Improv and the rules of improv are vital for me in any creative process. With writing, it’s so easy to shut down what you think is not the best idea, but the improv spirit says, “What if?” or “Yes, and,” and allows you to explore possibilities without judgement or the critical, paralysing voice. Later, you can toss stuff out, but in the open and positive anything-can-happen space, tiny miracles are born. Also, the improv frame of mind is a very playful one. It allows you the freedom to make stuff up.
The subject matter of your novel feels deeply personal and also very topical. Is it based on any experiences you’ve had? I think what I’m trying to ask is whether the novel is purely fiction?
The novel is definitely not purely fiction. Elements of my childhood, personal history, marriage, context and backdrop are real. But there is a total blurring of lines between reality and fiction. It’s difficult to explain, especially when asked what is and isn’t “true”, and I always end up saying that all the feelings are real, but that I may have made up the incidents and even the characters to put those feelings across.
Do you feel that the answer to GBV is to be found only in the intimate circles of the personal, rather than being solved by governments?
Definitely not only. We need a holistic approach. One of my best friends has won a court ruling, where her abuser managed to get a restraining order on her and the high court overturned it. GBV is often a most bizarre crime, where the victim or survivor is challenged and disbelieved, and the onus is on the survivor to do all the work, while the perpetrator just denies, denies, denies. There is so little space for reparation, discussion, mediation, recognition. Policy seldom manages the feelings side of things.
Your writing has a solipsistic self-awareness in that you describe the beginning of a chapter by saying “this is the part of the story where ...”. Was this self-reflective style a conscious choice, or did it come about organically?
It was the way I started the first chapter, and then I became interested in it as a device – it’s a way of introducing, warning and reflecting, and it reinforces how the story is the very personal viewpoint of Laine, the first person narrator. So, it started organically, and very quickly became a conscious device.
How long did it take you to write this novel, and do you plan to write another? If so, what will it be about, if you can tell us?
I wrote the novel in a year. When I was halfway, I gave what I had to Melinda, my publisher, and she loved it, and even though she publishes very little fiction, she agreed to publish it. I know how lucky I am. This year, I have spent time rewriting something I wrote before the lockdown. It was almost published, but then the lockdown happened. I have loved spending time on it, cleaning it up, defining it, enjoying it. I don’t know whether it will be published. It is totally different from Lost property. It is set in Cape Town, and it takes place over a short space of time, from a Thursday to a Tuesday. It has many strands and characters. A bit like Short cuts (a Robert Altman film made in 1992 – JvE). I’m quite nervous to show it to anybody. The pressure is on, I tell ya!