A few years ago on a Friday evening, I sat at my kitchen table, understanding that I could no longer get up. That I could no longer do anything else but sit still and not move. I broke down. But my love had invited me to dinner with him that day and I knew I had to phone him. I did not want him to worry. Luckily, my cellphone was within reach. I told him that I wouldn’t make it to dinner, but that he should not worry – I was safe and not in any danger. I explained that I simply could not move. I did not need anything, but to be left to sit still without having to do anything for anyone anymore. He understood. It had been a few extremely stressful weeks and I had been trying to deal with an onslaught of medical disasters in the family; with personal issues, including another break-in that left me reeling, and an impossible workload. I had been insanely stressed, yet coping despite everything for a very long time, but then, on top of everything else, when I was on a tight deadline and about to deliver that Friday afternoon, something went wrong with my computer and I could no longer complete the job. Nothing worked. I managed to contact the person who was waiting for my work, and they were very understanding. I also contacted my brother in Austria who connected to my computer and sorted it all out remotely. I delivered what I had to in the end, but I could no longer move. It had all been too much.

I sat at the kitchen table for most of that evening, doing nothing but being. Eventually, I moved to the couch and slept a little for the rest of the night in front of the TV. The next day, I made a list of the most urgent tasks to accomplish, finding a therapist to help me through the breakdown was on top of the list. I said no to a few people asking whether I could do something for them at the time, and contacted all others to ask for kindness and patience. Especially the latter. I received both from most. Only two people pushed for more than I could give, and I had to end our working relationships.

Because of this experience, whenever I begin working with someone, I warn them that despite my usual efficiency (I am capable of publishing more than twenty books a year – a workload, I’ve realised only recently, most publishers would need a few permanent staff members for – AND this is by far not my main source of income, but rather a financially unreliable hobby), if something out of the ordinary disrupts my everyday – family responsibilities, illness, loss, a burst geyser, or a professional emergency – I won’t be able to always deliver on promises made. When I mention this possibility, most people seem to understand my position, but are eager to work with me nevertheless. When I am fully functional, I am extremely productive – usually on my own. I often work on projects with others, but at the end of the day, responsibility for most of them, especially the bill-paying ones, rests on my shoulders. When those shoulders are driving behind an ambulance with my love inside, or force-feeding one of my furry family members to save their lives, or recovering from Covid-19, or climbing onto the roof because no one else is available to stop the waterfall that had burst into my study, or trying to transition from one book distributor to another, I sometimes can take much longer to complete a job than anticipated. My capacity remains limited: time-wise and financially. I am not complaining. I love my work. I am so proud of everything I have been able to accomplish, on my own and with others. This year alone, Karavan Press authors were recognised with the Olive Schreiner Prize for Poetry, the Breyten Breytenbach-prys and the UJ Prize for South African Writing, and were nominated for three other very prestigious awards (of which two are still to be announced). I have already (co)published thirteen books this year, with at least six other titles to follow before the end of the year. We organised a wonderful new poetry festival which was an overwhelming success. Many amazing things are happening! All this in spite of ending up with a concussion and impossible pains in the emergency room in the beginning of the year, facing the challenges of establishing a company and changing distributors, nursing a frail family member and suffering her loss, fearing a breast cancer diagnosis when I discovered a lump and struggling with my eyesight (my eyes eventually bled, and I was in so much pain, I could no longer see or think straight), and most recently facing the fact that my Mom needs me ahead of a big operation, which frightens us all.

A few weeks ago, I lost control over my life and inbox, the accumulating work backlog threatening to crush me. I informed people concerned, tried to explain, begged, apologised, and yet somehow kept going, still accomplishing the most urgent tasks. Most people have been particularly empathetic and understanding – in words and deeds. But not all.

I know that despite all the accomplishments, I’ve also failed. Big time. I dropped balls, many; I let people down, terribly; broke promises, disppointed; and did not nurture other people’s dreams in the way I am expected to. Because of the way I have been brought up – to serve and never fear the impossible – even when I try to do my best no matter what the circumstances, I feel guilt when I cannot deliver on a promise. I always try to explain and apologise. But sometimes, I freeze in my guilt. Occasionally, when I am met with a lack of understanding, my guilt becomes tainted with resentment. I have been feeling it all again for a while now – accompanied by physical manifestations of another impending breakdown. Debilitating insomnia, anxiety, headaches, forgetting, lack of focus and pain in my jaw that makes it nearly impossible to breathe at the end of the day. I am again on the verge of something shifting me into immobility. I am scared that even though I have learnt so much over the years of therapy, I still do not know how to fight for myself and how to put my needs first.

I know I should not make promises, even with the warnings I usually put in place. This is a failure on my part. I really love what I do, and I usually don’t mind overstretching my capacity to accommodate other people’s wishes. But at the end of the day, no matter what else, I also need to pay bills, and the work that pays for them must have priority. Only then can I make other people’s dreams come true.

This is not a cry for any kind of assistance. I receive enough already. And I am deeply, deeply grateful. Also, I don’t want to be fixed to be able to continue serving only others. I am already attempting to create a space to take care of myself so that I can be there fully for others again.

I know that I have to say NO more often, and to protect my limited resources no matter how much I disappoint other people. In a way, my resilience remains my greatest weakness. Putting up boundaries is one thing, maintaining them is a completely different beast.

All I need right now is time to grieve, to comprehend the layers of loss that hit me at every turn – my life has become so different since 20 August that very little is familiar; and every time I am reminded of the shift in everything that is my everyday, I don’t know how to be. I have lost myself and need to find who I am now without the family who were my home for over twenty years. I need rest and patience, and to be able to sleep one whole night in my own bed. I can see properly again and I do not have breast cancer, but my body is far from okay. As my friend Mica always said, ‘Your body never lies.’ I would like to feel healthy, rested, and to be fully present again for the people I love and who love me even at my absolute worst, and to deliver on the promises I made to people who never pushed for their delivery – their kindness and patience have been remarkable, and I am so deeply grateful for both. I will complete my work in the end – it will just take a little or much longer than I had hoped for. I also hope that I am worth waiting for.

Thank you, my love, Mom, Krystian, Erika, Kobus, Roland, Cathy, Kerry, Gail, Paul, Melissa, Mervyn, Frankie, Grant, Stephen, Monique, Debbie, Sue and all other Karavan Stories and The Scope of Us authors, Naomi, Sally, Nathanael, Fiona, Gillian, and all others who understood and have shown so much care, sometimes only by being patient enough to wait for me to reach out again only when I was ready. And often by picking up the pieces when I no longer could. I cannot tell you all how much I appreciate your support. I know I forgot someone important, but my brain has been scrambled by grief. I can only ask for forgiveness.

After a lovely outing and a lunch with wonderful friends yesterday, I was supposed to work all day today to catch up with some of the backlog I am trying to cope with, but after a few hours of work-related reading this morning, I went for a walk to get a copy of the Sunday Times to see the announcement of the Sunday Times Literary Awards shortlists with my own eyes after Roger wrote to me about the wonderful news of his How to Build a House in the Mountain making the Non-Fiction Award shortlist. During my walk, I felt the sun on my skin and appreciated the unusual wind-stillness. I was smiling, thrilled for Roger and his amazing memoir about how he reclaimed his life after many losses. I love my home and don’t feel the need to build another, but it needs a little more care than I have been able to give it in the last while. Like me, it needs me. We are both trying to find ourselves. We both stand all alone now. We need to grieve and heal together and open our hearts and doors fully to all the people we love, to be here for each other and for them. And so, I returned home with the newspaper and a takeaway lunch and decided to announce the shortlisting but then to leave all the work aside until Monday morning, write this and to explain and to apologise again – I am so sorry for letting so many people down! But now I am going to head over to my love’s place for another walk and a quiet evening of togetherness. In the end, no matter how much I truly love what I do – making books happen – I am not a firefighter or a nurse, I don’t save lives. I am not a scientist trying to save the planet or find a cure for dementia. Occasionally, the most I do is help others make a literary dream come true. And I completely understand how precious those dreams are – they enrich our lives and give us meaning – but all great stories are timeless; they can wait. Our loved ones must come first. So must I. I have a doctorate in literary studies. As a doctor and a writer, I am writing myself a sick note: be kind to yourself, Karina.

I have been hearing of these types of scams from other writers for a while now, but this morning, I have been targeted for the first time myself. I am glad that I have been warned and that the email address used to target me is one that I hardly ever use (an immediate red flag), and if I do, it is for the Karavan Press Literary Festival only (easy to find online).

This email arrived in my inbox:

Hi Karina,

Invisible Others brings together loss, intimacy, grief, guilt, and the complicated ways people can leave lasting marks on one another. Set against contemporary Paris, the story follows a South African writer seeking anonymity after a devastating loss, only to encounter a Polish academic carrying his own grief. Their chance meeting creates a space where two wounded people begin confronting emotions and experiences they may have hoped to leave behind.

My name is Martins, and I’m one of the moderators of the Chapter Map Readers Community. I’m reaching out because Invisible Others is being considered for one of our upcoming reading cycles.

What stood out to us is the way the novel explores not only what happens to its characters, but what remains with them afterward. The silence between people, the difficulty of communicating what we feel, the consequences of intimate relationships, and the different ways people process grief give readers plenty to question and interpret.

Each reading cycle, our selection committee chooses only five books, giving each selected title focused attention from our community.

If selected, you would join us for a Live Author Spotlight Session via Zoom, where you can introduce Invisible Others, talk about the characters, the emotional and cultural worlds behind the story, and what inspired you to explore loss, intimacy, and human connection in this way.

After the Spotlight, the book moves into our four-week reading discussion, where readers can explore the relationships more deeply, exchange their interpretations, discuss the characters’ choices, and reflect on the different ways the novel approaches grief, guilt, intimacy, and communication.

The goal is to create genuine reader engagement around the book, giving readers the opportunity to discover it, discuss it, recommend it, and keep the conversation going beyond the Spotlight.

Would you be open to exploring this with us? If so, I can send you the details of how the reading cycle works.

All the best,
Martins
Moderator
Chapter Map Readers Community

I typed “Chapter Map Readers Community” into Google and saw immediately that this “community” has no online presence whatsoever. When I asked, “Is Chapter Map Readers Community a scam?”, Google warned: “part of a widespread book club scam targeting independent and self-published authors … While it positions itself as an innocent, enthusiastic literary group, it operates as a predatory marketing scheme designed to extract money from authors.”

How it works: You receive an unsolicited, AI-generated email praising your book. They claim to operate a large “community” of readers eager to engage with your book. Once you reply, they offer to feature it in their discussion circles, social media spotlights, newsletters, etc. Soon after, they will request an upfront fee to continue …

I am my Invisible Others are very happy to remain invisible and out of this kind of “spotlight”. For free.

The first time I saw her it was in the reflection of the love at first sight in André’s face. I knew that he was holding someone in his hands when he approached me at the animal shelter in Gordon’s Bay, but it was his expression that caught my attention. Looking at him, it was immediately obvious that whoever he was cradling was coming home with us. That is how Antonia Salieri, aka Ms Salieri or Principessa – our beloved Salieri – came into our lives in February 2007.

She was supposed to be a black kitten – we agreed beforehand that we would welcome one into our lives after the tragic passing of Anya, Mozart’s sister. Anya and Mozart, the two feline siblings, were born in my parents’ home and flew all the way from Austria to join our family in 2006 shortly after André and I were married. And then on 27 January 2007, two accidents continents apart hit our lives: in Germany, my Mom fell a long distance onto concrete in an unsecured building site at work and fractured many bones, sustaining other life-threatening injuries, which took many months to recover from; and Anya was killed by a car outside our house in Rosebank.

It was a time of numbing anxiety and loss for all of us. While we waited for Mom to wake up from her coma, we buried Anya in our garden where eventually a yellowwood planted itself close to the bedroom window and is now a few metres high, marking her grave. Back then, we did not know that it would have helped Mozart to mourn had he seen her body beforehand. Inconsolable, he kept searching for Anya and did not understand what had happened. Friends recommended that we invite another kitten into our lives, so that he wouldn’t feel so lonely. Because I grew up with black cats (Mozart’s mother was also a black cat), that is how we ended up searching for a black kitten to join the family, but while I was looking at the huge cage full of black kittens at the shelter and trying to find The One, André saw Salieri, a tabby with African wildcat markings on her back. It was instant mutual love.

Just before our visit, Salieri was found in a sewage pipe and brought to the shelter. Because no one knew when she was born, the vet estimated that it was around new year’s eve and we always celebrated her birthday on the 1st of January. From the start, even though he loved the others, she was André’s favourite. The two were inseparable. She read the papers with him in the morning, lay on his keyboard or next to it when he was working, and slept next to his feet on the bed at night.

When André died, it took her a long time to return to the bed to sleep next to or on me only, but eventually she did, along with Mozart and Glinka, the leap year kitten born on 29 February, who joined the family unexpectedly in 2008. The three of them – Mozart, Salieri and Glinka – became The Cats of Driekatfontein, as I started calling our home. They were the Furry Ones, our Furry Family. After André’s death, they kept me safe: always present, always purringly loving. They continued to choose me every day, trusting me to take care of them and taking care of me in ways that I will be forever grateful for.

Glinka and Mozart passed away in the beginning of 2024. Soon after, Salieri began talking to me like she had never before. I realised that she had always communicated with the others in a language that they had tried to teach me, but I only ever understood the basics. Left alone with me in the house, Salieri tried her best to improve my Cat. She was never shy, always participating in all the literary events in the house, demanding attention and sharing her opinions freely. Nothing ever happened with my creative writing or at Karavan Press without Salieri’s input, especially her legendary paw of approval which she placed on manuscripts and books that she clearly enjoyed while sitting on my lap at my desk or next to me in bed. She was a literary cat of note, first notable catssistant to André, and then to me.

In her last years, she became quite frail, but her resilience was remarkable. She faced impossible odds several times, but she always pulled through and continued inspiring me with her unconquerable spirit. She also stole the heart of my love, who cared for her and was always there for her – for us – when needed. He understands the incredible bond we shared and was delighted when she decided to sleep on him instead of me, no matter how uncomfortable it became for him. When she fell seriously ill again at the end of July, he watched over her when I couldn’t. She was in and out of hospital for two weeks, and once again pulled through, a miracle over and over again. When she finally returned home, she regained her quality of life – demanding her first breakfast at around half past four a.m., basking in the sun, cuddling with me in front of the TV in the evenings and sleeping in her favourite spots – when we were alone, always with me at night, no matter where I was in the house. She made me believe that we would be celebrating her twentieth birthday on the 1st of January next year.

She was very ill in the beginning of last year. At the clinic, no one believed that she would make it, but she made a remarkable recovery. Afterwards, I started counting to nineteen as a way of begging the Universe to allow her to celebrate her nineteenth birthday with us. From the first day of this year, I began counting to twenty. I had hoped the spells would work again, but what I did not know was that the 20th would become significant in a different way.   

Last Thursday, 20 August 2026, after a routine morning of first breakfast before five, cuddles (I often work on my laptop or read in bed early in the morning, and she always joined me, placing herself between my body and the keyboard or book and sleeping while I tried to type or turn pages around or above her and stroked her – and so it was that day), sleep and second breakfast just before ten, Salieri fell asleep in a sun patch on the side of the bed that used to be André’s and slipped away peacefully to wherever feline angels go to rest. She was nearly twenty years old, ninety-five in human years according to Google, but until the end, she never looked her age: her bright eyes, agility and silky coat made people believe that she was much younger. People liked to touch her because her fur felt so special.

On Thursday evening, on the verge of tears again, I found another coin in the street. I often find coins wherever I go, usually ten or five cents, and I always think of them as my lucky coins, but the 20c coin I picked up in Kloof Street felt like a sign of something coming to an end which cannot be put into words.

I calculated that I spent somewhere around six thousand days and nights in Salieri’s company. Apart from my closest human family members, no one comes near. Salieri and I shared a togetherness that is life-defining. She was and will remain special beyond words. With her death, a gigantic chapter of my life has come to an end. I feel like nothing will ever be the same again, but I know that I will be forever a better person for having known and loved her, for having been loved by her. What a privilege, a treasure.

People continue telling me that I gave the Furry Ones good lives, but I have always felt that it was the other way around: they gave me a good life. They enriched it with so much companionship, care, trust and love. I feel honoured that they found me worthy.

Driekatfontein is now home to a heartsore woman and one human and four feline ghosts. I place fingertip kisses on four urns and watch a yellowwood grow in my wild garden and I am filled with overwhelming gratitude for everything that we have shared over the past twenty-two years …

Rest in peace, my Beloved Ones. I miss you, always.