writing portfolio aug 2016

Writing portfolio Ms. Tinka Oberholzer 084 415 0715

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Proudly South African Passionate about words

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Dear Reader,

Thank you for the interest in my writing portfolio. I have inserted all styles of my writing capability

including published articles, poetry, dramatic texts and a short shory. Should you require content writing

or want to place interesting articles on your website or need proofreading for your company documents

contact me.

I look forward to renew your written material.

Tinka Oberholzer


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INDEX:

1. Experience in writing - Published Articles

a. Comment on the movie “Black Butterflies” about an extract out of the life of Ingrid Jonker

published by The Times Newspaper (Date)

b. Learning to Breathe again – an article that got published by Do It Now magazine

c. Selling up high – an article that got published by Sales Guru magazine

d. The Support Room two articles on website

i. The Typo Pandemic- Tinka Oberholzer

ii. The illusion of failure – Tinka Oberholzer

e. Proofreading for Phd Document for Ds. Jan Oberholzer – Reference

2. Writing that formed part of my UNISA Creative Writing Portfolio

a. Narrative Text

b. Dramatic Text

3. Poetry

a. English Poem

b. Afrikaans Poem

4. Qualifications

a. Matric Certificate 1997

b. Film and Broadcasting Diploma Allenby Campus 2000

c. SA Writer’s College – Proofreading and Copy-Editing Course Certificate 2015

d. UNISA – Currently studying part-time BA Language and Literature – Creative Writing


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1. Experience in writing - Published Articles


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2 • dinDIGITAL | July 2012_#2

I descend from the back of the Land Rover along with seven others. We are all geared in harnesses, pulleys hanging from our waists. The clattering announces our arrival to the unperturbed nature. As we walk the guide tells us about the plants and trees with names I’ve never heard of and am unlikely to remember. How he does it is a mystery. I look at the trees he points out and even nod, but my mind is not captivated with the facts he so admirably shares about these wonders of nature. I am more fascinated by their freedom, of living out here in- between God and mother earth.

My eyes zoom in on the little girl in our group, the one with long black hair. Kimberley is about 11 years old, if I had to guess, and is first in line to swing the initial length. Following her eagerly, my eyes are in awe as she swings so carelessly between the mountain tops. So strikingly free and far too young to fear. I have been there once, at that wonderful point in life where fear didn’t exist. Who hasn’t been there? Yet we all lose it at some age and the fact remains unnoticed to ourselves until moments like these. I look down after I promised myself that I wouldn’t and see the trees far below welcoming us by waving in the wind. To call it fear is a possible understatement. Yet I am here and I’m doing it.

I find myself on the edge of a mountain cliff two hours out of Johannesburg and two hundred kilometres away from the madness of the concrete jungle. The aim of the game was to slide from one hilltop to the next, with only faith under my uncertain legs. My corporate-infected soul felt misplaced in this openness. Maybe it was something about the freedom surrounding the girl hanging in mid-air that was featured on the pamphlet of this place that caught my attention? It could have been that small promise of instant peace while free falling that brought me to this rock, with ropes tied in specialised knots around my waist. At this stage in my life, anything sounds like a good idea. Not that life is bad, it's just so confusingly fast and frenetic; the office and studies, the family and dogs, household chores and shopping, all while working on a plan to achieve the dream that I am pursuing. The dream that will change my lifestyle, the dream that sometimes feel so overwhelmingly huge - to live this moment, this one chance I have in time with entire zest and balance each day like a sacred ying yang.


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The Typo Pandemic- Tinka Oberholzer www.thesupportroom.co.za

The Typo- Pandemic Call me crazy. Call me old-school. In fact, call me anything, just spell it correctly please. Am I unaccompanied when I notice a big threat to the use of our written language? It remains appalling to see how many spelling errors and grammar mistakes appear on websites of supposed professional companies. It is becoming obvious that children and adults alike struggle with spelling English words. This had me pondering the reasons for this threatening assault of the typo-pandemic:

Parenting Instead of looking at the educational system, I firstly want to turn to the parenting skills and discover what has changed over the last century. Families cannot rely on one bread-winner any longer and therefore most mothers need to have a full-time job. Yet the sacrifice is often overlooked. Parents do not have the energy to spend quality time with their children any longer. It is far easier to rely on a television programme or a movie to occupy the little ones while supper gets made. Parents reading to their children is becoming a dying tradition it seems.

Education The second possibility, in conjunction with the first, for the predicament of the lack of spelling skills can surely be found in our educational system. Learners are being educated in their vernacular language from entering

school. When they proceed to High school the vernacular language suddenly gets exchanged for English. In High school all subjects are presented in the English language. Clearly the lack of understanding the principles of a language will be problematic when one gets forced to use it on a much higher level later on in live.

Generation Y Thirdly, we can turn our attention to the new generation of people – Generation Y. This generation has the need for instant gratification. There is no time in this high paced lifestyle to read a two hundred page book only to hear a story. There are so many other ways of hearing stories like movies, Internet, computer games etc. The lack of time in our new society becomes apparent when looking at the widely spread social media that people are confronted with in each aspect of their lives. Instead of a phone call one can now SMS, BBM and WhatsApp to stay in contact with friends and family.

New Spelling Styles On these applications alone there is a new way of spelling developing. Phrases like ‘how R U?’, ‘LOL’, etc. Pictures of smiley faces replaces the supposed unnecessary spelling of words. Instead of a visit people email and FaceBook ultimately with its own unique spelling and takes preference. Subsequently the tradition of Sunday lunches with family dies away in the reality of teenagers in front of computer screens ‘Lanning’ through the night, parents occupied by the latest series of Survivor and the senior citizens looked after by qualified nurses in secure retirement villages conveniently out of the way of busy schedules.


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Is spelling correctly not a priority anymore? I recently read an article on the Internet in which Ian McNeilly, of the National Association for the Teaching of English, told the TES in reply to the shocking spelling of students in exams, that: “it is possible to achieve top grades in exams with poor spelling”

He continued to say: “I’m not saying that we make spelling a huge priority over understanding, analysis and interpretation. But students should be able to spell securely. It’s an ongoing battle, that isn’t helped by wider society.”

Professor John Wells, emeritus professor of phonetics at University College London said:

“People should be free to use whichever spelling they prefer. Text messaging and email language is the ‘way forward’, there are ‘more important things in life’ than the ability to sort out their, there and they’re.”

The consequences What is the future going to look like when there are no more people in the world with the ability to spell correctly? I can predict that immense confusion would be the order of the day. Like a modern day Tower of Babylon. Pandemic turning into pandemonium. This will in turn affect communication with others. The consequences of this in turn will affect the internet, all business industries, the economy. In fact I cannot think of any aspect of life as we know it that will not be affected by complete loss of

communication with others. Who will record our life on this planet so that one day it will be part of history?

The solution At home we can fight the typo-pandemic by starting to read to our children again, eliminate the typos out of our own messages, look up words we do not understand in those wonderful treasures called dictionaries, (OK you can use Google if you really want). Take a stand against BBM and WhatsApp language and spell out words to save our precious communication for the people who will be there after we have left.

If you feel as passionate about the issue and have any ideas or suggestions I would love to hear from you. Happy spelling!


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The illusion of failure – by Tinka Oberholzer www.thesupportroom.co.za

Let us play a game. If I give you a list of names can you tell me three things that all these people have in common?

JR Rowling, The Beatles, Theodor Seuss Giesel, Stephen King, John Grisham, Vincent van Gogh, Thomas Edition and Ian Flemming.

One mark if you said they are all famous. Another mark if you said they have all supposedly failed at their dreams before becoming famous, and full marks if you said that they all persisted beyond the point where their peers would have given up to make their dreams a reality.

Are you maybe one of these people who are just waiting to be discovered? I believe that we all have a personal dream that is so unique to us as our fingerprints are. We are born with this dream platted into our DNA. This dream that we carry within us is our purpose in life. It is what we are meant to do on earth before we depart to leave the world a better place. Let us look at the examples of these people listed above to discover our own legacies:

Step 1: Discover your passion

JR Rowling the author of the famous Harry Potter books was in a predicament that many people find

themselves in. She was divorced, a single parent and broke. I can just imagine that her therapy at the time was to loose herself in a fantasy world in which she could control each and every event. I see her in my mind’s eye typing away in front of her old typewriter when her child has gone to sleep. Soon she discovered that this was not just therapy, this was her passion.

Your passion is the one thing in this world that makes you feel happy and fulfilled. Its the one thing that you spend time thinking and dreaming about when you are meant to be working. Its the thing you always say after the words: ‘One day when I win the lotto I will…’

The very first step in following your passion is to define it for yourself. it is that one thing in live that makes you feel alive.

Step 2: Develop your passion

Once you have defined what your passion in life is, it is time to start working. Read all you can about your passion. Enrol for a short course or do a degree. In our spoilt society nothing is impossible. People of all ages can study part time. The internet has presented the entire world to be available to us at our fingertips. Devote at least half an hour a day to your passion even if this means that you need to wake up earlier. The more you learn about your passion and the more you start practicing the one thing in this world that makes you happy the happier your will become in general. If we look at the example of The Beatles we have to admire their hard work. In their early years The Beatles gave 262 shows in 2 years at


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the Cavern in Liverpool while giving regular gigs at The Casbah club. Their fame did not happen by earning it instantly on an Idols show. They had to work very hard and constantly in order to arrive at the top of their game. Prepare yourself for a ‘hard day’s night’.

Step 3: Believe in yourself

Bullies come in every form imaginable. As in the case with Theodor Seuss Giesel the author of Dr Seuss books that most children had the privilege to make part of their childhood memories which originally got

rejected 27 times by publishers. In the case of Stephen King, whose first manuscript was discarded 30 times, or John Grisham with a number of 28 rejections. People will seldom see the vision that you nurture in your own mind and bullies will always be ready to break down your ideas. Expect it and remind yourself of two important things. Firstly that it takes a one year old to break a flower that it took a God to make. Secondly teach yourself the art of selective hearing. This is crucial as you might not be aware of this but the most fearsome bullies exist in our own minds. That voice you hear that tells you that you must be crazy to think that you will make it, the same voice that asks you if you are sure about your idea and your own sanity. That is the first bully you need to conquer. Look at the famous painter Van Gogh. His mind was his most fearsome enemy, although he only sold one painting in his lifetime, he persisted in following his passion of painting and became a legend.

Step 4: Persist

Talking about persistence, this is ultimately the most important ingredient you need to live out your passion. Persist in improving your skills that can help your passion along. Persist in believing that you are made to live out your passion. Persist in discarding those bullies whether they are people or yourself. Persist in doing one thing everyday that will improve your passion. Thomas Edison in my opinion is the king of persistence. He has attempted to invent the light bulb 10 000 times. He described it as not failing 10 000 times but discovering how not to do it 10 000 times. Has the secret to persistence than have something to do with our perception of life? For sure it does. How does society describe failure? ‘Lack of success in doing or achieving something’ is how the Oxford dictionary define failure. How will you define failure in your journey or will you teach yourself that there is no such thing as failure. My brother, who is the Head of Deaf Christian Ministry Africa in Worcester, constantly reminds me that obstacles are not there to obstruct but to instruct.

Step 5: Leave a legacy

The only way I know of to do this is to write my own obituary. If you set your mind to the time when you are no longer on earth you will have a clear idea of what you would like to leave behind and start working on making it happen. You might be a late bloomer like Ian Flemming was. He only wrote the first James Bond novel at the age of 42. Can you think of anyone in this world who does not know who 007 is? While you still have breath in your lungs, it is never too late. Make a decision today to start where you are to make your live a legacy by following your passion.


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Examples of famous people who supposedly failed before finding success:

Walt Disney – turned down 302 times before getting finance for Disney World

Henry Ford – started 5 business that failed and left him broke before he founded Ford Motor Company

Oprah Winfrey – was fired from her job as a TV presenter. She was described as being “unfit for TV.”

Marilyn Monroe – Modelling agents recommended that she would instead consider a career as a secretary

Elvis Presley – he got fired after just one performance and it was suggested that he goes back to driving trucks

Winston Churchill – was defeated in every election for public office and only became Prime Minister at the age of 62

I wish you a fruitful journey.

Tinka


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2.1 UNISA Creative Writing Portfolio – Narrative Text

Entertaining Death

Like a bad karma, waiting for her on every seventh day, Sundays always had the stench of melancholy

clinging to them. On this particular Sunday, Simone awakes early. Climbs out of bed laboriously. Not

because of duty, rather out of habit. Her latest book is finished and will be in the publishers’ hands in the

morning. It is the seventeenth book out of her pen. The trill of finishing a book is not exactly the same

after number ten. Similar to most anything in life one gets used to the exhilaration. What an utterly

depressing thought, she considers, as she drags herself to the bathroom.

Entering the bathroom, she tries to escape the mirror like a modern day Virginia Woolf but inevitably

appears in the parallel. Her long brown-blond hair looks lifeless, her eyes sunken into her face. Alcohol is

no beatifying serum. Living alone brought numerous habits. Coincidentally her drinking has stayed out of

the public eye. Not that it matters. All worthy authors need at least one skeleton in their closet. The last

three years it has been the only way she could get words out of her pen, the only way she could fall asleep,

the only way to survive. Survive what exactly, she contemplates, as she inspects the crow’s feet next to

her eyes. The perfect life, right here. The habit took a toll on her, once youthful looks. She leans forward

towards the mirror.

‘Happy birthday you old hag. Didn’t think you would see forty eight.’

She rinses her face and the water wakes her out of the moment. She opens the shower taps, puts the

towel on the floor just outside the shower door. So many habits. She recalls how these particular little

things irritated her so much years ago, all these little habits that only old people stick to. She would

remain young, she would be a free-spirit she thought back then. Then life took over and made her what

she became. Not old, not young. Finding herself in a strange no-man’s land in-between where she doesn’t

seem to fit in at all.

‘Forget it. Today will be the day that I’ll break all these habits. Damn-it I cant be that old.’

She closes the taps and hangs the towel back on the hook. Walking to the kitchen she switches on the

radio in the passage. Hugh Masekele because its Sunday, but as the first jazzy sounds fills the house she

changes to Edith Piaf just to prove a point. Continuing to the kitchen she thinks of a movie she once saw

on the life of the woman. How love can ruin the heart forever. But then again forever isn’t over yet. In

the kitchen she opens the cupboard for a wine glass, fills it with last night’s leftover Merlot and continues

back up the passage.

‘Stuff it. I’m forty eight today, I can drink what I want, when I want.’


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On route she lights up the first incense sticks for the day. When she decided to get dogs and let them stay

in the house she developed a phobia about the smell of her house. God forbid her house to smell of dog,

ever. Another habit. She lets this one slip and continues towards the study.

She enters and sits down on the hallowed author’s chair. Looking out the window in front of her desk

remembering that this window was the determining factor for her when she bought this house. The view

of the vast emptiness of the country she knew would be the muse for her writing. And it is. Many a book

has been written in front of this window. That is what she wanted. Why then is her life filled with such

hollowness? A handful of people can say that they live out their dreams on a full-time basis, even less can

say that they are well-known authors.

Years ago she prayed for a miracle in her life - that she can live her dream. The praying was so constant

and she was so determined that she received her wish seven years after starting the struggle of the knees.

She wonders if God would forgive her for the dream she thought she wanted. She has been living the

dream for fourteen years now. Travelling Africa and writing about it. What makes her travel books so

unique is the fact that they revolve around people living in places instead of mere areas on a map. What

wonderful people she has met in her live. People who survived so much and could still say with conviction

that this life is worth living. How she wishes she could have an ounce of their faith. On this particular

Sunday even hope would be enough, faith can be worked on later.

On the desk, her latest manuscript awaits. She could never get used to writing on a laptop like all the

modern writers of the day. Writing to her still needs the romance of pen on paper. On every Monday, her

assistant, Jesse, would come to the house and type the written pages of the week. This also had the

benefit of having some company in this huge house, even if it was just once a week. Jesse was a young law

student and he was probably the only man in all her life that bothered to make an effort to understand

her. There had been one other, twenty years ago. It seems like another life to her now. So many things

have changed in these last twenty years since his supposed love broke her heart. She looks down at her

left hand. The ring that she couldn’t get off still seated perfectly on her finger. The irony. Not only does

the ring remind her that she experienced love once, she also has the added benefit of an excuse for any

man who dared to get close to her. The wall around her heart, till this day she herself cannot explain.

Another habit maybe.

She places her wine glass on the coaster awaiting purpose on the desk, takes her cigarette and lights up

the first one for the day. She leans back and blows the smoke far up to the ceiling. She turns her chair

around and looks at the books surrounding her. These are the companions she chose in life. More often

than not, it is fulfilling. It is enough. It is just on Sundays that the human factor in her craves for the

security of arms surrounding her, a pair of eyes to speak to, ears to listen to her fears. Her mind tells her

that this yearning would become easier to quieten with the years, but the opposite is true.


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This Sunday should be reminding her of her life, her birth, instead it is reminding her of the sound of death

calling her name.

Nostalgia overwhelms her as her eyes focus on the bottom of the bookshelf. All her journals from twenty

years of living in solitaire. How many photos carrying memories that sipped the ink out of her pen, how

many moments of happiness, how many hours of despair. Mostly her journals contained prayers,

conversations with the Almighty followed by arguments with herself. Questions of the soul never stilled.

She bends down and picks up the first pile. She places herself on the cold tiles, arranging the books around

her. She picks up the first one. 1981 the cover confirms in embossed golden letters. The year that

changed it all. She was twenty five then and the world still seemed like a wrapped gift full of unwritten

happy endings. Not once did she consider the possibility that she was so fascinated with her dream that

she would have nothing left once she reached it. To travel Africa and write about it was the only dream

she had. What came after never crossed her mind.

She opens the book. His face jumps up from the page. She catches her breath in the privacy and security

of her solitaire. Her eyes move to her own face next to his, so young and free from worries. A different

woman completely to the one sitting on the coldness of the now. How different she imagined her future

on that beach years ago. Yet only the photo remained. Why he didn’t arrive on the day of their wedding

he never said. In her soul she knows that it was her obsession with the dream. The books and the writing

were always her first priority. He could sense that, she knows now in the wisdom the years brought. After

that, he decided to arrive when he married another woman. A better woman. It is a wound in her heart

that has no hope of healing. She touches his face on the photo. What ever happened to him? How did

the years change this face under her hand? All that matters is that he found the happiness that she didn’t.

What would she tell him if she had a chance, that she regretted having the dream without him in it, that

she would change it if she could. Sitting here now in the stillness of remembering, she doubts if she has

the energy to go back and change it?

She leaves the book lying on the floor, stands up, takes her glass and paces her study. Sits down again.

Then, indecisively, takes her writing pad, positioning it in the usual slanted way in front of her. This Sunday

will be the last. She picks up the pen. Who shall she write to? There is no-one that knows her soul. The

funeral will probably be publishers and media only. Jesse would contact the family in Australia, but would

they come? Does it matter? It’s been years since she last made contact.

She lets the tip of the pen meet with the top of the page.

Dear Jesse,


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He would be in just after eight tomorrow morning as usual. Strange that the only person she could write a

suicide note to is one that she doesn’t know at all. She tries to recall if he had ever mentioned a girl friend,

or where his parents stays. She is always too busy with her own battles, her world, her books.

She forces her attention back to the pen in her hand.

I have decided to end it, reasons being...

She looks out at the emptiness on the other side of the window. Which reasons should she choose to end

this life? She received everything that she prayed for. She wants the solitaire existence in a house out of

the city. She wants to be a world famous author and spend her days writing. What is it that she forgot to

ask for that could fulfil her at this age? What is this yearning in her that she can never label? This

unhappiness with the way her life turned out?

She lets the last sip of wine run down her throat and almost drops the glass as the doorbell shakes the

quietness surrounding her. She jumps up from the chair and mumbles to herself as she proceeds to the

front door.

‘Who on earth could be this insensitive to disturb the writing of a suicide note. Last piece of writing I will

ever do and having to fight the annoying noises of a doorbells. Imagine that. Only my luck.’

She opens the door in a huff. A strange face stares back without a word. The man is wearing a black t-shirt

with words printed in white: ‘Do I look like a people’s person?’. Polo jeans completes the outfit. A peculiar

smell makes it way into her environment. She tries to pinpoint it. Could it be cinnamon? No.

‘Yes.’ She fails to hide the irritation in her voice.

Could it be vanilla, no.

‘You called ma’am.’ He says with such determination that she wonders if there is an appointment in her

diary that slipped her mind.

‘I called who exactly?’

Marzipan. That’s the smell.

‘Well, you called me.’ He says with an unnatural fortitude.

‘And you are?’ Unease slips into her mind. Here she is talking to a complete, psychotic stranger with

nothing in between the two of them to prevent disaster from striking. A middle-aged man smelling of

marzipan can only mean...? The fact that she cant analyse this fact troubles her more than the odd

creature standing in front of her.


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‘Death.’

The conviction in his lifeless eyes leaves no question in her.

‘Well then, Mr. Death, might I say that you are rather ill mannered arriving at this hour, and that on a

Sunday of all days.’ She keeps her brave mask on and holds eye contact like antelope would a lion.

‘I apologise for barging in like this but things have been awfully quiet around these parts. Living out in the

country gives people no reason to call on me it seems. You can imagine my excitement when I received

your call. You know what they say about idleness. Don’t get me wrong, me and the devil had our

moments, friendship even if you want to get that emotional, but as the song says, even lovers need a

holiday, if you know what I mean.’

For a lack of anything more substantial to say she merely utters,

‘I’m sure your duty has it’s challenges.’ Her mind is rapidly racing through all the events of her life. The

memorable moments, others not so worthy of remembering, all while trying to buy time from the one man

who can take all that away in one moment.

‘Indeed ma’am, more than you know.’ He looks awkward suddenly, and she feels strangely sorry for this

lonely creature standing at her front door. She starts reasoning with herself: at least she has the dogs, she

has Jesse’s company also, she has the publishers and the media and alas all those books she still has to

read and somewhere across the ocean she does have family still even though she denies it out of an

undeniable matter of sour grapes. What a predicament this is.

‘You ready to go?’

‘If you put it that way, what can I say, it seems so final.’ Even in death the indecision will haunt her like a

shadow.

‘No better way to explain it. This is, as they say, it. End of the road, eternity, point of no return.’ His

selling skills are lacking and he realizes that she picks up on the weakness. He tries to save himself. He

looks up at the clouds as if recalling a list of activities while counting them down on his fingers. ‘But there’s

lots to do on the other side. Free boat trips, we can organize take-away meals from anywhere in the world,

Mexican’s my personal favourite.’

He glances her way to see if she is buying into his sales pitch. She makes sure to yawn behind her hand in

time for him to catch the sight of boredom.

‘Sounds deadly dull to me.’

He returns his gaze to the clouds and blinks quickly, almost fish-like.


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‘ But that’s not all,’ He tries to force out a smile but fails horribly and looks like a misplaced clown. ‘For the

young at heart, like yourself, we have outlandish decade-end functions that is rather rowdy. The last one

we threw caused a Tsunami which you must have read about in the newspapers.’

‘Let me ask you sir, do I look like the type who attends those kind of parties?’ She starts to take firm control

of the situation and becomes entertained by the desperation of Death wanting her buy in.

‘As a matter of fact, you don’t look like the type. My mistake. If I had to guess you are more of a classy

type. Live entertainment would be my guess. There is no lack whatsoever. We have Mr. Presley on a

Tuesday night at The Suede Inn, and on a Thursday we have Nirvana, unplugged (excuse the pun).’

His eyes revisits hers for a signal of corroboration. She lowers her eyes to the ground knowing that she

wants more than ever to live.

‘Look, Mr. Death, I understand where you’re coming from but let me explain...’

He takes a last stab at it.

‘The accommodation is to die for.’

‘I’m sure that you have a lot of offerings, but you know that sometimes, like now, life seems like the better

option. We have many good things here still, just sometimes we forget to look at them and also to

appreciate them.’

He stares at her more blankly than before. She starts to realize that he is in fact unable to show any type

of emotion. He starts rattling off speeding up his talk. This must be him being agitated.

‘I am always weary of a code 676 and there you proved it once again. Before you ask, code 676 is a middle-

aged person, mostly female if I can be so blunt, writing suicide notes and then decides not to go through

with it after all that.’ He lifts his right knee and brings his foot down relatively hard to the tiles underneath

it as a full-stop to his statement. Simone wonders if this could be his unhappy face as it remains

unchanged.

‘In my defence Sir, I am a writer and my portfolio includes varied writing skills, one of which is suicide notes.

Yes you can be sure to believe me. Very lucrative business I might add. I charge 10% of the value of the will

to the writing of one of these. So being out here making small talk to a complete stranger is costing me

money and loads of it. If you don’t mind, I need to get back to work. I suggest that you do the same.

Maybe try a different location. First rule in business, location, location, location. Try the cities. I have a

feeling that you might have an array of prospects in those regions. Was good to meet you. Good bye for

now.’ She shuts the door swiftly before her courage gives way under her. Leans with her back against the

door as if keeping it in tact against the monster outside. Her eyes shut tightly like a frightened child. In the


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darkness she finds herself in, she sees a tiny spec of light right in the centre of her shut vision. Could hope

be a tiny spec of light? Or is that what faith looks like?

After she manages to breath again, she opens her eyes and starts walking slowly towards her study. As she

walks past the bedroom she sees the dogs still fast asleep on the bed.

‘Bloody useless you are.’

She walks on shaking her head.

As she gets to her desk she opens the left top drawer. Takes out her telephone book, opens at T for travel

agent and starts dialling.

‘Susy...Hi Simone here. All good thanks. What’s the chance of organizing me a trip to Perth?’

She picks up one of the diaries lying on the floor and lets it fall in the bin. Life is indeed too short to be

wasting it on the past. She made bad decisions before, but today she will make better ones.

‘As soon as possible. Family visit, yes you are right. Haven’t seen them in years.’


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2.2 UNISA Creative Writing Portfolio – Dramatic Text

(Chosen theme: a. - a love triangle)

Character list

Sharon – A wealthy, good-looking, middle aged woman carrying a fit body and shoulder length blond hair.

Been Richard’s wife for about twenty years.

Richard – Sharon’s husband. A wealthy corporate, good-looking, slightly overweight, middle aged man.

Scarlett – A twenty four year old business student. Slender with short brown hair.

Anthony (The Chef) – An older man with looks that blends in to the background. He has been with the

family for many years and has learnt to stay in the shadows of these dramatic people.

Time is the present (2011) in the Northern Suburbs of Johannesburg

The Last Supper

Act One

Scene One

Bedroom.

The bed is slightly off-centre to the right of the stage. A bed lamp, on the left side of the bed, shines

amorously on a couple’s supposed love. Lilac sheets still disturbed by the action. The alarm clock next to his

side of the bed shines 19:14. RICHARD, a mid forty year old business man lies on his back while he lets the

smoke of his cigarette float carelessly up to the ceiling. His red satin boxers draping around him confirms

his age. Next to him a smiling twenty four year old business student, SCARLETT. She turns on her side,

supports herself on her elbow. The black satin from the sensual robe envelops her body.

SCARLETTE: Strange colour duvet for a bachelor.

She lets her young fingers play on his cheek. Richard stares up to the ceiling, clearly not in the mood for

senseless teenage game playing.

RICHARD: hmmm.

Distinct high-heeled, high paced footsteps can be heard from outside the room. Richard jumps up

frantically, drops the cigarette on the luxurious carpet and grabs his T-shirt from the beige couch in front of

the bed. SHARON, his wife, of twenty years, opens the door of her bedroom (on the left side of the stage).

She switches on the lights in the room. She is dressed in one of her characteristic black, tight-fitting suits


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that compliments her figure and her independence. Her blond hair hangs over her shoulders. The

highlights in-between the shades of blond and the manicured nails show on a woman that takes pride in

her image. She takes one step forward in her high-heeled black shoes, then stops. She stares at the two of

them in amazement. First at Richard, then at Scarlett. Her eyes return to Richard and pause.

SHARON: Darling?

Richard lowers his head and leaves it hanging. He starts shaking it from side to side as if to wake himself

from this nightmare. Sharon stares at him intensely. He looks up at her in due course.

RICHARD: Thought you’re in Cape Town.

Sharon walks over to the dressing table at the back of the stage and places her bag, sunglasses and phone

on it. She turns back and faces Richard.

SHARON: Thought you’re faithful.

Richard drops his head once again and stares at the hole smouldering slowly in the carpet. He looks at

Scarlett while pointing to Sharon.

RICHARD: This is...

SHARON: Next time I’ll phone dearest, to save you the embarrassment.

She notices the burning carpet.

SHARON: Pick up that thing Richard, no need to ruin a perfectly decadent carpet.

She looks at Scarlett. She walks over to her side of the bed while Scarlett is still lying motionlessly. Frozen

in shock and fear.

SHARON: And who is your lovely friend? You should have warned me that we’re entertaining guests

tonight. (A smirk of sarcasm appears on her face. Without waiting for the speechless Richard to answer,

she reaches out her hand to Scarlett.) Hello. Wife. Pleased to meet you.

Scarlett stares at her wide-eyed. She folds the robe more tightly around her. Hugs herself with her arms.

The wall of fear and confusion closing up against Sharon and her outreached hand.

SHARON: Well then, I’m sure you two are both exhausted. I’ll go see if supper is ready. Freshen up and

come down to the dining room.


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Sharon walks to the door. As she reaches the door she turns back and looks at Richard. He looks at her

almost pleading. She turns around and walks back to the dressing table, pick up her bag and just before

she exits, turns back to face Scarlett.

SHARON: Would you mind to bring my robe downstairs when you come down. I’m sure it needs a wash.

She exits (on the left side of the stage) closing the door behind her.

Scarlett looks down at the robe, takes the collar in her hand, brings it to her nose and smells it. She turns to

Richard.

SCARLETTE: Her Robe? Thought you bought it for me? Is this whole thing some freakin’ joke?

RICHARD: That’s what my wife thinks apparently. (He start putting on his T-shirt and some trousers. He

keeps on talking, almost to himself.) With her you never know. Like the weather I tell you.

SCARLETT: Thanks for informing me about your psycho spouse. I’ll get dressed and leave you to your

marital bliss. Don’t you dare to ever contact me ever again. I should have known when I walked into this

house that there is too much of a woman’s touch in here for you to be a bachelor.

Scarlett picks up her clothes lying on the floor next to her side of the bed and walks to the back of the stage.

As she walks past Richard she stops for a second and faces him.

SCARLETT: Bloody swindler.

She proceeds to the bathroom door at the right of the stage, opens the door and disappears off stage.

Richard walks to the front of the stage.

RICHARD: (An aside to the audience.) It’s going to be a long night.

The lights of the stage fade.

Last Scene

Dining Room

The table is in the centre of the stage and is laid in only the finest. Crystal wine glasses accompanying each

weighty porcelain plate. The huge antique wall clock on the wall at the back of the stage shows 19: 55.

Sharon stands next to the oak table, facing the audience, as she unpacks the silver cutlery out of a heavy

wooden box. The two sinners enters the room. Richards is wearing his usual rather formal beige pants with

a long sleeved pinstriped shirt. Scarlett is wearing denims with a lacy top completed with high heeled boots.


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She is holding her suede bright red jacket in her left hand and her matching red bag in her right hand. They

remain standing nervously close to the door on the left side of the stage.

SHARON: There seems to be a knife missing out of the set my love. (She walks over to where he is

standing and turns her back to Richard.) Won’t you please look to see, I have the strangest feeling that it’s

stuck in my back.

Richard walks past her to his usual seat at the end of the table (on the left side of the stage)and sits down

without entertaining her sarcasm. Scarlett, almost lost, follows him and goes to stand at the chair closest

to his, on his left side, placing her just off the centre of the stage. Sharon walks past the seated Richard and

the still standing Scarlett and takes her place in at the back of the table. She turns to face Scarlett and

gestures with her hand to the chair in front of where Scarlett is standing.

SHARON: Have a seat my dear. The food is ready and I’m going to open a lovely bottle of Merlot in a

minute.

Sharon starts walking to the wine rack on the right side of the stage. Scarlett’s eyes follows Sharon timidly.

SCARLETTE: Unfortunately, I cant stay for supper ma’am.

Sharon proceeds without acknowledging the comment. She scans through the wines and then selects the

Merlot. She walks back to the table and starts opening the bottle. Two pairs of nervous eyes continuing to

follow her every move. Sharon goes to stand in between Richard and Scarlett.

SHARON: Ma’am. She just called me ma’am, did you hear that darling. (She forces out a laugh.) Come to

think of it, I never did catch your name my dear. (She lifts her chin in Scarlett’s direction as if to hear more

clearly.)

SCARLETT: Scarlett (almost whispering)

Sharon lifts her chin a bit higher.

SHARON: You are going to have to speak up my child. After twenty years of hearing bullshit from the

husband ears ultimately get affected.

Richard looks up at her and rolls his eyes. He takes the bottle from her and starts to open it.

SHARON: Thank you dearest. Appreciate the assistance. (She turns to Scarlett again.) You said Scarlett?

Scarlett keeps her face down as she answers.

SCARLETTE: Yes ma’am.


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SHARON: Ma’am...(laughing)

Sharon moves to the right side of the table. Pulls out a chair and sits down. She takes the newspaper that

is lying on that side of the table for her perusal and starts to unfold it.

SHARON: You know I saw movie once about woman who was brought up with good values but developed a

lot of bad habits.

Richard realizes where the conversation is heading and intervenes by standing up and walking over to

Sharon’s side of the table. He places the open bottle in front of her.

RICHARD: Sharon stop it!

Sharon suddenly slams her fists on the table and her smile disappears. She keeps eye contact with the

frightened girl like a lioness on her prey.

SHARON: Scarlett sweetie, let me inform you that you will sit on that chair this minute and you will sit

there until ‘ma’am’ tells you to stand up. (She turns to challenge Richard with the same stare.) Whoever

wishes to leave tonight will have get the door key out of my pocket first. We will discover who is brave

enough to dare.

Scarlett sits down obediently. Richard walks back to his seat and follows Scarlett’s example of submission.

Sharon grabs the bottle of Merlot, walks over to Richard and first fills his glass. She walks around the back

of Richards chair to fill Scarlett’s glass. Just as she is about to pour she lifts the bottle from the glass.

SHARON: Are you old enough to be using alcohol my dear?

Richard looks up at her from his uncomfortable chair at the head of the table.

RICHARD: Sharon, could you please stop this absurdity?

SHARON: Well in that case, drink up my dear. (She proceeds to fill Scarlett’s glass.) I’ve found after twenty

two years of marriage that the more you drink the better he looks.

Sharon walks back to her seat, fills her glass and gets back to her newspaper. She starts paging through it.

SHARON: I take it your day was good then darling. Mine was such a rush I didn’t even get a change to page through the paper yet.

She turns the page.

SHARON: How marvellously creative, listen to this my darling. (She starts reading the heading of the newspaper) A California woman was charged with torture on Wednesday after authorities said she cut off


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her husband's...(Sharon clears her throat) you know what, with a kitchen knife and ground it up in a garbage disposal…(She looks at Richard).

SHARON: Can you imagine such a thing my dear? (She looks at Scarlett.) Can you imagine? (The two of them stares at her with unease, not knowing where this is going. Sharon looks back to the paper and starts reading further) Catherine Kieu, 48, is accused of tying her sleeping husband to a bed with nylon ropes, pulling down his pants and slicing off his…you know what. Ha! (She carries on reading to herself with her finger following her eyes) I wonder what the poor man could have done to bring her to such fury. (She looks up at Scarlett) Any idea my sweets?

The Chef enters from the back right side of the stage. He walks over to the table and opens the three dishes

placed in the middle of the table. Mixed vegetables, roast potatoes and lamb shank. He exist the stage

exactly where he entered. Sharon looks into the dish in front of her.

SHARON: He’s prepared lamb. How wonderfully appropriate. (She raises her glass to the two of them in a

toast.) To the slaughter we go. (She takes big gulps of wine, empties the glass and fills it again.)

RICHARD: Enough of this. (He lets his fists come down loud on the table.) Have you gone utterly insane?

SHARON: I certainly can ask you that question my love. I suggest that when you take your friend home

you stay there. I don’t eat left-over’s. I will send the letter of divorce to your office. I don’t want to know

where the two of you stay. As far as I’m concerned Timbuktu will be too damn close.

Richard stands up from the table in a fury. His chair falls as his weight pushes it back. He walks to her side

of the table, leaning with his hands on the table.

RICHARD: You know the first time I saw you, I was convinced that your face was the most striking I have

ever seen and ever will again. Through the years of marriage you have persistently pushed me aside, out

of your busy schedule. Its always this project or that, its always this AGM or that charity’s monthly

meeting. Then its this beauty salon and that hair styling appointment and somewhere along the line you

have forgotten me completely. I have reduced into the shadow next to you. I think tonight was the first

night in months that we sat around the dinner table at the same time.

Richard’s face turned crimson. His neck veins visible.

Scarlett stands up slowly out of view from both predators. She walks backwards keeping her eyes on the

two. She feels for the doorknob to the supposed kitchen where the chef disappeared out of.

RICHARD: Damn Sharon, where did we go wrong?

SHARON: Where did we go wrong? Where did we go wrong? (She lets go of the game and starts

screaming) You! Where did you go wrong? You forget that for a good part of our marriage you so enjoyed


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my dependence on you, the control you had over every one of your cents that I spent. And the day I

became self-sufficient with my company you longed for the dictatorship you lost. Never again will you

have me on my knees like your slut was an hour ago. That’s why you like them young, isn’t it?

Richard leans up from the table, stands up straight, pulls out the chair next to Sharon and slumps himself

down upon it. He leans over and reaches for the bottle of Merlot which he then proceeds to drink out of.

He takes a sip, then another. It turns into gulps.

RICHARD: You call it dictatorship, I call it love. Come to think of it now, we’ve have always been on

different pages.

SHARON: And your youngster’s on your page now is she?

Scarlett appears from the door at the back of the stage. Her bag still lying on the chair next to where she

sat containing her precious car keys. Sharon looks back at her and reveals a pistol from her jacket’s pocket.

She stand up with the pistol visible in her hand.

SHARON: You...!

A gunshot can be heard just as the lights fade.

The curtains close.


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3.1 English Poem

Always the passion

Always the passion I recall

from the fights in the front garden,

the bustling of on-looking curtains,

to the crazed journeys to Knysna

with Rodriques and freedom in our hair,

to the jealousy in your eyes

when I flirted so naively.


from the foolscap letter I wrote and rewrote

and later destroyed,

the making of movies in the backyard

where you always walked away with the Oscar,

to the finalizing of passports

to earn pounds in a world not ruled by the Rand.


from the love we made and killed

in a balancing act of plaid on pulp,

the intense spooning of two frightened souls

in an empty house with empty cupboards,

to the tears from both our eyes

that filled the world. Tinka Oberholzer 2007


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3.2 Afrikaans Poems

Vir die oudag

As jy eendag terugdink aan hierdie Kaapse dag,

onthou die wind wat jou hare teen jou lipgloss lippe bly vaswaai het

en hoe jy dit aanvaar het sonder om te begin tel.

Vergeet die woede wat jy gevoel het op Drie-Anker-baai

toe jy uitvind dat kultuur-lose wesens daar durf sit.

Onthou hoe jy jou hart gevang het net voor sy die vloer getref het,

hoe jy haar toegedraai het in koerant

soos vis en tjips op die kaai met voels overhead

wat raas en stink en pla.

Vergeet hoe geen plek meer soos huis ruik nie

en hoe jy dit op hiedie dag nie ongewoon gevind het nie.

Onthou die prentjie van die berg wat so vreemd-bekend gelyk het

en hoe jy teen sy skaduwee gewonder het oor die stilte van n god.

Vergeet dat jy gehuil het toe jy in die vreemdheid inkruip om te slaap

en die masker langs jou op die kussing laat rus het.

Onthou dat jy op hierdie dag at least jonk was,

independent ook.

Wat meer is daar tog as die eenvoudigheid van vryheid?

Vergeet dat alle mense vir jou begin vreemd voel,

nie net die wat hier langs die berg bly nie,

die ook wie se naam soos stempels op jou bloed gedruk is.

Onthou dat jy nog op hierdie dag society in die oe gekyk het


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en uit volle bors BOGGER JULLE geskree het.

Vergeet dat jy Oom Breyten se boek teen jou bors vasgedruk het en

met al jou durf gewens het dat jy nooit begin droom het van skryf nie.

Onthou dat jy op hierdie dag nog nie bang was vir die einde nie

en gedink het dat jy nog die parmatigheid van jeug vir altyd

soos n handsak oor jou skouer sal dra.

Vergeet van die skuldgevoel oor jy weereens Coke gekoop het

inplaas van n gesonde vrugtesappie wat jou sou laat glo het dat jy langer sal leef.

Onthou die genot van die oomblik toe jy in die weggesteekde boekwinkeltjie inloop

en tussen die rake geloop en hoop het dat die hemel eendag soos boeke sal ruik.

Vergeet van die plooi wat een dag nader gekom het

en hoe jy verwildered ekstra serum op die begin van die lyne om die mondhoeke gesmeer het.

Onthou hoe jy Bob Dylan kliphard in die gastehuis geluister het

afwagtend op die klop vir stilte, of dalk die stilte self.

Vergeet van gister en al sy miserable moments.

Onthou vandag.

Vergeet en

onthou

vandag.

Tinka Oberholzer

(geskryf 2 November 2011 na n middag op Drie-Anker baai)


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4.Qualifications

4.1 Senior Certificate

4.2 Film & Broadcasting

4.3 SA Writer’s College – Proofreading and Copy-Editing Course Certificate


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writing portfolio aug 2016

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