Dear Writer: Love, Africa, by Jeffrey Gettleman

Jeffrey and Courtenay on assignment for the NY Times

Dear Jeffrey -

I was so looking forward to reading this book.  I am headed to Africa in a few short months - Ethiopia to be precise -  and I wanted to learn, to glean, to educate myself about this vast content and your experiences. But I'm very sad to say that it did not live up to my high expectations.

You begin with this strong sentence

"A whispy Somali man named Abdi Farah sat across from me, close enough for me to smell the Frankincense smoke he used to perfume his clothes. It was a light but unmistakable scent that cut through the cafe's other smells of sweat, French fries, and roasting goat meat." 

I love this scene.  You are taking me to Africa.  I'm tasting, I'm smelling, I'm seeing.  I'm in a different world.  But so quickly, in my opinion, so, so, very quickly, this book falls into a narrative of yourself.  The very prologue is describing how your actions got you and Courtenay and the people who trusted you in the Ogedan desert, into really serious danger. If I had been more astute, I should have realized at the outset of this book that you were going to guide me into a story of self absorbed decisions. This scene was a harbinger of things to come.

And then, you describe your fraternity life in Chapter One:

"Sam gazed down at the weenies (first year fraternity brothers) and then opened his mouth and vomited on them - Derek, from Baltimore - reached up, face distraught, and slowly felt the gooey chunks in his hair. We all pointed at him and howled." 

And for me, a narrator is like a companion. I have to trust that narrator.  You kind of lose me, Jeffrey, with your ability to tolerate this environment.  I already liked you a little less because you were part of something so distasteful to me. Remember, I'm a hopeless romantic, and words have the ability to take my breath away, and I crave those moments in books. At this point, in Chapter One, my nose is a little crinkled up and I'm feeling a little bit guarded, and a little apprehensive that this book won't be one of those stories that "start to mean everything."

And not that I'm judging, because I'm really trying not to judge, but the distrust continues with your second trip to Africa.  Sneaking into Mt Kilimanjaro National Park does not seem like an adventure filled journey.  It feels like a rich, White, entitled guy not respecting the rules and laws of the country he is visiting!  National Parks, to me, feel sacred, and you are trashing it with your disregard for this named, sacred area. You loose me a little more with this.  

And then you lose me again, and again, and again.  Your affairs while Courtenay is waiting for you - your multiple affairs.  Come on!  

You write: 

"Want, want, want.  Take, take, take. Me, me, me. I guess I always had a selfish streak.  But living alone for so many years, usually far away from friends and family, people who would have been more than happy to call me on my faults, and constantly trying to do whatever it took to inch up the journalism ladder had amplified my self-centeredness to a new level that now seems almost hard to recognize". 

But this selfishness is splattered through the very words your write on the page. Not to be mean, Jeffrey, (this is my first Dear Writer blogpost after all, and I really didn't want to be so critical!) but when you wrote this memoir, it seems you were still stuck on the selfish side. 

And that brings me to my question.  What was the point of you writing this memoir?  Were you trying to shed light on Africa?  Were you trying to shed light on the profession of journalism?  Were you trying to shed light on terrorism and the evil within all of us?  I wish I had closed this book with more of a sense of what you were trying to convey, rather than more of you - and all the ways you hurt Courtenay and sought your own agenda - in every single way. Even with the Pulitzer.  

To me, this book almost felt like you were trying to make yourself feel better by confessing all your sins to the world.  I wish I didn't feel like that was what you were trying to do, but it is.  

And now, as a writing side note, I want to comment on your actual writing. Please understand, you are obviously a professional writer; I am not.  You are published; I am not.  So, I am not one to offer you advice, but it is just a little suggestion that someday might be helpful to you.  To be critical and nit-picky, you throw in the people and the events as facts, rather than weaving a story.  This is what I mean:

"Roko, who I have known since sixth grade and come with me on the first Dan trip in 1990. He was one of my best friends growing up, and when I told him I was thinking of dropping out of college to travel the world, we immediately began scheming."

It feels like I could understand and relate to your story better if you introduced Roko ON your first trip when you were describing it earlier in your memoir.  Tell me something delightful, something quirky, something that is unique about your best friend and that makes Roko feel like he would be a good best friend for me too.  Instead, you just kind of talk about yourself and the things you do, like a checklist almost, and then introduce Roko to me when he comes in handy for more of your checklist of things you did on your Africa journey. You do this for many people and events in your memoir.  The actual narration of people and who they are was lost in your description of your life. All I got was you.  I wanted more of everything else that was in your life; Africa, writing, people.

Anyway, Jeffrey, that's all I have to say about your book.  I could go on, but you and I both probably don't need that. I'm actually glad I read your book - I did learn more about the politics of Eastern Africa - and it made me more grateful for the man I am married to.  He is not like you as you describe yourself in this book, Jeffrey; and for that, I am thankful.

Good luck to you and your beautiful family.

Angie