NEEM VERANTWOORDELIKHEID VIR JOU EIE SKRYFTALENT!
SKRYWERS HET DRIE KEUSES.
EERSTENS: OM VIA KREATIV SA GEPUBLISEER TE WORD,
TWEEDENS, OM SLEGS MANUSKRIPTE DRUKGEREED TE MAAK MET DIE HULP VAN KREATIV SA, OF
DERDENS, OM SELFPUBLIKASIE ONDER EIE VAANDEL (NAAM) AAN TE PAK.
LAASGENOEMDE OPSIE WORD STEEDS GEREGISTREER MET EIE ISBN.
Hieronder is voorbeelde van opsie een en drie.
EERSTENS: OM VIA KREATIV SA GEPUBLISEER TE WORD,
TWEEDENS, OM SLEGS MANUSKRIPTE DRUKGEREED TE MAAK MET DIE HULP VAN KREATIV SA, OF
DERDENS, OM SELFPUBLIKASIE ONDER EIE VAANDEL (NAAM) AAN TE PAK.
LAASGENOEMDE OPSIE WORD STEEDS GEREGISTREER MET EIE ISBN.
Hieronder is voorbeelde van opsie een en drie.
KREATIV SA ... en mooi MENSE en GELEENTHEDE ...
SELFPUBLIKASIE?
SELFPUBLIKASIE is dikwels die enigste wyse waarop die intense passie in jou hart, om jou verhaal te vertel, tot sigbaarheid kan kom: hetsy deur poësie, poëtiese prosa, prosa, of visueel-ouditief, deur middel van foto's, skilderye, e-boeke of oudio-leggers. KREATIV SA is die vinnigste en mees professionele roete vir die self-publiseerder. Dit is wanneer die publikasie onder die skrywer se eie naam registreer word en nie onder die vaandel van KREATIV SA nie. Selfpublikasies kan geborg word vir verdienstelike manu- skripte. Skakel asseblief met my in hierdie verband. [email protected] |
SELF PUBLICATION?
SELF PUBLICATION often is the only way by which the intense passion in your heart to tell your story may materialize: through poetry, poetic prose, prose, or audio-visually through photos, paintings, e-books or audio-files. KREATIV SA is the fastest and the most professional route for the self publisher. This option is relevant when the author register the publication under his or her OWN name and not under that of KREATIV SA. Sponsorship is available for manuscripts of merit. Please contact me in this regard. [email protected] |
KREATIV SA-publikasies 2018 - 2023
KREATIV SA-publikasies 2015 - 2017
Lydia Agenbag het drie pragtige voorbladkunswerke voorgelê vir die KREATIV SA-saamstelbundels hierbo.
IVAN KOOPMAN
Prediker, skrywer, motiveringspreker, sanger, paramedikus
KREATIV SA-KINDERVERHALE
KREATIV SA-SKRYWERSFAMILIE MET VERSKEIE PUBLIKSIES
SELFPUBLIKASIES VIA KREATIV SA
Sommige skrywers verkies om hul eie bundels onder hul eie naam te publiseer. KREATIV SA help graag!
Stories uit 'n Straat deur Amanda Kriel
Stories uit 'n Straat (biografie) word geborg deur CORDIS TRUST, Pretoria. Die boek val in die genré skryfterapie, veral vir die neurologies-gestremde. Amanda Kriel vertel van haar ernstige beroerte en die bykans algehele herstel daarna.
Dankie sê die traan in my oog
wat op 'n droë blaar val
en dit verkwik
om weer regop te kan staan
teen die storms van bestaan!
Amanda Kriel
KREATIV SA laat tyd stilstaan, vir jou, ten einde jou toe te laat om jou eie nis te vind binne jou stilte.
KREATIV SA entices time to stand still, for you, in order to let you find your own niche within your silence.
Sometimes one needs to be silent, and listen to the soul, wanting to bleed itself empty on paper. For only then it will be able to be filled anew.
KREATIV SA helps writers to make their silence audible.
KREATIV SA helps writers to make their silence audible.
When Time stood Still ... for Me
by Myra Lochner
I need to walk with you in mellow autumn afternoons, do you know? For a picture like this makes me think of transition: from summer to winter. Precious reader, let me tell you of that day when Time stood still, for me.
There once was a reading room, in the middle of a big park. Trees turned color and pathways were covered in a musical carpet of subtle rustle.
I walked toward the half hidden building and saw the door of heavy oak, with an ancient iron knob, was slightly ajar.
Inside there was not a single soul in sight, but bookshelves and very old books lined the walls. The sun glided into the room, weaving moving drapes against antique-cream walls.
I stood watching for a long time: wanting to walk toward the center of the room to dance on the old tapestry covering the wooden floor. But, I had respect for the solitude of all those books; for the sun in its private visit. And I looked intensely and saw the old covers, basking in golden light; the sensual search of sun over old weathered leather.
My soul turned in slow, gentle waltz. Then, finally, as from a dream, an old man came toward me and asked: "May I be of help?"
"No, thank you," I said, "I am merely looking at the time in passing."
He smiled and responded: "Here Time stands still." I knew he meant: in books.
"For one moment it moved with me, then," I whispered, "for I danced within its twirl."
The silence broken, I turned to leave.
Outside, the breeze fell to my feet, holding on. I stopped. The autumn rustle was still.
I knew at that very moment Time stood still ... exactly then, and … especially for me.
Center of His World
by Myra Lochner
Once there was a little boy, staying on a farm. Since his early childhood he was seen as somewhat separated from the family. He had a mind of his own. His father did not understand this little boy. Actually, he did not wish to understand, for he never could think outside his small little world of security. He could not relate to the silent agony in the boy's gaze.
The boy’s mother did what all mothers do: she tried to find a solution acceptable to all. So, she encouraged the little boy to at least go watch the farm activities, instead of staying indoors.
But I do not WANT to go!
Why not?
I cannot stand seeing the calf on its leash; the donkey pulling the wheel, round and round, and the workers not speaking.
The mother was alarmed. It is so that those who are not like you, do not see like you … or take value like you do. She did her very best to remember this principle. Softly she comforted:
But how will you ever know how to farm, if you do not accept these things?
I will NOT FARM!
The little boy ran outside and away from her tearing eyes.
Soon he stood in front of the tied calf. He went up to the post, his hand on the knot at the end of the leash. The calf walked round and round. The boy stood crying, his face pressed to the post.
Suddenly he realized he could not move. He was roped to the pole, entangled in a circle of captivity.
This is where they found him – tightly bound to post and the calf, crying.
He cried at being caught there; at being expected to be there. He cried, not for that calf, but at feeling forced to be it.
He then realized: nothing would stop him from making certain that the calf wasn’t him. Ever.
He never became a farmer.
____________________________________________________________________________________________
I need to walk with you in mellow autumn afternoons, do you know? For a picture like this makes me think of transition: from summer to winter. Precious reader, let me tell you of that day when Time stood still, for me.
There once was a reading room, in the middle of a big park. Trees turned color and pathways were covered in a musical carpet of subtle rustle.
I walked toward the half hidden building and saw the door of heavy oak, with an ancient iron knob, was slightly ajar.
Inside there was not a single soul in sight, but bookshelves and very old books lined the walls. The sun glided into the room, weaving moving drapes against antique-cream walls.
I stood watching for a long time: wanting to walk toward the center of the room to dance on the old tapestry covering the wooden floor. But, I had respect for the solitude of all those books; for the sun in its private visit. And I looked intensely and saw the old covers, basking in golden light; the sensual search of sun over old weathered leather.
My soul turned in slow, gentle waltz. Then, finally, as from a dream, an old man came toward me and asked: "May I be of help?"
"No, thank you," I said, "I am merely looking at the time in passing."
He smiled and responded: "Here Time stands still." I knew he meant: in books.
"For one moment it moved with me, then," I whispered, "for I danced within its twirl."
The silence broken, I turned to leave.
Outside, the breeze fell to my feet, holding on. I stopped. The autumn rustle was still.
I knew at that very moment Time stood still ... exactly then, and … especially for me.
Center of His World
by Myra Lochner
Once there was a little boy, staying on a farm. Since his early childhood he was seen as somewhat separated from the family. He had a mind of his own. His father did not understand this little boy. Actually, he did not wish to understand, for he never could think outside his small little world of security. He could not relate to the silent agony in the boy's gaze.
The boy’s mother did what all mothers do: she tried to find a solution acceptable to all. So, she encouraged the little boy to at least go watch the farm activities, instead of staying indoors.
But I do not WANT to go!
Why not?
I cannot stand seeing the calf on its leash; the donkey pulling the wheel, round and round, and the workers not speaking.
The mother was alarmed. It is so that those who are not like you, do not see like you … or take value like you do. She did her very best to remember this principle. Softly she comforted:
But how will you ever know how to farm, if you do not accept these things?
I will NOT FARM!
The little boy ran outside and away from her tearing eyes.
Soon he stood in front of the tied calf. He went up to the post, his hand on the knot at the end of the leash. The calf walked round and round. The boy stood crying, his face pressed to the post.
Suddenly he realized he could not move. He was roped to the pole, entangled in a circle of captivity.
This is where they found him – tightly bound to post and the calf, crying.
He cried at being caught there; at being expected to be there. He cried, not for that calf, but at feeling forced to be it.
He then realized: nothing would stop him from making certain that the calf wasn’t him. Ever.
He never became a farmer.
____________________________________________________________________________________________
ENKELE OUER KREATIV SA-PUBLIKASIES
Hart-Mosaïek: vir Fanie Marais
'n Ondersteunings- en gedenkpublikasie vir Dr. Fanie Marais, Uitvoerende Trustee van CORDIS TRUST, Pretoria
Nota Bene: Voete in die Sandput
Die lewensverhaal van 'n jong predikant en haar stryd om binne kerkstrukture aanvaar te word.
Laventel & Landou
'n Publikasie saamgestel uit die werk van lede van my FACEBOOK-groep, Toek-A-frikaans.
Ek ontvang die eerste oplaag van die Kanadese digter, Margaret Gibson, se debuutbundel, "complete - 101 sonnets".
Lees meer ook KREATIV SA-publikasies by www.kreativ.org.za