Star of the Stories

Speech for Harland Davenport Induction to UK Literary Society by Amanda Greenfield

24 May 2024

To the esteemed members of the UK Literary Society, – my fellow writers who create worlds out of words --- good evening. I would firstly like to say that I truly appreciate this opportunity to speak before you. I’m very happy to take to the podium for this momentous occasion. I’m equally ecstatic that this rather pricey bright pink silk Stella McCartney dress still fits my expanding belly.

(Pause for laughs)

As you all know, we are gathered here to induct one of the country’s most trailblazing authors into the Society’s Hall of Fame. If you have been inside a bookstore in Britain in the past five years, you would most certainly come across Harland Davenport’s two novels flying off the shelves. Go to any café in the anglophone world, and you would see seats occupied by avid readers toting the familiar scarlet covers of “Stories from the Field of Flowers” and “Heat” near their eyes, heads plunged into the worlds the titles offer. His unique style of penning a long narrative with two perspectives has been widely discussed in classrooms from Los Angeles to Lima to London. He has won several awards from bodies across the globe. True to what the press has dubbed him, our new Hall of Fame inductee is indeed “The Rising Star of UK Literature”.

However, before we call him up to receive his plaque, I just wanted to take this opportunity of being here before all of you to thank the Rising Star for being a personal star. I don’t think it’s a secret that the day I discovered his tomes and they were in my orbit, things have never been the same for me; of course, it’s not at all hidden because I speak about that to anyone I know.

(Pause for laughs)

Seriously, though, the reason I had begged for a speaking spot at this tribute event is because I have a lot of things inside me, burning like a supernova, that I’m grateful to him for. If you do not mind, let me tell you how the Rising Star became well, a ray of light for me.

A star is, essentially, a blazing ball of gas, and reading Harland’s books for the first time made me feel that same warm fire inside me. After the well-received release of my collection of short stories “The Phonograph” in 2018, I had essentially been feeling a bit of a slump in my writing career. After feeling the radiance of seeing my chapbook reach the bestseller lists and grinning as glowing reviews from various publications poured in for my work, I found myself facing my laptop, all my inspiration turning to a mere black dwarf. I joined conferences, participated in workshops across the UK --- all just to be able to reignite that spark, to find the Polaris to my next project, but it was to no avail.

Then, one day, I passed by a Waterstones and saw “Stories from the Field of Flowers” on the shelves. It was as if some gravitational pull was drawing me to it, as if I had to read it like the roses need the rain. I purchased it, immediately sat in the study devouring it, and just immediately was besotted with the words. Once I started it, I just could not put it down. I took it with me on the train, in restaurants, everywhere. It was as if every single object on Earth was eclipsed by the lines and dialogues in his opus. That’s when I realised that this was the way I wanted to create tales; I wanted that when I release them out into the vast galaxy of readers, it would stay with them and pierce their hearts like a sun beam.

Stars were once the tools navigators used to map out the world, and Harland’s work unwittingly was indeed a guide to me, as I crafted my own narratives, for my own voice to emerge. The more I read both of his paperbacks, the more I absorbed his prowess as a maker of worlds, as if I were the black expanse of space taking in starlight. As I gasped finding out who the secret narrator of his debut novel was, as my jaw dropped at the twists and turns of “Heat”, I decided to incorporate some of his pieces’ elements in my own writing, be a sort of moon to his sun of stories.

Then, one day, I found myself writing in a style that was distinctly me, as if I were a heavenly body that found my own orbit and had been upgraded to a planet. Whilst, yes, I still found myself infusing his love of unexpected endings and character reveals in my own little creations, I developed a very symbol and imagery-heavy approach. It was like his books were shiny shuttle wings that help me land on the surface of who I am as a writer. For that, I will always be thankful to him.

However, I must admit before all of you that Harland Davenport had not only helped me progress lightyears in my own pursuit of weaving tapestries of words, but also touched bits of my life outside of literature, believe it or not.

A star illuminates, and it was because of the love story at the centre of “Stories from the Field of Flowers” that I realised the five-year engagement I was in was sucking out all the light in me like a black hole. As I lapped up the tender moments in the meadow of tulips between the angel Mishael and the mortal Theophania, I could not help swooning… and yearning for just a single flower from my partner at the time. As the female lead serenaded her seraphim in the title, I couldn’t help hearing every note…and wishing I could also sing around the flat without my ex-fiancé calling me exhausting or throwing a plate, sending food splattering on the walls like misshapen stars.

Then, one day, I packed my suitcases and left the door for the last time, quick as a rocket blasting off.

Stars can also join up with its fellow gaseous bodies and form constellations. A week after joining a forum for fans of Harland’s work, I had mentioned stumbling in the night as I produced my own pieces. The day after I posted, I woke up to a message from one Marc Cabot reassuring me that it was normal to feel lost in space when you create and to not let the slump get to me. Soon, we were discussing our day jobs, family, music; our friendship deepened, as if plunging to the Earth’s core. When we decided to meet one day at a green-filled Brixton café, every conversation floated deftly like it hung in the atmosphere.

Then, one day, Marc and I….well, all of you know what comes after.

Harland, to reiterate, you are indeed “The Rising Star of UK Literature --- the recipient of many a prize and trophy, including the one you’ll receive tonight. To me, though, you are my star. I just wanted to take the time to recognise that. Congratulations, you truly deserve it.

Thank you.

***

I waddle down the steps of the stage when Marc’s muscular hand grabs mine and leads me to my seat at the very front of the stage. From right next to him, I see his hazel eyes sparkle like a universe full of celestial orbs.

“So proud of you,” his melodious voice hums. His mouth is stretched like a honey-like half-moon.

“Really ? I mean, I think I was rambling…and I don’t know if it’s okay. I mean… what do you think?”

A large left hand softly touches my slightly swollen belly as gleaming pair of chestnut orbs look into mine.

“I think you were perfect, My Star,” Marc replies. “I know she thinks so too.”

“You are. After all, you’re…”

“And now, of course, the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Let’s please call on Harland Davenport to the stage to receive his plaque.”

Marc stares at me for five more seconds before sighing.

“Do I have to? Can’t I just stay with you?”

“Oh, but Mr. Davenport, The Star of the Stories,” I shoot back, a mischievous grin on my face. “Your prize awaits.”

A smile more scintillating than a luminous night sky paints itself across Marc’s face as he cups my cheek and kisses me, making me see stars.

“You are the star of my story and my prize.”