At night, words are bubbling up from the depths of my conscience and they won’t let me sleep. I could write a whole novel in one breath, yet I feel paralyzed by the fear that I’ll lose “a good night’s sleep” and ruin my next day, so I keep struggling, one foot out of the duvet at a time, stretching my muscles, I’m so tense one would think I was carrying rocks on my back all day long, not interpreting.
Summer is gone. Instead, the rain has come and washed over its last traces, making me cringe inside and not feel like leaving the house. Fortunately, Sam is with me and I have to walk him, otherwise, I would have invented any number of excuses not to get wet. I don’t have rubber boots any more, I threw them out when I moved, suddenly they felt ugly and dirty (they were red!) and I couldn’t be bothered to clean them up. haha! Now I need to find a pair of black ones, so the dirt won’t show.
This days all I ever feel like doing is write, but it seems I have nothing to write about. It feels like stories are buried under my skin, where the thought can’t touch them, they need to be lured out and I don’t know how. Also I don’t feel like disclosing anything about anyone close to me, so all I can write about is me, but I don’t exist in a void, I’m a contextual person, so you see my dilemma.
The rain depresses me, I hate getting wet. There’s a grey mist outside my window and the cobwebs are heavy with rain drops. Some days I could give up the whole city for the prospect of living in a house with a small garden. I miss having a cat and I miss having a garden. I grew up in a house with my grandma until I was 13. There were not many flowers to speak of in our garden, but we had the freedom to step outside and sit under the quince tree. In spring the lilac tree was in bloom and in summer we could pick sour cherries straight from the tree. And the quinces started ripening about this time of year. It’s amazing how that never leaves me, I have this recurrent memory of sitting under the quince tree in a T-shirt, dangling my legs.
I should get going. I have lots of errands to run and no energy whatsoever. I could sleep the fall away.
Yesterday I attended an exciting event where three writers who´d escaped war or oppressive regimes talked about their story and discussed literature as being universally relevant, no matter what one chooses to write about. I couldn´t agree more with the last part, in fact, that´s why reading is such a journey, both for the mind and for the soul, in my opinion. If you only read about things you already know about, it wouldn´t be this enriching.
The concept of “migrant writers” was launched and one of them said that the politically correct term now would be “intercultural writers”. I like both appellations, but I agree that the second is better constructed. In fact, the migration part is hardly the interesting one, the fact that one has combined different cultures within oneself is the point.
They touched the topic of how one changes personality from language to language and I smiled to myself, knowing that it´s so true in my case, although I feel at ease in both Romanian, Norwegian and English, it´s in Romanian I can really make people crack up.
I realised the only thing I´ve ever really wanted was to write. I don´t think I have the commitment and discipline to become a “real writer”, but there´s nobody stopping me from writing, nevertheless.
Cheers for that! Have a great weekend! I´m set on having a good one! 😉