Yes that is right; I have to clarify few things to stop my thoughts spinning with and drowning under the weight of resources. Resources on writing, blogging and generally making yourself heard. In the loudly crowded world. Otherwise I may spin right into the ocean of fears and drown under the deepest of them all; fear of being ridiculed. That happened to me once when I was about 15 and eager to read aloud my story in front of the writing class. I did not write a word for years after that. Actually not until I learned another language – English. But that is the story for later. For now I just have to stop. And think.
And since I cannot understand anything unless it is written down I have to write it down. Now. And also because there is nobody to talk to about it all.
There is a voice in my head that I cannot silence. It keeps on asking – ‘How has it come to that?’ – I am trying to explain ‘that’. For my own sanity. So let me start at the beginning.
As a kid and later as a student I lived in my books. Yes that is right. I did not just read them, I actually inhabited them. They were my tent, my shelter from the harsh landscapes that surrounded me. I was odd one out, not only because I was tall, gangly and painfully alone, but I did not fit anywhere that was around me. Except in books. So I read what ever came to hand. One of my middle school teachers put Kafka in my hands. And Rilke, and Dickens. And many others. Living in the books was safe. Outside world did not matter. Once I discovered Russians, I ceased to be even aware that there is any world outside. I remember hiding in the library to read ‘Crime and Punishment’ and escape classes … for days! My mannerism and my speech mimicked the novel’s tone. And so did my writing. I was alone and unguided so I fashioned myself on 19thcentury Russian novelists. Harshly.
I will tell you the rest later … off for a walk.