It is certainly getting cold outside … but where was I.
Ah yes, and so I wrote until my fingers bled, convinced that writing is a tool to change the world with. The only tool. And I wanted to change the world I was living in … desperately. And give myself to the cause in the process. So I wrote a long story about it. Everything went in; poverty, humiliations, class struggle, violence, drinking … and the whole class laughed at me, once the teacher started. The year was 1980 and I was 15 years old. Nobody wrote like that at that time. Nobody. Except me … but I was not living in 1980, I was living in 1800’s, walking with Fyodor down Moscow’s and Petrograd’s prospects, certain that he wrote it all perfectly from the moment he put his pen to paper. Pure talent pouring on the page. And that nobody ever laughed at him.
I left that class and did not write again. I went on to University to study Law and I wrestled with it mercilessly. It had two attractive features; struggle for justice (as I believed at the time) and use of crafty, old-fashion words (still like it). But I kept on reading novels and poetry. And sometimes writing. And always destroying it after few attempts. Life went on in the parallel line.
War came and I found myself on the other side of the world. Unable to use language of the land I landed in. I become mute. Invisible. There was nowhere to hide. I did not have a single book with me in my mother tongue, and there were none to obtain from anywhere. And I was a mother for the first time. The year was 1994. Life went on in the first line. There were no longer any parallel lines to switch to.
This month (June 2012) it will be 18 years since that time. I did try and make myself into lawyer in this country too. I went to Canterbury University and obtain LLM couple of years ago. I enjoyed lots of crafty, old-fashioned words. But I kept on reading novels and poetry. And I started writing. Even went to a writing class (I wrote about it few blogs back). Just testing it again … I told myself, to see how it feels. Despite the fact that, deep in my heart, I still doubted that true talent need any kind of tutoring. Or that writing can be thought at all. I never before came across an author in a real life. I never met anybody who spoke aloud about writing as a skill one can learn, or work one does, or God forbid, a product for sale … I was still walking around with my Russians, even if I was no longer aware of it.
To be continued …