I stare at the screen and force myself to go through the process of writing and editing. There’s nothing more than me, my coffee, my cigarettes and the moonlight, some poetic verses like “your heart/is a wild deer” I came up with last night and the memory of a book I started reading today.
I crave for the great emotional expressions that this book is giving the readers. The short, precise and delicate, strong sentences that remind me of my all-time favorite writer, Marguerite Duras. The moonlight suggests that I could do the same but never in my life I could actually pinpoint my feelings in such a powerful way: just by saying that the moon is lit over me and throws a shadow to the park and the ocean I see from my balcony, here, where I live, close to the heavens above.
What I see in my future as a writer is a tad bit dim. If I do not get a publishing contract soon to my next poetry collection I am send adrift, floating through time and space and do not know my name anymore. I see the worst case scenario in front of me: the booze, the cigarettes again, the coffee, the moonlight that reveal how little I have achieved in my life this far.
Knowing this, once more I turn to not recommending my career choice to anyone. But to be honest, it never was a choice. I remember it to be a calling, an urge, a force of nature of its own. It was a true need, it is a passion to keep writing through the thick and the thin, through the worst days of my life and coming back to the light, be it a spotlight or just the moonlight over me.
Not many people will read this post. This is what I am certain of. I will post it quickly, and try to forget the consequences of showing my vulnerability as a poet to the world. More than ever I am scared for my future in this form of art. The world has turned its face on me so many times before when crafting a novel or trying to make my words count in a collection. I still remember the count of the rejection letters from publishers, sometimes receiving them devastated, sometimes just knowing beforehand that they would be in the mail.
This profession is killing me. At the same time it’s the only thing I will ever truly want to do in my life. It will never be easy to wait for the final verdict on a script, and there’s absolutely no romance in seeing it for what is really is: hard work, very little compensation. In the world of bloggers today it is easier to see how people enjoy this and that, do photography together with their fashionable friends and type in style guides for the rest of the world to read.
What has changed is that I’d rather watch TV than read a book. I’d rather stay away from the blank moment behind the screen and choose an alternative way of spending time, for what average to good writing is, is nothing more than spending time. Like I am doing right now: I am just typing in my worries embedded in my words, make up sentences that could potentially be something greater than I thought when I let myself down once more and just kept on trying, knowing that I didn’t complete the project of writing a 600-page-book in English like I said to a poet once I would do, or that I didn’t get a deal on my books called “The blindness of light” or the one called “The immortal love for a man”.
I have diaries full of plans for the art of writing. I have interviewed people for a novel that never happened and have done a lot of research of loneliness, blindness, even being a designer, to name a few. These plans still are just plans: there’s no solid proof other than the couple of scripts that I still have on the roll – the new poetry collection on the publisher’s desk now and the pages of “Avenue” I wrote during a year in UK at the University City Campus.
Not fully aware why am I opening up about this, or anything else in matter of fact doesn’t take me anywhere. Maybe realizing my plans would push me further on with them. Maybe I wouldn’t just sleep in instead of working if I bared my skin and let people in my thoughts for a moment, maybe there would be more to see in this world than the balcony, the moonlight, the cigarettes burning in the night, the coffee, the TV. Maybe there would be reader’s letters, interviews, performances, reviews, translations, e-books and audio books and art work for the covers to approve. But more so, there is and always will be so much more work than I could even begin to describe to anybody.