The Birth Of Words
I recently read a post by my blogger friend, Josep from Catalonia (whom, I might add, has been a supportive force in my writing since a long time ago, since around the first year I began keeping my writings on this blog). And in the post, I read this statement he quoted from an author, just to share the author's thoughts with others (not necessarily a reflection of Josep's own opinions on writing):
"When I'm traveling, and not alone at my desk, after a while I get depressed. I'm happy when I'm alone in a room and inventing. More than a commitment to the art or to the craft, which I am devoted to, it is a commitment to being alone in a room. [...] I need solitary hours at a desk with good paper and a fountain pen like some people need a pill for their health." -- Orhan Pamuk
I simply feel compelled to share my story of how I write, after having read this, because it surprises me how I am so different as a writer, how my writing process is so different.
You see, if I am sitting in the middle of a crowded, wild, subway train, looking at all the different faces, all the varied expressions, listening to all the many foreign languages and voices and sounds from inside and from outside; the announcements, the feel of the jolting halts of the train on the tracks, all of these motions and sounds of life are what will inspire me to write characters, stories! This evidence of life and abundance of sound all around me is what's going to propel me into understanding things I never understood before, see things that I never saw before (both literally speaking and metaphorically speaking), and become things that I wasn't, before. My point is, I think I am a living writer. Not that other writers are all dead (although, yes a lot are dead already) but I think that I write from life. I'm not trying to escape anything, but I am trying to experience everything!
I shared this on my FaceBook page not so long ago: "I hope I don't write TOO many books! When I look at authors who have written too many books, I wonder to myself "When did they live?" I certainly want to write BECAUSE I live! I know I don't want to write in order to live! My writing is an overflow of the wine glass of my life, not a basin in which I wash out my ideals and expectations."
My words are born of life, born of noisiness, born in the solitudes of seemingly everlasting minutes that are made up of reflective moments when I find myself quite literally lost on the map! My sentences are born on the precarious curbs of busy highways, in the underground train stations, inside jam-packed buses. My written words are birthed on public benches and on lonely walks down unfamiliar alleys in foreign lands, they come into this world on the marble tiles at the Trevi Fountain and on the ancient Spanish Steps, they find their voices amongst the low hum-drum in crowded piazzas and marketplaces, they find their destinies in this world in the cold Parisian Spring breeze and in the chicken donor eateries lining the streets of London. My paragraphs are drafted on the yellow boulders on Portovenere and polished by the magic of ordinary days in my own kitchen and living room. My words are born of life and living and flying, and I never know what I'm going to say next! Because I never know until I've lived it!
XX
Just a note to all my readers and friends: after having revisions made to it's back cover, my novella will not be available for purchase until the revisions are made throughout all the copies of my book in circulation. This will take a few more weeks, and I am growing impatient (right now, you can't buy my book anywhere except on Amazon and CreateSpace) but I also think that its very efficient of them to re-design every single copy of my book out there. It would have been fine with me if they simply sold the existing copies (un-revised versions), but, they insist on every copy out there looking exactly the same ,so be it. Sorry for this delay, but in the meantime, you may purchase a copy of my book at CreateSpace or on Amazon. :)
"When I'm traveling, and not alone at my desk, after a while I get depressed. I'm happy when I'm alone in a room and inventing. More than a commitment to the art or to the craft, which I am devoted to, it is a commitment to being alone in a room. [...] I need solitary hours at a desk with good paper and a fountain pen like some people need a pill for their health." -- Orhan Pamuk
I simply feel compelled to share my story of how I write, after having read this, because it surprises me how I am so different as a writer, how my writing process is so different.
You see, if I am sitting in the middle of a crowded, wild, subway train, looking at all the different faces, all the varied expressions, listening to all the many foreign languages and voices and sounds from inside and from outside; the announcements, the feel of the jolting halts of the train on the tracks, all of these motions and sounds of life are what will inspire me to write characters, stories! This evidence of life and abundance of sound all around me is what's going to propel me into understanding things I never understood before, see things that I never saw before (both literally speaking and metaphorically speaking), and become things that I wasn't, before. My point is, I think I am a living writer. Not that other writers are all dead (although, yes a lot are dead already) but I think that I write from life. I'm not trying to escape anything, but I am trying to experience everything!
I shared this on my FaceBook page not so long ago: "I hope I don't write TOO many books! When I look at authors who have written too many books, I wonder to myself "When did they live?" I certainly want to write BECAUSE I live! I know I don't want to write in order to live! My writing is an overflow of the wine glass of my life, not a basin in which I wash out my ideals and expectations."
My words are born of life, born of noisiness, born in the solitudes of seemingly everlasting minutes that are made up of reflective moments when I find myself quite literally lost on the map! My sentences are born on the precarious curbs of busy highways, in the underground train stations, inside jam-packed buses. My written words are birthed on public benches and on lonely walks down unfamiliar alleys in foreign lands, they come into this world on the marble tiles at the Trevi Fountain and on the ancient Spanish Steps, they find their voices amongst the low hum-drum in crowded piazzas and marketplaces, they find their destinies in this world in the cold Parisian Spring breeze and in the chicken donor eateries lining the streets of London. My paragraphs are drafted on the yellow boulders on Portovenere and polished by the magic of ordinary days in my own kitchen and living room. My words are born of life and living and flying, and I never know what I'm going to say next! Because I never know until I've lived it!
XX
Just a note to all my readers and friends: after having revisions made to it's back cover, my novella will not be available for purchase until the revisions are made throughout all the copies of my book in circulation. This will take a few more weeks, and I am growing impatient (right now, you can't buy my book anywhere except on Amazon and CreateSpace) but I also think that its very efficient of them to re-design every single copy of my book out there. It would have been fine with me if they simply sold the existing copies (un-revised versions), but, they insist on every copy out there looking exactly the same ,so be it. Sorry for this delay, but in the meantime, you may purchase a copy of my book at CreateSpace or on Amazon. :)
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