Lessons Learned

Lessons Learned

At the age of 12, I found myself deeply engrossed in children's detective stories. There was a particular publishing house renowned for its Children's Detective series. Naturally, I tried my hand at writing too, and by the age of 14, I had penned "The Secret of Green Roses." It was my first earnest attempt at writing a complete book, a departure from the usual poems and lyrical sketches I composed. I diligently wrote it in pencil in a notebook, then enlisted the help of someone with a computer to type it up and print it out. I even managed to persuade a guy to deliver the manuscript to that very publishing house during his trip to Moscow. This uncle was a punchy phlegmatic, like Mowgli from the joke, who is reaching*

His return brought a rejection. The editor had perused the manuscript and commented, "It's commendable that our children are writing, and this is quite good. But why is a Russian child writing about a European town with non-Russian names? It's mere imitation. However, if the setting is changed to reflect Russian realities, then we can discuss further.

Can you just imagine how offended I was! It felt like a direct insult to my creativity. "Let them burn in hell!" I thought, filled with indignation. At that time, I was deeply into black magic and even considered cursing them, but ultimately, I chose to dismiss them with disdain. They weren't worth the effort.

Not long after, the publishing house began releasing Russian children's detective stories within the same series, authored by some Valery Ronshins. It was a wildy-weirdo, utterly mediocre. I purchased two books in 'Russian realities,' and they were appalling. That was the end of my interest in the series. Eventually, the publishing house faded into obscurity. I was shocked, like, damn it, they published this unreadable nonsense, but they didn’t like my names? 0__0 Lord... we really don’t get along, damn it, with such people.

The era was dawning for the likes of Dontsova, Lukyanenko, Marinina, Ustinovs Shilova—mediocrities with connections who were flooding the market. But I still cherished the works of true writers. Needless to say, the whole experience was quite jarring.

Back then, I stumbled upon a Romanian publishing house. I had one of their books in Russian and decided to send them my manuscript, saying, "Here's a manuscript for you, in Russian. I don't want money or something, but please publish it." I also sent copies to Hungarian and Polish publishers. In the 90s, you could find a book, look up the publisher's postal address at the end, and simply send them anything you wanted.

I received responses from Hungary and Romania, in Russian, saying, "Thank you, we'll publish it." Poland ignored me. "To hell with them," I thought, feeling a sense of vindictive pride.

Later, those letters were stolen from me, and I also lost the publishing houses' addresses. The times were such that at 15 years old in 1995, you didn't have the luxury to focus on publishing. Being 15 in 1995 was vastly different from being 15 in 2005 or even 2015. So, I'm not sure what happened afterward, but I got the satisfaction I needed at my 15.

For years, I wore my principles like a badge of honor, declaring my refusal to engage with those who couldn't appreciate the names Fred, Joyce, and the like.

But now I’ve grown up. Dear editor, you were right all along. Perhaps you should have written on a warmer note for a stupid naïve child? Maybe you should have explained it in simpler terms, not as an adult would. But of course, those were busy times; you had no room for such considerations in the '90s. And yet, if you endorsed that Ronshin project, I can't help but question your judgment.

Nevertheless, I'll leave Ronshin and the rest to your conscience. You offered sound advice, made the right call, and saved me from future embarrassment, even though I didn't see it at the time.

I'm currently enjoying a delightful book by a Bulgarian author titled "The World Awaits You." It's a charming fantasy, essentially a direct nod to Sailor Moon. The plot revolves around five girls, the world's saviors, who lead ordinary lives until a benevolent corporation awakens them to train and battle whenever Earth faces peril. The narrative is quite predictable: the girls engage in battles, share meals, and engage in trivial conversations, while the villains concoct schemes and seethe with anger, all set in a quaint British town.

My critiques are twofold. Firstly, the 16-year-old protagonists speak in an unnaturally stilted and literary manner, devoid of the vibrant reactions one would expect from their age. They remind me of the didactic characters from old anime series—uniformly articulate, lacking any distinctive slang or dialect that might add depth to their personalities. (in Mamnik, on the contrary, there’s an intrusive dialect spoken by SOME old people from the village, but it’s very intrusive, also annoying, man, damn it, we understand about the materiel, stop it ). Well, like, both adult villains and 16-year-olds speak the same way.

Secondly, I question the author's choice to set the story in a fictional British town. A narrative rooted in Bulgarian culture, featuring Bulgarian heroines, would have been far more compelling. Incorporating local mythology and settings would have lent authenticity and richness to the tale.

Despite its well-crafted prose, the book feels like a missed opportunity—a derivative work lacking in originality. The author, though young and evidently inspired by Sailor Moon, has fallen into the trap of imitation that I once encountered in my own writing journey with "The Secret of Green Roses."
But he is too a young author, well, older than me at the time of writing The Secret of Green Roses, but still very young. And he watched some alike Sailor Moon and was impressed, just as I was then impressed by all sorts of mystery-seekers and nancy-dru.
Damn.

"Oh, Olya, how I wish you could see yourself from the outside"
The Great Soviet fairy tale "The Kingdom of Crooked Mirrors" and its lessons :)))

So, learn lessons of the great books sooner, not later, folks!

* Mowgli and Kaa are in the jungle. Kaa is resting after a meal, while Mowgli is jumping around.
Mowgli: Kaa, Kaa, can you reach the Sun?
Kaa: No, Mowgli, I can't reach the Sun. It's far and high.
Mowgli: Kaa! Kaa! What about Baloo, strong Baloo, can he reach the Sun?
Kaa: No, Mowgli, even strong Baloo can't reach the Sun. It's too far away.
Mowgli: And Bagheera, swift Bagheera, can he reach the Sun?
Kaa, losing his patience: No, Mowgli, Bagheera can't reach the Sun either! Let me nap!
Mowgli: Okay... Kaa! Kaa! What about me, can I reach the Sun?
Kaa: Yes, Mowgli, you can reach the Sun! You're so reaching.