“Hours of tedious effort are required to awaken and exercise that talent, to write that riveting “one true sentence” that seemed so damn simple when read. That simplicity is deceptive. It does not happen by accident. Now it is a skill easily acquired. Writing is demanding, solitary, backbreaking work. A writer mined the tunnels of his/her brain using words for a pickaxe. A week’s effort might yield only one nugget that is worth keeping and you can weep with pathetic gratitude over that.”
Friends, isn’t it perfectly said? I found this wisdom thought in the book I am reading now and it set deep in my soul. Writing arises controversial feelings in me. I do love putting words into nicely-structured phrases with some meaning, in the other moment I hate looking for words to create that perfect sentence which should look simple to be read easily. Very often I have images in my head and lack of appropriate words to transform them to paper. And I even do not mention the use of “beautifully tailored metaphors, similes and other stylistics tools”, which are essential decorators of every text. Writing is a mixture of hard work and a pleasure. Just not many of us are able to write. I am not sure whether I belong to that group of lucky beggars, though I feel very good when I write. Sounds banal, but it is true. Every story is the chance to dive into the unknown world, explore the unknown feeling, and even do something I am not dare to in real life. It is an enormous pool of unlimited possibilities. I am so tempted and you?
10 pm at my watch. It was a late evening in Kyiv. A sultry summer day gave away to coolness. At last I could breathe and felt relaxed. I was walking along the Dnipro River. A light breeze ruffled my hair. There were no thoughts in my head. Only my eyes were wondering among people chatting on the stairs to the river. I saw mostly their heads and heard their emotional voices. Some of them were in silence. There were loud music and car traffic not so far. Somehow it was not a usual evening. With my friends we decided to cross the bridge and enjoy the beach island. I have never been at that place before. The views from the bridge made me stop several times to click some photos. Sometimes my friends even did not notice my absence. Each of us was lost in some inner thoughts, words came out rarely. A trio was sharing a wordless talk. Soon the lights from cafes and night lanterns winked on the beach horizon. The beach was occupied with local lovers of romantic atmosphere. We took off our shoes and went barefoot sinking our toes in the sand. Underneath my feet warm sand was ticking me. The next instant my feet stepped to the water. Dnipro was lapping my feet. The bridge lights were performing a blue-yellow dance. One more click. There were lots of couples at the beach. I caught myself on being a witness of first unsure touches, passionate glances and sighs. They were yet not sure of each others feelings, they still go on playing flirting games. They did not know each other well, and they were so afraid to break that sweet moment. First dates, first touches, first kisses. A very peaceful scene at the beach in the capital city at the Ukrainian map. And somewhere away at the East there was a dead silence in the expectation of night firing. The picture is different. Instead of beaches were dirty trenches, instead of romantic lights were night vision glasses, instead of gentle river was a field with enemies coming close. Loads of cigarettes, constant jokes not to be afraid, weapons day and night, and danger at almost every move. Similar are mostly young faces only wearied by war. They also dream of love, kisses and sighs. However, the most intimate relationships they have are with their reliable automates. Kisses sometimes may be burning though. Two pictures described do not intercross, and yet are linked. Without the second cannot be the first. Without a death cannot be a new life…
Without being read I cannot write!