Creative masochism
There are days when I get up and somehow it seems to me that the whole world is shining and I smile for no particular reason… I take my favorite “happy” cup, filled with warm coffee, the intoxicating smell of which enters my nostrils and makes me even more satisfied. These are the days when I slowly enjoy dressing up in comfortable and fancy clothes, then grab my laptop and notepad, pick out my prettiest ballpoint pen, and sit on a lounge chair on my balcony — looking to myself like a photo from Pinterest. Such days are usually those when my writing is reduced to a bunch of ideas that I note down, but never work them out completely — for the simple reason that I am crowded with too many thoughts to be able to single out anything and work it out. But I still feel fantastic and enjoy the moment to the fullest.
On the other hand, there are days when I wake up with a rain cloud over my head, when my life seems miserable and pointless, when I can’t detect the real reason why I feel so bad — but everything still looks shitty… Those are the days when I don’t even bother to put on clothes or comb my hair; days when I reluctantly drag myself out of bed and, standing still in my nightgown, get annoyed waiting for the coffee to brew… And then I pour the coffee into my “unlucky” cup — and hold it in my hands for a while longer, standing like that in frozen scene with thoughts lost in my own darkness… As I tap towards the balcony, my footsteps seem to have the sound of the hands of an antique clock — as if loudly counting down the seconds to my end. Whether it’s a sunny day or it’s covered by a raincoat — I don’t notice it. I don’t hear the birds chirping in the treetop next to me, I don’t see the leaves fluttering in the breeze, I don’t smell the sea or hear the sound of the waves hitting the shore in front of me… But I feel like I’m one big wave that keeps hitting the shore of his own life, completely unable to dwell on it. On such days, even my coffee does not have an intoxicating smell, and my hair is not a bright aura of the sun and does not flutter in red spirals; it is more like a straw soaked in blood.
Those are the days when the only thing I want to do is write. These are also the days when I write the most FINISHED texts. Most of my most readed novels were written during the worst and most difficult times in my life; at a time when loneliness permeated my days and the nights seemed like an endless abyss into which no light would ever enter. It was a time when nothing in my life seemed right — a time when I finally came face to face with all my mistakes, all my guilt, regrets and missed opportunities… It was the first time I didn’t want anyone around me; neither family nor friends — a time in which I felt sorry for my life for weeks, and then (after floods of tears) tried to forgive myself and others. It was my “House for craying “ — and my only novel that contains me entirely and is 100% built on entries from my electronic diary.
My “House for craying” was never intended to become a novel; it was just my way of getting that poor and sunken me out of the darkness of my thoughts — and I never thought I’d have the balls to publish what concerned only me and my inner self. It wasn’t even published immediately after it was written; it stood tucked somewhere in the corner of my thoughts, lost among countless texts scheduled for deletion. I don’t even know why I started reading that text (a long time later), but there was some sweet masochism in it that didn’t allow me to stop until the very end. Reading those “notes” of myself — I cried non-stop; reliving once again every big fall in my life that was woven into the words… And for days after reading, pieces of me scattered on the screen came back to my mind — and caused a longing that I was unable to overcome. Completely masochistically, many evenings in a row, I read over and over the parts of the text that hurt me the most — I cried over and over again and felt sorry for myself… At some point; I just wanted to tell the truth, explain myself — to family, friends, people I know; to those who love me and to those who hate me… I just wanted to get it all out of me and share it with the world so that I could finally experience liberation — paper was no longer enough… Later I realized that I actually wanted satisfaction for all the injustices that were done to me. …I wanted to point out the culprits, maybe I even expected that other people would condemn them for everything they did to me and thus punish them for their misdeeds… There was enormous anger and resentment in me that drove me to an ever faster to the rhythm of writing, in the increasing “urgency” to complete the text.
And when it was finally over — I closed the laptop and breathed a sigh of relief. I was gnawed at by my need to get it all in front of other people as soon as possible — but I stubbornly stuck to my practice of reading every piece I wrote a few days after I finished writing it, before sending it to an editor for review. For me, it was always important to think about from the topic I was working on, because only then I can somewhat objectively examine my own work and possibly correct “mistakes”… I forced myself to treat this text in the same way — but it was very difficult not to remain trapped in the thoughts that this text is contained.
Since I ignored my editor’s calls and messages (as well as everyone else) the entire time I was writing “The House for craying” — after a while the usual invitations to events and lists of topics that the editor wanted me to cover stopped coming. When I finally answered, informing him that I had a new piece I wanted to publish and would soon send for review — the routine of his regular requests was re-established. Still unable to get my mind out of “House for craying” , I refused most of the editor’s requests — and then I forced myself to do at least something; just to make him stop complaining. The article for a member that appeared in the official magazine of our literary society dragged me into a well-known routine — and over time “The House for crying” remained only a forgotten text in the folder “for review”… I felt good, I did my tasks — I continued with life.
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And then; bum!
A late summer evening with a view of the city lights across the calm canal in front of me… The full moon like a lighthouse above my head, a wine in a fancy glass and a bottle of top quality Provençal Merlot… In the distance could be heard the muffled music of nightlife on land, which the sea carried in a gentle whisper — quiet enough not to disturb your thoughts and loud enough that you knew it was still there. My laptop sat closed on the small table in front of me — I had just sent the last text for the month and was now giving myself a “pat on the back” for a job well done; rewarding my palate with the only wine I’m willing to pay a hefty sum for.
All my peace and self-satisfaction was disturbed by a single message: “
I’m back.”
..a message from a man who is the only person in this cursed world who always knew how to turn my life upside down in the blink of an eye. His sudden and unexpected return to my life, as well as his overwhelming influence on my emotions, initiated the transformation of my thinking about myself, the transformation of my outlook on my own life — and on the field; the transformation of the “House for craying” that finally saw the light of day thanks to his encouragement… And many more times the same man will drive and kill my inspiration, as well as change my views on the world and life in general — many more times HE will be my reason for writing… He is the one who taught me that I need my pain in order to write. He taught me that I masochistically need that pain that tormented me trapped inside me — until the moment I “put myself out” into the world to find other souls who will understand it.
And as Paulo Coelho once wrote: “While I was writing, I was lost on my lonely island in the middle of the ocean. And I never knew that someone would find my lonely island and find himself on it.”
Important note: My novel was published in my native language, printed as a book, and never translated — the title I give is my literal translation of the meaning for the purposes of this blog, which does not mean that translators would make the same translation for readers.
The novel can be found in libraries or bought on the pages of our literary society directly from me — I do not sell my works through intermediaries because of my own convictions (which I will certainly write about later).
