Anyway, I just finished Moriko and was feeling that emptiness again. What now? Will I ever find something to get interested in, to feel in my bones and fingers when I write it? Then the UCMagazine wrote and asked about preparing my stories for publishing. That gave me something to do for a day or two. Now I'm in that space again, doubting my abilities and staring at the blank page.
Perhaps, I make too much of my abilities. Who needs to hear my little tales and ravings? I only know that writing and finding the words in which to put my feelings and memories is already a reason enough for me to live. I feel the life to the fullest when I can't sleep, eat or watch TV because the words keep whirling and arranging themselves in my brain.
Pushkin, the Russian poet, wrote this:
I loved you: and, it may be, from my soul The former love has never gone away, But let it not recall to you my dole; I wish not sadden you in any way. I loved you silently, without hope, fully, In diffidence, in jealousy, in pain; I loved you so tenderly and truly, As let you else be loved by any man. © Copyright, 1996 Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, August 1995, Edited by Dmitry Karshtedt, July 1996.
I love Pushkin's works because he, somehow, wrapped great sincerity and passion into the form that would best convey his thoughts and feelings.
I wonder if each of us has an ability to put our passion into the form that is the closest to our heart. For some it may be a poem, for some - a meal, and for others - a golf stroke. What is it for you then?