Romania is last in the European Union when it comes to reading books. The book market here is something out of a horror story for writers.
What do these two sentences mean?
I shouldn’t be able to do what I do. And I don’t think that you ever gave it a thought while reading my posts.
My parents don’t know English. They never read my stories or novels. Odds are, they never will. They never understood my dream of becoming a writer. Nor did they encourage it. But they also didn’t try to talk me out of it. Too often.
To be a writer in Romania is some sort of eccentric pastime. Something like that. I wanted to make it into a career. I wanted to be great, you know?
To be the greatest writer ever born in this country.
I lost track of how many people said that I couldn’t. That I should be realistic. That I should have a backup plan. That writing should be just a hobby. That this or that might happen.
Sometimes I’d write something, and I’d be proud of it, and I’d want to share it with the world, and there would be absolutely no one willing to read it. Other times, they’d hate it. I cried myself to sleep more times than I can count.
Indifference and insults tend to get to you.
That’s why your why is important.
Why do you do what you do?
Why do you blog, if you do? Why do you write? Why do you create art? Why?
You need to know your why, and it has to be strong enough to fuel your passion, to fuel that fire within…
Does your why make you cry?
When I was thirteen years old or so, I read Dune by Frank Herbert. And I said that was the most beautiful thing I ever witnessed. I would have given anything for the chance to write such a story. And then I read The Great Gatsby, and I fell in love with the written word even more.
And each book made me fall in love with the way stories made me feel. And I wanted to make others feel the same way.
They say that when one person tells a story to another, both the listener and the speaker, their hearts start beating in sync.
It’s as if the universe isn’t made of atoms, but of stories.
But we know for a fact that we’re made of stories. The story of who we are, of what we love, of who we loved and lost and have never stopped hoping they’d return to us.
That is my why. That’s why I write, why I blog.
In other words, I write because I exist. And it’s nice to live, to feel, to love, to eat, to breathe… but it’s equally beautiful to let others know that you exist.
And beauty. Do you ever think about it? Like really think… the fact that words on a piece of paper can be beautiful. Can make us cry? Fall in love with people who never even existed and places that could never exist? We fall in love with the impossible and try to wish it into existence with our tears.
I write because the beauty that resides in my soul needs to find a proper home. I write because the beauty around me needs to be read about by those who might have missed it.