Disclaimer: This new project of mine is called God, The Devil, and a Man walk into a bar.
Caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.
— Antonio Machado
The traveler sat down on a sand dune and saw nothing. He heard nothing. He feared the worst. He had reached a truly godforsaken place: a vast, mournful pan of emptiness where anything sentient resented anything else that was alive. Every sun-scoured scrap of fauna had barbs, hooks or thorns, every animal had poison, paw or claw. Scorpions scuttled and snakes hissed and slithered while they went about their grisly business of survival. Even sand was an enemy. It burned his feet raw, it stinged his eyes and acted as a surrogate for pain.
His skin felt like scraped by sandpaper, his tongue was cloven to the roof of his mouth. His eyes felt like they’d melted into the back of his mind, making everything seem mirage-like. He knew he was alone, abandoned, and doomed. A colorless heat haze had blurred out the background and his vision had become myopic.
Yet, through the silence, through the nothing, something throbbed, something gleamed. Continue reading
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.
”I completely fell in love with Cristian Mihai’s beautiful way of writing. His main character, Chris Sommers, is an embodiment of realism. His persona was much attune to what some of us feel about ambition, love, and the realization of heartbreaking disappointment. I felt a connection to him in a much deeper level than I’ve ever known. Mihai’s writing style just reaches out to you, captures you – without letting go for a moment. It’s also very personal that you just can’t help but love the main protagonist. There were times where it pained me to stop reading because I wanted to note down my favorite quotes from the novel because it was just that amazingly brilliant.” – E.S. praise for Jazz.
One copy of each of my titles. Signed, delivered to your doorstep.
”This book was very unexpected. It made me think about what is means to be a writer, what the process of creation means not only to the creator but to those who are affected by what has been written. Much of what Mihai says here will resonate with anyone who has ever struggled to put words on paper.” – Cynthia Dumarin, praise for The Writer.
$39.99, international shipping included. Limited time only.
”I was drawn in after reading the first page. Being a “hopeless” romantic I could empathize with both characters but I felt a connection with “him”. The authors description of loneliness, excitement, regret and pain is so intense, I became emotional while reading. It is gripping, honest and touching. Beautiful story…” – Melanie Lawson, praise for 2:22 AM.
If you’d like to purchase a book bundle, you can do so on my e-store here. All payments secured by PayPal.
I’m a writer. I spent over fourteen years telling myself this. Reading at least a book a week since I was fourteen, spending hours daily punching those damn keys, hoping to be rewarded by the muse with something that someone else can call beautiful.
And, yes, from time to time I did doubt it. I still do.
We have wings glued to our backs, yet sometimes we forget that we can fly. We opt to crawl through life instead.
But the truth is that we’re all writers. In one way or another. We wouldn’t exist otherwise. You see, we have language, so we can speak. We can speak, so we can tell a story. We can tell a story, so we can write.
It’s really that simple.
People have wanted stories since they were painting them inside their caves. This desire is what’s kept The Illiad and The Odyssey alive for so long. And it isn’t just belief in God that keeps the Bible breathing.
It’s the stories.
If we didn’t need stories, the world would be perfect. Or empty.
To paraphrase Balzac, solitude is fine but you need someone to tell that solitude is fine. Life is only as beautiful as the stories that define it.
You’re alive, you have a story to tell. A story to write.
So yeah… you’re alive, so you’re a writer.
When I was a kid I was terrified of crowded buses. I was afraid that I would find myself away from the door, and I wouldn’t be able make my way through the crowd in time to get out at the right station. Indeed, kind of a stupid thing to be afraid of, but if you think about it, the most subtle way life can test you whether you really want something is to place some sort of obstacle.
It’s one of the most difficult things to do: to push people out of your way. And it’s more about fear than it’s about kindness. It’s more about self-indulgence than it is about altruism.
To a certain degree, we’re all self-centered, but we’re also afraid of others. We don’t want to be invisible, but we don’t want to be punished for being “too visible” either. We want to be comfortable. That’s it, basically. And we learn early on that other people have the power to disturb that comfort. Continue reading
On a cold and dark night of December I wrote my first story. It was for the first time that I had the vision, that my eyes saw more than what was right there, in front of me, that my ears heard more, and my mouth wanted to speak in a voice that was louder than ever before.
I wanted to reach people, I wanted to share with them the same dream I had. It was happiness in a way that you know it can only last for a few moments, that kind of happiness you could never expect to last longer. I was happy because I knew what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. Continue reading
It’s 1:23 PM on one of the most beautiful days of this year so far. I went for a long walk, but now I am seated at my desk, writing.
This is the process that defines who I am. The only thing I can do to figure out who I am, where I’ve been, where I am headed. Words are my passion, my fire, my reason to be.
Last year I wrote a novel. It took me a month of barely going out, barely eating, barely talking to fellow human beings. I have callouses on my feet from walking around the house in this strange daze. Half-asleep, half apart of a world that did not exist yet, but I had to write into reality. Continue reading