I’m writing a book. Really, I am!
I mean … almost. I’m almost writing a book. In my head I’ve written it a thousand times, I’ve dreamt it even more, but at the moment, I’m still trying to grasp the courage to offer the world my book.
I always knew I’d become a writer one day. I’m sure at some point it was written on my forehead like an announcement — “WRITER”, but somehow it got erased, and now I’m the only one who can see it.
Needn’t I ask for fame, that would be so far-fetched and pretentious, however I have always thought I’m going to write this book (this ONE book) that it is going to be extraordinary and everything valuable I have will be poured in it.
Probably it will not be worth it to write a second book after this magnificent one that I’m almost writing now, because I don’t know if I could live up to the expectations. What can come next after “extraordinary”? Marsordinary, moonordinary, why am I using space-related invented adjectives? Must be because of my out-of-this-world book.
It’s very sad not to live up to expectations, not because of us, writers, necessarily, but because of the people who put their expectations up there anyway. We don’t have expectations, (we’re so dried up of everything, what can be left after giving birth to a gem?) but people do. And they magnify them everytime.
So as I was saying, I gathered all my energy, all the spice and everything nice to specifically write THIS one book. I am putting all my art in it. All my fears, hopes, and thoughts and stories, memories, and then I will release it to the people to tear it apart and only when I die, to put it on a pedestal, because that’s what people do with masterpieces. It will actually be a bit tragic that my book’s value is going to outlive me, but hey, if it meets its purpose, I shouldn’t complain.
Oh, what’s the purpose of my book?
I want my book to be a gift to the world.
A garden to rejoice in humor, drama, dreams or cold, down-to-earth slaps on the face, like a written movie. A book with illustrations on the side. A book that will feel like a bird’s heartbeat when you hold it, because it’s going to be so vivacious. I’ll rip my soul into as many pieces as this book is going to be published and those pieces will make my books be so alive.
And people will take my book in their hands and will say “Yes, I can almost hear Anca, I think I can see her telling me this story.
I see her eyes in how the words connect and I see her raw heart beating out of the pages.”
It’s not going to revolutionize anyone’s life, it will not have a distinguished, exquisite language, nor be any sweet personal development bullshit (I’m really sorry to personal development bullshit publishers and writers, you’re nice people, trying to help people, but just try to fucking change your tune from time to time, don’t try “not to add value” so hard…). Nevertheless it’s my duty, as I know it, to write this book.
Better get back to writing it.
I can also be found here, at NX.