March 5, 2015

The more intense the emotions, the better the writing

The amount of stuff I feel saturates me sometimes to the point of puking. I want to vomit it all out to be rid of it, or else it will suffocate me. Physically. A hand of anxiety will plant its meaty fingers on my chest and push down until I choke.

I used to ignore this and channel it inward and get sick, in the body and in the mind. I didn't understand where it was coming from. That's what everyone did, especially everyone in Russia. Our lovely cultural upbringing can be summarized thusly: hide it, hide it, hide it. Push it in. I got so good at this, it's difficult to resist the familiar urge.

November 15, 2014

Writers will save the world

by Ksenia Anske

Okay, okay, not only writers. Artists of all kinds. Musicians, painters, sculptors, dancers... Still. It's such a grand statement. WRITERS WILL SAVE THE WORLD. Where did it come from? From this place where love is born. Or, more mundane, from my necessity to answer the same interview question over and over and over again. "Why do you write?" Another variation of this I get asked is, "What do you hope to tell your readers?" Or, in case of ROSEHEAD, simply because it's a kids book, although both kids and adults read it, "What are you hoping to teach young readers?" or "What examples are you setting for children?" or "What morals do you hope..." I won't even continue, otherwise I'll bore you to tears.

I've been thinking hard lately about these questions and about why, why, WHY at every interview the same ones come up. What is it that drives people to ask this? And how can I answer? There are other questions too, larger questions, like, "Are you hoping to do something profound with your books?" Or, "What are you doing to better the humanity?" There are variations of those, with the same main idea.

WHY THE HELL DO YOU WRITE, GIRL?

March 19, 2014

Emotions and writing, or, there is no writing without emotions

by Ksenia Anske

I'm a writer, and in the course of the day I may experience the multitude of emotions that other people experience in a month or even a year. Everything from depression, to exaggerated glee, to self-scorn, to an outright wish to die, to bursting joy again, then back to self-deprecation, to sparkling glory and pride, to fatal indifference and bleak ideas of peril, to sudden feeling of worldly wisdom and truth. It never ends, and it drives me nuts. I am nuts, by some definition, I'm a writer. I have to experience all of this to be able to craft characters, multiple characters, overwhelmed with an array of emotions, to convince the reader that those are real people and they really REALLY feel it. Because if they feel nothing, the reader will feel nothing, and there will be no reason for the reader to read my book. It's a curse, and I've been afflicted with it all my life, not understanding it, trying to get rid of it, to suppress it, to make myself numb, going as far as seriously contemplating suicide, and then, finally, deciding to live and embracing it. The reason I am a writer is very simple. If I don't write, this cauldron of feelings, this hot fucking lava, this hodgepodge of my thoughts, this mishmash of my ruminations on life and everything else under the sun, this amalgamation of worries and heart palpitations and sweat perspirations and cries (don't you already feel overloaded by reading this sentence?) will spill on people around me, burn them, and they will run the hell away from me, screaming. Writing saves me and my life and the lives of those around me. Without writing I'd explode in a shower of fireworks, or bloody guts, or feces, your choice. But this is the thing. Without feeling this river of OH MY GOD I FEEL SO MUCH I WILL DIE shit, I wouldn't be able to write. And neither were you. So it's okay you're always overly dramatic and expressive, that's what writers have to be, to write.