This has been happening to me lately. An overwhelming sense of belonging to some palpable nebula that exists in the world of stories. Those voices of other writers there, and mine. It's a curious sensation of knowing that what I do has value. It's important. It adds to that pool and keeps it fresh, forever callow-green and succulent and spicy like honeyed grasses at the break of summer. It's like a nest of ideas that spawns same lines of thought in different parts of the world. You know, like same things invented simultaneously on opposite continents because the idea happens to hatch in the same air above, in that collective wonder-space of our consciousness. And I belong. I belong there.Read More
The most amazing thing just happened...and I can't talk about it. I probably won't be able to talk about it for years, and you will probably hate me for not telling you now what it is. I'm writing about it here for several reasons. One, I will have a point of reference in the future, a written record to refer to. Two, I'm dying to share this with you, because you are my everything, so I'm doing it partially, by not disclosing facts but sharing emotion. And three, because I need to see it written to believe it.
My writing, the very reason I write, the drive, the urge I have gnawing at me every day, this insatiable force that makes me write like crazy, all of it got validated today.Read More
My mom called. My first thought was, "Grandpa died." My second thought was, "She needs money." I was wrong, grandpa is still alive, although barely holding on, eating only yoghurt and coughing out his cancerous lungs. But I was right, she needs money. My heart sank, because right now I don't have any. I have filed for bankruptcy and spent the last of it on attorney fees. Whatever I have made at RadCon needs to stay there for my Amtrak trip, because March will probably be the first month that my boyfriend will be supporting me, as I have no more ghostwriting income at the moment. All this sped through my head as I told her that I have no means to help her right now.Read More
I feel like I've been gutted, learning about Philip Seymour Hoffman's death a couple hours ago, and all this time I was wondering. Why? Why am I feeling this way? Why do I want to cry, why do my arms and legs feel numb, I didn't even know him personally, I've seen only a few films he was in, I'm not a hardcore fan, then why? And I think I know the answer. He was unhappy. That's what hit me, this realization that he simply wasn't happy. He took drugs. Why do we take drugs? To dull the pain, to escape. Some people get drunk, some do drugs, some decide to really make it quits and commit suicide, drugs is just an easier path to it, riddled with cosmic images of some super-neon galaxy that's fantastic and beautiful and whatever, of maybe riddled with fantastic monsters, I don't know. Either way, it dulls the pain. I never took drugs, never became an alcoholic, don't know how I avoided it, because I wanted to take my life, wanted to do it so bad that I walked around with 100 very strong sleeping pills and a couple times snuck into the kitchen in the middle of the night and contemplated to cut my pain out, like, literally, I wanted to get rid of it by cutting myself open. It was in one of those delirious states that I thought of my kids and that made me stop, wake up, decide to live. Of course, who am I to contemplate how happy Phil Hoffman was, who am I to know, but I can't help it but to feel. Why else would you get drugged up to your eyeballs? Why would you overdose? Because you want more, more and more, because you can't stop, because the pain is just too great and conventional methods are not working anymore.Read More
I've been procrastinating in writing this post by trying on dresses for the New Year's Eve party, until I couldn't procrastinate anymore. Then I realized I was scared to write this, that's why I've been avoiding it. Because the year 2013 was huge for me. I self-published my 1st trilogy SIREN SUICIDES, self-published by little book of tweets BLUE SPARROW, wrote my 2nd novel ROSEHEAD, went to Russia and helped my mom to recover from a stroke and a heart-attack, saw my aunt and cousins whom I haven't seen in almost 10 years. And, most of all, I got comfortable being a writer. It's the skin that fits me. I often feel guilty for being able to write full time, for doing what I love, and I hope the year 2014 will be the guilt-free year for me. I hope it will be for you too, because without you I wouldn't be able to do what I'm doing. You, my readers, you became my new family.
I keep seeing these posts from people on various social media channels, my dad sent me this for Christmas, my mom told me this on Christmas, we went to my parents for dinner during the holidays, etc, etc. You know what, it's amazing that those people can do it, because I can't. I don't know when I'll see my dad next, maybe not until he's in a coffin, if at all, in case it happens that someone will be nice enough to notify me if he dies. I'm sorry if this is morbid, but it is what it is. Since I remembered that he sexually abused me and confronted him, he cut me out of his life. Not like he ever called me since I came to US before that, it was always me who did it, and I got scolded if I was late... My half-sister on my dad's side denounced me, so I don't know when I'll see her again either. And my mom... Well, she lives very poorly. I did what I could this time when I went to Russia, but there is nothing much I can do at the moment except to call her as often as I can, I don't have money to help her. She also appeared in my life only recently, after I physically went to Moscow and found out where she lives. Anyway, shit, I'm sorry. I don't want this post to turn into a sob story of my life. What I wanted to say was, if you happen to have parents who care for you, who are proud of you for your achievements, parents who send you gifts, no matter how silly or useless, parents who call you and post pictures of you online and whatnot, you are so lucky. I'm so happy for you, for having them, because I don't. My kids are my family. My boyfriend who fell in love with me when I was in a very bad place and divorcing, he's my family. His kids are my family. And you. YOU became my new family. You, my readers, my friends. I wish I could reach out and hug and kiss everyone of you, to show you how much I love you. You pushed me to write, you sent me encouragement when I was down, you keep sending me amazing letters telling me that you love my books. You are there for me always, and I'm incredibly grateful for you. I'm crying as I'm typing it, because YOU became something I've never had in my life. You give me so much love, that sometimes my heart wants to burst and I slide back down into that dark land of guilt. I can't have this much love, I think, I don't deserve it. But I do. And you do too.
May this coming year be full of love for you, may it be the year you decide to abandon your fear and create something you wanted to create for a very long time. A piece of art. A song. A piece of music. A dance. A performance. A whatever. Or, if you have always wanted to write a book, may 2014 be the year when you write it. FUCK FEAR. Go crazy. Make mistakes. Change, grow, dare. Do it precisely because you're afraid to. Throw yourself into your story without looking back, and you know what will happen? You will feel lighter, happier. You will change people around you with this new happiness, and with that, you will make the world a happier place. Write. Pour your emotions onto paper and you'll feel reborn. You know how I know? Because that's what writing did to me. I feel reborn, I feel brand-spanking new, and I feel like I'm as happy as I ever was in my life. I wish this for you, I wish it will all my heart. I'll be always your delirious writerly panda. At any time you can always come to me and cry on my shoulder. I'll do my best in trying to make you feel better and inspiring you to keep going, to create, to make art, to write. Happy New Year to you, darlings, I love you forever and ever and ever, and thank you for making my 2013!