Tuesday, September 7, 2010

Booked for life...

I have loved books so much that it hurts. Especially since I have decided to enter the world of writing them.
There in my bedroom of girlhood were these packed shelves of enough wisdom, knowledge and imagination to keep me going for life. And I constantly looked for my identity in this treasure of other men’s experiences and expressions. In these books I looked for an affirmation to sustain in a world where mediocrity is a crime. Perhaps it is this secret desire to rise above the mediocrity that the desire to write a book came into being.
Believe it or not, writing a book and publishing it is as presumptuous as tapping someone on the shoulder and making a demand on them to stop and listen to you.
However, the decision is always scary at first. To unleash into this rather unfeeling and capricious world the thoughts, feelings and an open gazed vulnerability of deeper emotions; and then lurk around, secretly hoping to be accepted.
Even praised. Even loved.


Last night you wrote your sonnets in  Braille: the commas, parenthesis, ellipses engraved perfectly on my skin- and  I  ...