Бесплатный фрагмент - To be a writer. Storybook

From the author

If you want to learn how to write, typeset books and / or illustrate them, you can always contact me. Consultations / classes in person and via Skype are possible.

My contact details

Tel 8 925 184 37 07

Skype: oliva-morales

E-mail: oliva-morales@mail.ru

Sites:

http://lronline.ru

http://www.m-teach.ru

Yours faithfully,

Tatiana Oliva Morales

To be a writer

In my view, you are entered into writing, drawn in, sucked like into a swamp. At first you want to kick back, shake off, throw off a heavy pressure load from your shoulders, get to the surface. But the more you flounder and resist, the more you are pulled back.

As a result, having fought for several years, you admit defeat and surrender — now you are a writer.

Your day is clear. In the morning, there is an invariable cup of coffee, the ever-open laptop on the table, a clean white sheet of Word format in it, an endless change of seasons outside the window and the Ministry of Defense with the Russian flag fluttering in the wind.

Sometimes the poems burst into the process of writing prose or textbooks, it cannot be said otherwise. They arrive, uninvited and unexpected, requiring to be immediately written down on a white piece of Word format.

Sometimes they fly in one at a time, and sometimes in packs

accompanied by music, they keep you from sleeping at night, just because they have decided to do so. You cannot refuse them; it is beyond your control. You put off all current affairs and start to please them.

The poet is an ordinary worldly man, and they descend from heaven, like flocks of birds. The poems quietly turn into books, they get their own names and places on the virtual shelves of hundreds of online stores, sometimes they happen to turn into print media on the shelves of familiar and unfamiliar readers.

Poems and © Linguistic Reanimator textbooks

If 10 years ago they told me that someday I would become a writer, I couldn’t stop laughing for a long time, and I would never have believed it. But it happened to me, oddly enough. As they say — you can’t fight fate, run away or hightail it. It will track you down anyway, rein in, showing its sly tail, smiling sarcastically, and bring you in line.

The first time I wrote something I was about five years old, and I began to compose poetry the moment I began to speak. These are the memories of my mother, but personally I remember little about it.

All my childhood and youth I wrote poetry almost daily, the poems just poured from somewhere in heaven, I wrote and wrote everything, and could not stop. Sometimes because of this, I did not sleep at night, as they often started pouring on me at this time of day.

These youth poems have never been published — they disappeared during a renovation. My husband accidentally threw them along together with demolition waste in the trash. I was offended, but soon it was forgotten, a new series of poems began, which I later published.