OlgaLenc

I remember that when I was a teenager, we had these books — the kind that explained who you were, what was happening to you, psychologically and physically, and where to run if something went wrong. Mothers and fathers would quietly pass them to us at just the “right” time (usually defined by them), or we would secretly pass them to each other, because you couldn’t really retell them — and you wanted to share that immense happiness of having an intimate conversation with someone (usually the author) who understood you completely and didn’t judge you at all. Entering adulthood felt like diving into icy water — you wanted someone to support you, teach you how to breathe, how to swim, and then wrap you in a huge, warm towel on the shore 🙂 How good it is that back then, in that pre-internet, pre-YouTube era, our coming-of-age was held safely in printed hands.

Later, I often caught myself thinking — I wish I had that again. I wish I could find a book that would tell me how to keep writing no matter what, how to stay loyal to writing when you no longer believe in yourself and your energy is running out, how to even understand whether there’s any meaning in this constant “you should be doing something useful instead of wasting your time.” There is always meaning.

I went through book after book on writing. Some of them were even a solid 7 out of 10 — but we never made it to shore together. I kept sinking, shouting “why not like this? why not that? why?!” while the cold water closed over my head))) And then — a hand… the shore… a huge warm towel, cocoa, a fire, a conversation… No, this is not a book you just read. This is a book you talk to. It’s someone who knows everything about your struggles. It’s a friend, an ally, a superpower, a living source of creative energy. And there’s no filler in it. No limits, no restrictions — it breaks them all. No lectures, no moralizing — it teaches you not to listen to those voices. It gives you back your belief in yourself and in the power of words — your own words, mine and only mine. It’s not about writing, it’s about — write. Right now. Drop everything and write. And I am writing — after three months of despair and a creative drought. I’m just writing…

P.S. And that letter on page 207 — Hemingway wrote it for me, just so you know.