It's a peculiar thing to reflect upon just where one writes from. From what part of ones inner being, from which experiences, from where.
How I came to realise where ideas came from was a bit of a shock.
When I was writing a fantasy novel all those ideas seemed to pour out the easier for a nice glass of wine...or two.
Well, of course. Alcohol sets super-ego at bay. So many of those creative ideas crept from the shadows of my unconscious. That was a fascinating place to explore. Enlightening, even. For the present, though, I've seen sufficient of what that place has to offer.
The new novel is set on my old home, my erstwhile place of exile. Now that's a tale to be written sober, bright and early in the morning. It's a story about truth, about real people and the circumstances that befall them. Imaginative it may be, but not fanciful. Now super-ego is back supervising, only put into his place as overseer rather than dictator.
I suppose that, in my writing, I've moved from (to take a metaphor from the art world) from impressionism to realism. Now I'm thinking of the precise landscapes of Ivan Shishkin and the lovingly painted characters of Ilya Repin. And now, at last, my affection for my former home can spring forth. Transylvania was a difficult place in which to live but, for all that, treated me with a surprising generosity.
Yes, I want to give a true picture, embracing the beauty whilst not brushing over the faults. I want to record just what goodness, absurdity and downright wrong-headedness foreigners imported, myself amongst them.
Now that is a quest well worth concentrating some effort on. I'm excited. I've received some really helpful advice from the writing group too, guiding me towards a work in which the main characters speak rather than me as narrator. As a writer I'm learning to listen rather than tell. I'm listening to the voices of the many people who inspired me when we met during many journeys followed by eight years of exile.
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