Today I pondered a lot on my dream: to write my novel in a cottage high up in the Swiss Alps. The actual place does not matter that much, but the wish to write and feel artistic in my own way of expressing colors and sounds with a palette of words is overwhelming. Every year I plan to write a bit more. I have started my novel – maybe few of you know that. It’s hand-written in an old notebook with yellow pages – yes! they’re already yellow. It’s rather bohemian in nature, a notebook with red covers (so it used to be) – the place where my childhood has rooted phrases in my head only to gather them all later in this very notebook.
How it all started? I would really have to ponder more :) I guess it started with a book by Mihail Sadoveanu – a famous Romanian writer. A small diary also contributed with tiny pages for the poems I was writing at the time.
It feels good to remember. It feels good to know how things begin, how memories unfold. It is also a delight when I manage to put it all together – I will, in my novel.
