Me, a writer?

I like silence.

Sometimes I cannot stay silent and have to talk. The words are making their way through me. Thoughts rush to become words, to become a real thing in time and space.

I come from a country that is totally unknown. There are just few of us being able to understand each other in our own secret language, Estonian. I love to write in Estonian. It is like a holiday or a cure when I am not feeling well. Eesti keeles kirjutamine on otsekui puhkus.

Often I am forced to use some other languages to make way for the thoughts or ideas that want to be born in the big world. This is hard, much harder. I look at the words that are floating around me and wonder what they are really bringing. Was this actually what was about to happen or just an outcome of my dis-ability?

English is much more like playing than being for real. I am like a child learning the tricks of a new instrument or skill. Blogging is a safe route for me. It is not too serious, not too demanding for a beginner. It is a bit like a computer game. In blogosphere everything is allowed. You are not even expected to be correct with your grammar. It is a space of endless experimenting and freedom with words.

Every communication process has to start from within and grow to be met by the others. If it creates something new it is like a miracle. Sometimes miracles do happen. Knowing that keeps me going.

I like silence. To put the thoughts to the paper or on the webpage leaves the silence untouched.

Via texts I can talk to you in silence. We can meet.

First assignment for academic writing classes at MOOC, created by Denise Comer, English Composition I Professor at Duke University. 

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2 thoughts on “Me, a writer?

  1. A couple years ago, I read a distinction of art and craft: art expresses emotion or a statement, unlike a crafted work. As a weaver, I felt disturbed by this definition. My weaving doesn’t express either.

    A friend of mine suggested to me today that “art is the transfer of feeling from one heart to another.” It is her paraphrase of Tolstoy’s “art… is the transmission of feeling the artist has experienced.” Suddenly, my weaving as an artist made sense. My heart chooses my designs, and I hope that the hearts of others benefit from my work.

    I am delighted that you confirm this with “Every communication process has to start from within and grow to be met by the others.” As we work together on Literary Scribbles, may our words pour out of our hearts, entwine, and meet with the hearts of others.

    • Dear Grace,

      Thank you for this wonderful comment. I have been thinking about what is art and what it is not for my whole summer, even longer.

      Last year we (Regina, Merete, Nicole and me) started an artist group in Europe called “Picking Apples” together with four women. Since then we have been working together, meeting in different countries, painting, discussing, exhibiting, making workshops etc. The group has been growing and now has more “members”. I see that many do struggle with finding their voice, especially women. Women need to be confirmed about their work. They need to be said to what is art, is their work a piece of art or not. And of course the identity question – am I an artist. This is how we give away our power to the others, this is how we, women, become miserable and unsatisfied. It happens too often, this is my personal experience.

      I believe that instead of feeling “misslyckad” (Swedish poet Sonja Åkesson used the word, it means failed) we should meet the other and communicate using our talents what ever these talents are.

      My experience with Picking Apples group has taught me a lot. First of all, it is me who is defining me, and not the outsiders. It is me deciding about my limits, and the others are welcome to comment and work with me, but I am taking the final conclusion about who I am and what I do.

      I wish you good luck with your art, and hope to hear more about you in the future!

      Evelin

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