Smadar Zamir – The Space I Write In

Note: Hyperlinks that end with an asterisk lead to Hebrew web pages.

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Smadar is a filmmaker. Here’s a link to her short film Between the Lines. She also lectures and writes* about cinema* and gender*. Smadar received her BFA in film studies from the Sapir College and her MA in gender studies from the Bar Ilan University.

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1. My Computer

I do most of my writing on my computer and it’s my best friend (as a colleague). It took me ages to get used to writing on a computer, but today I can’t see myself writing in any other way.  On writing days, I write for about six hours in total. I have many files on my desktop which contain texts on different issues, at different stages of writing. Stacks of virtual paper meticulously organized. I tend to fill the desktop with documents and then sort them into files or delete them.

2. The Transparent Plastic Drawer

This is the messy area of the table. It absorbs everything that has to be done: paying the municipal tax bill, filing a paycheck stub, a form that has to be filled out for something or other, and a note of love. I try to empty it once every two weeks, but it can also take a few months…

3. The Enamel Bowl

It reminds me to stop and eat a fruit or two, or a nut, and also makes me feel the warmth of home. In general I have discovered that taking a break in order to cook, wash the dishes, or fold the laundry, truly helps and grounds me during a writing day. I try hard not to be sucked in by the writing, but to practice it as part of an assembly of actions that comprise my daily routine.

4. My Couch

This couch, which is the most comfortable couch in the whole world and cost us close to nothing, is where I settle down when I need to read or when I just feel the need to change position. Suddenly I’m working cross-legged or semi-reclined.

5. My Water Bottle

I drink a lot of water. All the time. So the glass and the jug of water, which is actually a former bottle of juice, are always on the table. Drinking water allows me to linger for a moment and it revitalizes me too.

6. The Floor

I wander on it; roam around in search of the word, the sentence, the idea, the narrative, the beginning, the end, the secret. These strolls, during which I tend to talk to myself, often make me more accurate, more precise.

7. Jean-Luc

The cutest medium sized dog. He is always present in my writing space.  Bestowing me with endless love, and reminding me to take breaks and kiss him. Sometimes he can get into a fit of barking, but that usually happens when I’m talking on the phone, not when I’m writing.

8. Shesh-Besh (Backgammon in Hebrew)

The cutest big dog.  He too is here to remind me to love, just that during the summer he prefers to stretch out in the sun outside.

9. My Cellphone – Stacy

She’s not in the photo but you can see her case. Stacy is on the one hand a very important work tool, but she is also a devious distractor. I try to put her on silent mode when I wish to write undisturbed.  I usually filter calls and return them when I’m on a break or at the end of the day.

10. My Clipboard

I got it from friends.  I use it to pin up the newest form I have created for myself, in order to perform the various tasks at hand efficiently, and stay on the ball. I put a lot of time into inventing these forms and still haven’t found the perfect formula. I used a weekly table organized according to hours, a notebook, sticky notes…
Currently I’m using a table organized according to task and follow-up.

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David Tarbay – The Space I Write In

Note: Hyperlinks that end with an asterisk lead to Hebrew web pages.

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David Tarbay is an author, translator and a Tel Aviv University graduate. His list of publications includes novels, stories, reviews*, articles, beside translations of some of the most well-known and valued Hungarian authors – Tibor Déry, Péter Nádas, György Spiró – plays and academic articles.

His book “Stalker” (Am Oved 2004) received praise reviews and The President’s Prize for Literature. “The Emperor’s Dream” (Keter Books, 2010) starred in the best sellers listings. His new book, “Outsiders” is due to come out under Keter Books too.

 

A Moral Space

1. Through the Window

I wrote my last book in its entirety right here. Three and a half square meters, half closed blinds, a hundred year old dilapidated table, and a quad-core computer with a damaged blue-ray drive.

On the other side of the window, two trees intertwine: it’s unclear who is suffocating who. Beyond the fence, a bush, a path. I spy through the half shut blinds, waiting for my daughter to return from school. She stops, glances through the bushes, which are growing even faster than she is. If they aren’t trimmed soon, only a slight crack will allow us to see each other.

desk

 

2. Through time

The new book takes place in 2026, in the Golan Heights, Tel Aviv and Southern Israel, but the characters get as far as Singapore, Amsterdam, Zurich and Serengeti.  I’ve been a frequent flyer since my first book, so I have practice with movements on the timeline. The plot always beats me to it, and time broadens space. I go over the locations on Google. I check the sound of the bell I refer to, hark back to the sight of the Jumbo plane taking off, watch the flight of a flock of birds landing on a placid lake in the middle of a nature reserve. I check the flight number, the diameter of the jeep’s tires, the exact route of each and every character, until I find myself inside the scene.

When I’m in the flow, I sit on the balcony of the Golan Heights house, with the character I’m most deeply connected to, the flower grower’s daughter, the invisible hero of the book, and I sit in the front seat of the detective’s car, a wide board Audi, at 5 AM, while he drives north on the open roads to investigate.

It is no longer clear who the inventor is and who has been invented. The spaces are wider than I could imagine. I grasp at pieces of reality, which may no longer be relevant at the time of the plot. I try to deduce, project and turn what is happening today, into the recollections of a character ten years from now.

The house will have been demolished, the book shelved. But I will still be searching for the characters.

plansheetThe scarred Golan Heights on Google & the original plan-sheet of the Ramat Gan apartment by Salim Goru Ltd’s, 1957. The balcony has since been enclosed.

 

3. Back to Reality

Sometimes I really look forward to getting stuck in the middle of a paragraph only so I can go out for a walk, alone, or with the kids. I can get stuck in the middle of a paragraph even after two or three weeks of not opening the book at all. It’s wonderful to get stuck in the middle. One can also get stuck on a Saturday morning, or in the rain, at 8 Pm, an hour after the heat wave has broken. I’m free to get stuck whenever it suits me. One doesn’t even have to write in order to get stuck. With the kids I go to a picturesque park. By myself I go on an hour’s walk, on a fixed route. Instinctively, I would say that this is the real space, the ongoing forward movement, the space in which the pieces of the mosaic come together.

rainThe little one in his older sister’s boots. There is no plot problem that cannot be solved by the scent of rain.

 

4. Space and Time Travelling

Some of my childhood memories are connected to ‘guesthouses for authors’, one of the blessed institutions of the staggering Hungarian socialist entity of the late 80s. With my mother, we would go to Zsennye Castle, which was surrounded by a spacious park that was bombed and almost completely destroyed during World War II in a joint heroic effort of the Germans and the Russians, but “one thousand year old” oak trees grow there till this day. With my dad we used to travel to Szigliget, to a palace built in the 18th century, which was later passed into the hands of the rich Eszterházy family. One of the family’s descendants, Peter Eszterházy, became a famous author who honored this humble castle with his presence. Well, if a perfect space to create in exists (I doubt it, but suppose it does), I find it hard to think of a better candidate, although through a child’s eye, the honorable authors and painters were no less immersed in intrigues, hearty meals and football games than they were in creating.

writingSilence,  people writing.

Orna Coussin – The Space I Write In

 

Note: Hyperlinks that end with an asterisk lead to Hebrew web pages.

ארנה תצלום ינאי יחיאל

Orna Coussin is a writer and a writers’ mentor*. She is passionate about the genres of creative non-fiction – the personal essay, the memoir and the diary – that are yet to flourish in Israeli literature. She also writes, and loves to read, short stories and novellas. In 2009 she received the Prime Minister Award for Hebrew writers.

Between 1997 and 2007, Coussin wrote cultural commentary for the Haaretz Daily newspaper. She was highly acclaimed for her feminist perspective and her sharp critique of Israel’s consumer culture.

Currently, Coussin is writing a blog about writing*, and will soon publish her fifth book, titled “How to Write”, a writers’ guide and an essay about writing. Coussin lives in Tel Aviv with her partner Michal and their two daughters, Naomi and Yael.

 

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1. Quiet

When I was a writer for “Haaretz Daily”, I took great pride in being able to concentrate on my writing in the middle of the chatty open space of the editorial offices. It took me a while to realize that this ability is limited only to writing of the journalistic kind.

Now, my best writing is done at my small, simple corner desk in our quiet bedroom, when I’m alone at home, deep in my silence. Only urban sounds in the background make for white noise, the internet is cut off, and the phone is shut. These occasions are quite rare, though.

 

2. Darkness

A writing morning begins for me when I pull down the shades. I can’t stand the harsh Mediterranean daylight coming in through my eastbound windows. “Writing is a thoroughly shady affair” wrote John Updike in “Self-Consciousness: Memoirs”. I do believe it is. Diving into darkness and lighting it up is a large part of what we do.

 

3. Guidance

I take pride in mentoring writers of creative non-fiction. I enjoy seeing their writing evolve: become more candid, precise, clear; closer to that which they had imagined. I wish I had been mentored myself, growing up as a writer.

But sometimes I think that in a way I have been and still am. I put pictures of my self-appointed mentors on the window sill in front of me when I write. I learned and still learn so much from Virginia Woolf and Simone De Beauvoir:  how to write and why, and to what extent may I be true to myself and where to look for courage, and what are exactly and truly my challenges as a writer. I also learn and have learned from E.B White, Lorrie Moore, Lydia Davis, George Orwell and many more. I will add more photos of these inspiring people to my window sill the minute I can put my hands on them.

 

 

 

Aran Rondel – The Space I Write In

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Aran lives on Kibbutz Eilon in the Western Galilee, at the northern end of Israel. He is the Research Director of an NGO called the Social Guard which monitors the parliamentary work of the Israeli Knesset. He’s also struggling to write his M.A thesis in political theory for the Tel Aviv University Philosophy Department. He is a former basketball correspondent and writer, as well as an ex-future writer.

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1. Making Coffee

Writing for me starts here, with the morning coffee-making ritual. I have two macchinettas, a small one that makes coffee for one person and another that is good for two or three people; I rarely use the latter. Although I make excellent coffee, I was never a big coffee drinker. I can go days without having a cup, and it won’t bother me. The truth is that I like making coffee more than I enjoy drinking it. I find it to be a good way to get into a working mood. This is true for any kind of old-fashioned coffee-making process that requires some work and preparation, and not for instant frozen coffee.

 

2. My Beaten Down Old and Slow Computer

I am not a man of changes. I like my habits and I like it when things feel right. I bought this computer almost seven years ago, expecting it not to be as comfortable as my older Compaq laptop. But it surprised me and I took to it right away. I remember turning it on for the first time. It wrote LG – Life’s Good – in large bold red letters on the screen. I decided to name it Decepticon, because it is a lying machine.

I’ve written a lot on it, and I feel that to an extent all this hard work has been a joint effort by Decepticon and me. Most other computers – be they laptops or desktops – don’t seem to make my thoughts take form in words as clearly as my old companion does.

But it’s old, and its processing does come to a halt whenever things become busier. I’ll need a new friend soon enough, I’m just not sure how to know if it’s the right one for me. Some tell me that every computer will feel right after I get used to it. I despise this thought, although it does relieve some of the pressure of getting a new machine.

 

3. My Tomato Bush

It isn’t just procrastination. I really do think and articulate better when I walk around. I find it hard to speak on the phone sitting down, and if I’m writing stuff for work and need to think things through, it’s impossible for me to do it while seated in front of a computer.

During the past few months, ever since I moved out of the city, I’ve been grooming a tomato bush in my front yard. I planted seeds of tomatoes which I purchased at my favorite vegetable stand, in the Tel Aviv Carmel market. After a week or so, some seeds sprouted, and today I have a beautiful 65 cm (2ft.) tall bush, with some tomatoes growing on it.

Every time I need to get out of the chair in order to think, to take a five minute break or to make a phone call, I step outside and observe the changes and growth of the bush, and the tomatoes that are hanging on it. Then I can go back to focus on my work, while feeling thankful that – unlike the plant – I work indoors.

 

4. The View from My Living Room Window

Most of all, this window is a clock, it makes every part of the day feel different. It faces west, so it lets no direct sunlight in, in the morning. The roof tiles, which extend about two meters over the window, protect it from the midday sun. There are a couple of trees in the back yard – pomegranate, loquat – that block most of the late-afternoon sun. This means that mornings are shady, relatively dark, and just right for slowly easing into the workday. Throughout most of the day, the sun lights the trees beautifully. And in the hours before dusk, the trees outside the window are flush with sunlight, some rays making it into the house and into my eyes, creating en route strange yellow figures on the mosquito net. It’s a lot like driving west during sunset. But I don’t fight it; I work through it, because I know the day is almost over, and it’s time to put one last effort into the day, before I retire from my work station, defeated.

Giselle Marks – The Space I Write In

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Giselle Marks has been writing for 30 years and finally found the courage to get published. Her first two Regency Romances – The Fencing Master’s Daughter and The Marquis’s Mistake were published by Front Porch Romance. They are not currently available but will be re-released later in 2014.
She has also written the Zeninan Saga, a series of Fantasy/ Sci Fi novels with some sexual content. The first of which – Princess of Zenina will be published shortly.

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1. Writing Station

Every morning, after I stumble from my bed, as soon as I’m dressed, I sit down to write at my computer. My writing station is a very orthodox computer desk in a niche in my dining room.

2. Shelves

Above the computer is a shelf filled with my youngest son’s computer games and DVDs. He is away at university doing his finals in Genetics. I am dreaming of their removal as my bookshelves are overflowing. Beside me is a small bookcase filled mostly with fantasy and sci-fi novels.

3. Walls

I have nothing stuck on the walls, no plot-board or writing exhortations, only a framed painting of some chrysanthemums that I painted some years back and a Japanese calendar sent by my sister from Tokyo. 

4. Coffee

Beside my keyboard I normally have a glass of lemon squash, unlike most writers I am caffeine allergic and so drink neither tea nor coffee.

5. Notebook 

Beside the glass is a notebook where I jot down useful information and things I don’t want to forget. 

6. Lighting

On the other side of the keyboard there is a special light that artificially imitates sunlight which my daughter gave me because I get SAD in the winter.

7. Music

Most days I listen to Youtube while I write, because I like a background noise. I admit to a current preference for Enrique Iglesias, preferably singing in Spanish, which I speak few words of.  I get distracted by the poetry of English words, so this way I can listen to the tune, passion and rhythms. However, today I’ve been listening to Leonard Cohen and the late Jake Thackray, who was a British singer-songwriter with a witty and ribald repertoire. He is practically unknown outside of Britain but has a beautiful deep voice and his words are fabulous. 

8. Schedule 

Over the last few months, I have started my writing day by producing a poem. They vary in length, subject and seriousness considerably. Today’s effort is named Cupid’s Joke… Having written a poem today, I read a friend’s comments on my main work in progress, a third Regency romance with the working title A Compromised Rake. I have reached 14K in length and will work on it when I have finished this piece which I started a few days back.

9. Unfinished Business 

I am particularly busy at present because I have several projects unfinished. I have to republish my first two Regency romances which were released late last year by Front Porch Romance. Front Porch Romance has closed so the copyright has reverted to me. I think they were rather over-priced, and hope that despite republishing them, they will make more sales with reasonable pricing.

Then I also intend to release the first of my books in The Zeninan Saga, Princess of Zenina, and I am undertaking a minor revision before publishing. The Saga extends to twelve books so far, all unpublished. It is fantasy/sci-fi with sexual content.  It’s set in the far future mostly in a group of planets administered from Zenina, which is a female dominated planet.

My friend, fellow writer and cover artist Sarah J. Waldock has already created a cover for Princess. We are discussing whether to change the cover for The Fencing Master’s Daughter and how to alter the one for The Marquis’s Mistake.  Together we are writing an anthology of fairy and mythic tales intended for adults, we are about three quarters completed and will then illustrate it together. We may also produce a book of our poetry together.

10. Books

On the other side of the room, there are two larger bookcases, flanked by windows overlooking my small garden. There is a pile of mostly reference books, which have overflowed in one corner. Quotations, thesaurus, atlas, two biographical dictionaries and Wellington’s War number among them. More crammed bookcases can be found in all of my rooms, except the kitchen and bathroom.  Most of my collection of historical books and Regency romances are in the front room.

11. Between the Lines

When I’m not writing, my characters will be sorting out their scenes in the back of my head. They have learned not to be too noisy and distracting because then I might make them wait before writing their tales. But I know I have to work hard because I have so many stories they want me to tell.

@GiselleMarks1

 

 

Abenea Ndago – The Space I Write In

abenea portrait

Abenea Ndago was born in 1979 and brought up in western Kenya. He went through primary and secondary education at Oneno-Nam Primary School and Onjiko High School respectively. He proceeded to the University of Nairobi for a bachelor’s degree (1998–2002), specializing in Linguistics and Literature. He was a high school teacher from 2005–2008. He won an M.A (Literature) scholarship with the University of Nairobi in 2008 and graduated in 2010. He is currently a part-time assistant literature lecturer at Bondo University College, western Kenya, a writer-cum-critic, and also a freelance journalist with The East African Standard. He reads widely, mostly the dark writings of Kafka, and every other magical realist. He thinks that all his writing happens as he walks under the sun – not in his room – where he quietly argues with all the elements of nature, including asking every wall why it’s vertical. He has several short stories. His novel manuscript, The Frontier,is a socio-political tale set in the 1960s’ western Kenya in the heart of the Cold War, and the impact of the same on that part of his country.

abenea writing space

No, the brick walls which shield my writing do not enclose a room. They are a red jail of experiences which began long before my mother was born, married, and expelled from the earth, a decade to the turn of the millennium. There was the ‘initial occupant’, then ‘the white man,’ and finally ‘me.’ How to negotiate these three components of my existence has been as difficult and dangerous for my village as – the way my Luo people put it – ‘milking a donkey’. My neighbouring tribe was the ‘initial occupant.’  Then the ‘white man’ arrived, robbed him/her of land, and erected ranches and lush cash crop during colonization. Before the visitors themselves were expelled at independence in 1963. My village then sprang up as a government settlement scheme in 1964, where ‘me’ was settled (from another tribe), but there wasn’t due compensation to the ‘initial occupant.’ Every election year my microcosm of existence – whose face resembles my country’s – throws up in jolting strife, leaving victims wounded and dead. This state of ‘perpetual suspendedness’ of things, of their being stuck in a small space labelled ‘NO RESOLUTION’, are the signposts I pay homage to every time I write:

 

1. The Stream

Here was the epicentre of my childhood. I still see myself leading six or seven calves to it to drink, after midday, my shadow dwarfed under me. Later it was the large herd itself we were driving to wet their dry throats. Having tethered the calves, we dived, splashed, and the motherhood of her water bathed our small bodies… I was young. So the stream appeared huge. For her waters swelled and howled every April, dead trunks complaining disturbed as they rushed downstream, obeying the dark, muscular current of the raging mother. Either that (my being young), or my people have irreparably violated this treasure of my childhood. The huge trunks are gone; the dark-green foliage and canopy is no more; the noisy crickets with beating wings are a distant memory inside the mind’s ear. Thin water runs on dry rock, the lips of the stream panting under an unforgiving sun, like my shaved armpit when old age comes.

 

2. The Two Footbridges

No, I was not yet born when the lower footbridge was hurriedly laid in 1972. Before then – I heard – the few villagers jumped over the stream on their way to the market, and children to/from school. Then my sibling slipped and fell, water bruising him on the rocks, and he would have drowned but for my father’s being a brother of the fish. He plunged into the water and saved the poor child. A fiercely practical man, my father cut a disused railroad and laid it across the stream, tethering the metal with a very thick wire under the huge rock to the right. The upper concrete footbridge came in 2012, exactly 40 years later. For my writing, that small space between the first and second footbridges represents 40 years of official neglect inspired by political ethnicity.

 

3. The Eastern Hill

In my primary school days (1985 – 1992), we would stay behind every opening day to plant the New Year’s crop on every January 1st. The corn would be fresh by May, and the reason every villager built a small kiru hut in his farm was to scare away the wild pig which raided the crop at night. Fresh beans then flowered between the rows of corn, and in this case the East African bushbuck antelope was the menace. Believe me: the wild pig and the bushbuck are today absent pupils in our village’s class register. Reason: hunting, and human encroachment which has rendered the eastern hill a bald-headed skull. It was once a wilderness of huge trees and mist in the rainy season, but no more these days.

 

4. The Western Hill

This was the great wall which signalled the death of the day, and the end of play. Once the orange ball of the sun dipped behind it, mother called you to open the hut door for the chicken to enter; and for the cow to be relieved of all her milk. We used to hear there was a wild herd of East Africa’s mountain bongo antelope – my father’s generation called them ‘apol’ in Dholuo tongue –who colonized the top of the hill. Again: the mountain bongo antelope went the way of the wild pig and the bushbuck in the late 1990s.

 

5. The Jail under the White Man’s House

Something intrigued me not long ago. When I bid my father farewell on 12th, October 2012, my hollowness was so total that, to fill up the huge void with real essence, I elected to investigate the ‘Kachinja Myth’ whose sorrowful whiff still hangs thinly in my village air. It is a myth about a breed of people who, in the colonial times, waylaid and sucked their victim’s blood to death. If you were unlucky, they took you to their home, kept you in a cave under the foundation of the house, and you were bled slowly, slowly, slowly…and lastly you were slaughtered and your sorry corpse thrown where the museum site today rests. My findings still shock me: these were the white people who lived here. They employed black servants to catch unsuspecting travellers. These victims had their blood siphoned and sold. It was big business protected by the colonial government. Actually, our village museum site was a cover-up for this crime. An extremely wealthy white family which still lives in Kenya may have made its money through the sale of such sad blood, but the victims are lost, lost forever…

 

 

Ido Angel – The Space I Write In

 

Note: Hyperlinks that end with an asterisk lead to Hebrew web pages.

memis

Ido Angel is an Israeli author, director and entrepreneur. He was born on October 8th 1974 in Ramat Gan and attended Thelma Yellin high school where he studied theatre. He served in the IDF Theatre and studied film at HaMidrasha Art College; where he went on to teach Narratology for seven years. For five years he worked as a news editor for Channel 2, and has written and directed for TV in Israel and abroad. He has published two novels, a novella, a teen book and some short stories. In 2010 he founded the Misantrope – a workspace for writers, freelancers and students in Tel Aviv, together with his partner, Anat Cohen. Angel is divorced and the father of two girls.

His books:

  • Perhaps he should be Called Brave Yoel? (Teen book. Saar, 2008)
  • The Story of Michael* (A novel. Edited by Dana Olmert. Ahuzat Bayit, 2010)
  •  Nick, a Man and his Words (A novella. Appears in “Behind the Money Lies a Story”, an  anthology edited by Dana Olmert. Ahuzat Bayit, 2010)
  • Children’s Story* (A novel. Edited by Michal Heruti. Modan, 2012)
  • Terrible Poems* (a combination of poems, fragments of prose and illustrations. Self-published, 2014)

For TV:

  • Death of Cain (Written, directed and edited by Ido Angel. 50 minute drama. Independent production supported by the Snunit Foundation)
  • Vipo: Adventures of the Flying Dog (Written and directed by Ido Angel. An animated TV series for children. 2 seasons, 26 episodes, internationally broadcasted)

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1. The Misantrope*

Pay attention: there is no such thing as ‘writer’s block’ – because there are no such things as ‘writing conditions’. Any condition needed in order to write is actually a disguised excuse not to write in its absence. And the guy telling you this has founded a workspace with an extremely meticulous work (writing, or studying) environment. But that’s where the difference lies: it’s an environment, not a condition.

The Misantrope is: a) Not home. Home is where you live, not where you work. Getting out of the house creates a separation that forces borders upon the act of writing, like any other work. You have limited time in a limited space. b) Not a café. Cafés are for leisure. Writing in a café is like trying to draw while on a carousel. The scenery changes constantly and stability is impossible. The Misantrope is quiet. You’re there with yourself and that’s it. c) Cheap. No waiters, the coffee’s free (as are fruit and sweets), the prices are idiotic and set and you don’t have to bother your mind with anything other than the words themselves. If you’re hungry you can take a break – we have a deal with the neighboring falafel stand, the café on the corner and even the bakery on the opposite corner.
This is where I wrote my second novel and the poetry book I have just published. Here I also conduct my Anti-Workshop for thinking about writing.

 

2. Mistakes

If I was forced to dictate one writing condition it would be to learn how to make mistakes. Mistakes are the real writing space. The search for ‘correct writing’ is no more than a sack of excuses for its nonexistence, just like striving to perfect the search for ideal writing conditions. If you try to write only the right words, you’re just being obstructive towards yourself. In order to learn writing, one must decipher its death (or if you prefer softer imagery – in order to learn what’s wrong with your writing, it first has to be wrong). Think how easier it is to look at writing obstacles this way: inspiration doesn’t always come, but mistakes can always be made.

In my opinion every writer has to learn to write in three roles: as a child, a parent, and a teacher. One needs to skip back and forth from one role to the other. To write completely intuitively, with no inhibitions and then look at the text with a mature yet loving and sensitive eye and then with a cold, critical and analytic eye – over and over again. At the end of the day, writing is a process, not a goal. And the compositions – are no more than crossroads.

 

3. An Ergonomically Padded Computer

My joints are made of cardboard. My right hand has already been operated on because of all this ink I waste on paper. My left hand is heading in the same direction.

 

4. People

Who pay me so that I can sit here quietly and write – before the books are even published!

 

5. A Peach

 

6. Gum

 

7. Water

 

8. The Mother of all Chandeliers

We bought 22 reading lamps at Ikea and welded them together

 

9. Lack of Coffee!

The machine broke down today (this never happens). Tomorrow there will be a full cup of coffee right here at any given moment.

10. The Most Comfortable Chair in the Entire Universe.

I wouldn’t mind having it welded to my ass and walking around with it like Hawking.

 

11. Surrounding all this is a Thick Transparent Cloud of Contempt for Normal Writing.

Enough with the characters who come and go from one place to another, saying sentences, experiencing things.

This is how my next book begins:
Eyes fall on the first words of this book like the bodies of two victims, as they hit the ground. A man carries his name within himself, like a disease: Gideon. He looks at the body lying in front of him, in the mirror. He’s wearing a thought like a hat: Day One. Today is Wednesday. But no day came before this day. The phone rings.