I have now well and truly landed in the war. As I am writing I am researching more and more about the conflict itself. There was so much I didn't know about the war and so much I want to say about it in the book. Some moments of history are well know (Mostar) and some are not. Writing about it expands my mind and senses hugely. It is as if I can see it all again (and I haven't yet got any of my photos from NZ). It brings me to life in a strangely disturbing way. Stories I've never told are pouring out of me. I was reading a writers blog the other day - she said you should only be a writer if, when the moment is right, you sit at your computer and the story literally flies out of you..........that is what happens for me......other times, as she said, you wander around the house, lifting things up, reading random things, surf the net and the like........waiting for the story to arrive. She is a fiction writer but the principles seem the same. Or maybe it is just that this is the story I am supposed to tell so it is pouring out of me.
On days like today, when I stop writing, I have to bring myself back to "this world", shake the images of the past and the wave of different feelings, thoughts and emotions it brings to me. It is the privillege I have - my life is my own, no demands of a daily job (although some small fears about the future), friends far from me so few immediate interactions (although new ones emerging slowly changing the flow of my daily life) and the quiet easy peace of my home that is, in the end, the perfect "Room of one's own".
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