The woman who writes short stories, novel/book chapters, findings, dissertation, observations, thoughts, ideas, columns, then publish them and let others read; in one, two or several languages is the woman who writes literature of linear and non linear discourse. Under the kiwi tree, at the old writing table from the communist era, on her laps, in a bed, in the plane, train.
The woman who writes in the hot summer days usually sits barefoot, with her right leg crossed over her left; focused on the screen and her multiple tabs, hopping from one to another, trying to catch and gather the meaning.
The woman who writes smiles to the screen when she writes, she smiles at you when she writes to you, she smiles when she writes and addresses to her imaginary friends from this box or from her near surrounding. She is complexed, simple and quirky, fragile and feisty, passionate and unique in a way. That woman who writes.
The woman who writes is sending you a book by the Other author for your birthday, sometimes when inspired she sends you her own literature, she may write a story and a book chapter about you or them, which she usually does. Mostly fondly. She may invite you for a cup of coffee or tea by sending you an invitation via express mail with two teabags in it, blushing in front of the post officer who examines the envelope before accepting to deliver it. Yes, the woman who writes is actually an old fashioned young lady in a way, despite her appearances of the geekiness multitaskquality persona that she only expresses while on screen.
The woman who writes prefers short stories with the sudden or unpredictable happy end or the promise of continued suspense as she knows there will be many of them, interconnected serendipitously written stories. She used to write pretending to be the Other Male author, tricking the literature jury by thinking that the man stands behind her words in her story, but as she is growing, she realizes that the only way to stay away from her own “I” written stories and the way to express herself is to write as everyone - but I. “I read - therefore it writes”.
The woman who writes wrote this unfinished story five days ago on a malfunctioning laptop keyboard, while you were sleeping, dreaming, having lunch, fighting or making love to someone, dwelling on your past or presence, blocking your future with your fears, had a business meeting or maybe just reading the book of the Other.
The woman who writes is preparing material for her next chapter.
the truth of literature consists only in the physicality of the act of writing.- said she.