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the curse

the curse

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Published by Evren Sener
How I ended up in being a writer!
How I ended up in being a writer!

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Published by: Evren Sener on Oct 15, 2012
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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The Curse
4 am in the morning. After several years it started again. I knew that it was coming and I tried to avoid orignore it but it had never worked. I am one of these few who born under the curse of being a writer. Do you knowhow this curse works? Let me tell you!When you are a child people ask you what you want to become when you grow up. Each time you giveanother answer to the same dull question. Even they try to manipulate you for one job or another it doesn’t workbecause you are already a dreamer. You cannot help yourself dreaming of having different jobs and livingdifferent lives. Then they start ignoring you and hoping that you will get rid of this dream world as soon as yougrow up. Thus they keep on manipulating you with the hope that you will have a nice title and a well paid job.Actually you are also ready to think in their way. A well paid job and a nice title, why not? However if youare unlucky like me, you have a mother like Cassandra in Disney’s Hercules who starts fortune telling all of asudden in the middle of a standard conversation. “How are you?” “Fine! It’s better you to watch out. Your husbandwill have a terrible accident!” As you all guess people run away with fear and then you feel even worse when allthese things she said come true.If you have a mother like mine she keeps on telling you that you will become a writer despite all thecontinuous manipulations of other family members of becoming a doctor or a lawyer.Even my mother had deep passion for fine arts she never gave me colorful pens or papers for makingpictures as she did to her nieces or my friends. Instead she gave me a standard pen and paper and told me totake notes starting from now that I can use when I become a writer. I was only 7 and I had just learned how towrite. As you all guess I never took notes. To be honest I never took her seriously into account. I always ignoredher and her lunatic ideas. However she never gave up telling me that I am going to be writer so I have to read asmany books as I can. She just kept on buying boxes of books. The strange thing was she never gave me a bookto read. Instead she kept them in her closet in their sealed boxes.As you all know if the iron and magnet are close enough, the pull is unavoidable so same thinghappened to me. I was attracted to the presence of the books. One day the curse took its turn. I went into herroom, opened one of the sealed boxes and started reading. I read one book then the other for days and nights. Iwas tired but I did not stop reading because I could not stop reading. I read all the books till the bottom of the lastbox. Seeing me nearly swallowing all the books my mother did not say anything. She did not even have anexpression of victory on her face. She just knew it.One day one of my aunt’s friend asked me the same unavoidable question: “What do you want tobecome when you grow up?” I was 9 and I think I have said the most terrible thing I could ever say in my life. “Iwill become a writer.” I saw the thunderstorms and lightenings in my grandmother’s and aunt’s eyes. Mygrandmother interfered in panic: “Of course not! She is just a child and she doesn’t know what she is talkingabout. She will become a doctor like her father.” My aunt followed her: “ Of course she is not going to become oneof these penniless losers.”It was sad to hear that all these magical worlds created among the books belonged to penniless loserscalled writers. At that moment I stopped reading books and consider myself becoming a writer. I decided toprepare myself for a better job like being a doctor. Why should I care what my lunatic mother says! I startedmaking my plans for my life but life had other plans for me.In the following months the deaths of my family started. My loved ones died one after the other. I was inshock. Dead was real. Life was transitory. Since I couldn’t handle this “dead trauma” I traveled to the borders ofsanity.When I was at the age of 14 I was at the edge of losing my mind. There was no one to talk to. I had nofriends and my parents were dealing with their own psychological issues. One day I was sitting in front of myfather’s library and that curse worked again. A book pulled my eyes on its name. I read its name. I read its nameagain and again. By just reading its name I was amazed. “ The Brothers Karamazov”. What a name! It wasechoing in the dark space of my mind. Then I read the name who wrote it. “Dostoyevski” I still remember what Isaid to myself: “This name can only belong to a king.” For the first time in my life I wondered about someone elseother than me and wanted to get to know him.I took the book from the shelf and started reading it. I read hours and hours. I realized that how much Imissed the flow of the words. At first it was hard to get used to all these complicated Russian names but that wasalso so much fun. His style of writing was very impressive. No doubt that Dostoyevski was a very talented writerbut there was also something else that I couldn’t explain about him. It was like seeing a very dear one again aftera very long time. I had already known what he will tell in the next page. I had known his way of writing. Somehowhe was so familiar to me. When I put the book to the shelf back, I had a new friend called Dostoyevski. I used tokeep diaries since I learned writing and I started filling my pages with his name, Dostoyevski. For the first time inmy life there was someone who could really understand me. We had similar frustrations. We were suffering fromsame unexplainable pain. His novel was an epic on sorrow. His words made me write on my own sorrow and Istarted describing it for pages and pages. I always wished to live in his time and show my writings to him. I alwayswanted to come across to him on one of the bridges of St Petersburg and look into his pale grey eyes for asecond and walk away. I thought maybe I was the only person who could really understand and respect hisloneliness.By the help of him I divided deep down into Russian literature. I had also other friends called Pushkin,Tolstoy, Gogol and Chekov. I wanted become one of the members of this crazy gang. In my dreams I met them infreezing cold dining rooms and ate cold meat with them. At that time I was not a vegetarian.

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