Three favourite writing spaces
Streets.
The ideal hunting fields for the writer.
When I walk along some Sofia street I have the habit of reading it from
the beginning to the end, with all its signs, posters, billboards, ads,
names. As if following a sentence with a mixed-up word order and trying
to cope with the anarchy of words. To be honest, I prefer the short
sentences of the small streets instead of the boulevards resembling
stream of consciousness in a bad French novel. Streets allow me to
catch various phrases said by passers-by. I like to continue these
detached thoughts, to add stories to the unknown faces I meet. Every
man is followed by a story, at least by one. Sometimes I feel like I am
stealing others’ stories.
The toilet.
Unlike the street, this place
is important to me exactly with its secretness. As if there is
something confusing, improper in writing (a strange act, indeed) and
the writing person ought to be hiding, to put a lock between
him/herself and the rest of the world. Even God doesn’t peep through
the keyhole. Apart from this, there aren’t any unnecessary things
there. Nothing to distract you, no pictures, no TV-set, and (thanks,
God) not even a phone. Only identical white walls covered with
porcelain tiles, a perfect screen for all kinds of whims of
imagination. I feel tempted to put a small bookcase there and stop
going out at all.
The third and the
most precious space is the childhood. More precisely, an already
non-existent house, with a small garden in front of it, where I grew
up. I remember clearly myself being as tall as the tulips and roses and
being able to look them in the face. (I am sending a picture as a
proof.) This is the feeling and the stature I try to preserve when I
sit to write.
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