In March 2013 I had attended the
Association of Writers & Writing Programs Conference, aka AWP, in Boston’s
Hynes Convention Center. I scrutinised the schedule beforehand, circled
interesting panels, and counted down the weeks—then days—leading to the event.
I have never before participated in a writers’ conference, and so I walked into
the Convention Center feeling like a little girl on her first day of school.
I
quickly learned there was a gap between my expectations and the conference’s
reality. I was like a snail that dared out of its shell only to find out the
world is in fact a scary place. I sat in on a few interesting panels, and
enjoyed strolling down the book fair’s endless isles, but ill
prepared to handle the overwhelming throng, namely the 11,000 participants, the
conference left me with a dampened spirit and a broken heart.
What’s
the point? I thought. Who would be interested in what I have to say, even if my
voice could be heard over the literary din?
Yes, I know, each voice is unique, one of a kind, etc, etc. But still.
I am after all, I mumbled
to myself on the way home, a writer
without a language.
Born and raised in Israel, Hebrew
is my native tongue, and as a keen bookworm I had mastered it from an early age. I was practically in love
with the language, and just as
childhood experiences leave deep impressions on us, Hebrew resonated in me with
layers of meaning. Certain words, or a combination of them, conjured up intense
visceral emotions.
Since childhood, writing
has been one of my main channels of expression. Creating my own kingdoms, populating
them with scenes and characters, fills me with immense joy and satisfaction.
Moreover, writing is my anchor. Putting reflections into words is vital to my
thought process; it gives form and weight to abstract notions, and helps me
gain a better understanding of myself and the world at large. With words I try to connect the often-elusive
substance of life—thoughts, feelings, events—to the ground on which I stand.
Long after I had
immigrated to the U.S. in 1991 I continued to scribble poems and stories on
pieces of paper. When a friend asked me which language I was using in my
writing, I replied: Hebrew of course. But the question hovered in my mind until
I could no longer resist the urge to try and compose in English; a language
that represented worldliness, opportunities, and a vague sense of freedom.
My
granny, who fled Germany shortly after the Nazis took power, eventually settled
down in London. As a child, I looked
forward to her visits. I loved her small green suitcase (which I later
inherited) that held a delicate bouquet of perfume, and promises of gifts and
sweets we did not have in Israel back then. With her German-accented English
Granny inspired me to admire the language.
Throwing away the crutches
and experience English from within turned out to be a struggle. The English vocabulary is far larger than the
Hebrew one, and its grammar and spelling are more complex. Facing my childhood
dream of becoming a writer, I thus found myself leaping from a lake into a vast
ocean. Determined, I transitioned into my second language and began developing
stories with vigour.
Alas,
my determination was greatly challenged during the aforementioned AWP
Conference. Disillusioned by the reality of the literary scene, my confidence
took a serious hit, and my hopes seemed dashed. I felt motivated for nothing
save for stargazing and daydreaming. My
answer came in a poem written by Vicente Aleixandre,
Who I Write For. One sentence struck me most: “Perhaps I
write for the people who don’t read my poems.”
I
was deeply touched by his commitment
to his craft, and his lack of ego or self-pity.
All
right, I thought, if I were to write, if I were to put into my work all I have,
I’d need to figure out what it is that I can contribute. This question exposed
the fact that all along I have been avoiding the subject of Israel in my
writing. It felt too real. Too raw.
After more than twenty years
of voluntary exile I was ready to look at the place I once called home and left
with a semi-slammed door. It was time to try and exorcise my devils, and examine that which keeps gnawing at me. With
the geographical distance, and using a second language, I thought I just might
be up for that.
This new focus helps me better
appreciate my homeland and all the intricate emotions and throbbing memories it
evokes. When I write, I imagine my words slicing through the various
layers of life in Israel to expose its complexity and nuances through the social,
political, and cultural challenges.