There is some kind of relief when old flames reach menopause and practice ghosting by default. For starters, I have more time to read the many books I badly ought to know like the back of my hand, and of course, I can write more focused than ever. A big improvement compared to 25 years ago when I began this wandering in the wilderness.
Most of the time, I was deeply hurt. Because I found myself opening the mailbox for an awaited letter that never came.
It was like constant bleeding. No wonder why unrequited love was the subject I explored from all sides in my first novel. I was also dealing with the heartfelt admiration for Harold Brodkey, and that iconic collection of short stories, First Love and Other Sorrows, which gave him credit enough to spread the legend about being busy writing the next big American novel.
26 years to this day, I quit a job that I considered a plum job, where I could read no less than a dozen books a week, less in summer when I was pretty busy and had no time at all. And to make that decision cost me a lot of struggles until I began hearing voices as if I were insane.
But I wasn’t. Simply put, it was about time. Nine years ago, I got that job to have time to read all the novels I needed before began to write following the advice of an old writer I met. More than all of this, I was dangerously close to my 30th birthday, and as the prudent people made their choices by then to find the right partner to raise a family, I chose to write my guts out and make manuscripts for the rest of my life.
So, I moved into a white apartment on the seashore by myself, bought IKEA simple Nordic furniture to avoid color distractions, and mounted a desk in the living room. I remember waking up early and hearing the radio of fishermen chatter when they were working the clams at six fathoms.
There was a fish farm out at sea, and I thought I might reach it swimming, but powerful currents made me change my mind.
Strange ironies of life, I chose that apartment because of a red-haired girlfriend once I had, who loved it two years before. And I wrote to her explaining my situation. I knew it wasn’t what she wanted. Anyhow, I celebrated alone my 30th birthday doing what I loved to do, that is, typing in that Toshiba laptop I had. And printing to add the page up to the sheaf of paper, which became my first manuscript by the end of summer. I remember as if it were today what I did instead of blowing out candles while making secret wishes. I just put my right hand over that sheaf of paper with much more love than I had ever felt for anybody.
About that red-haired girlfriend, I finally received in the middle of August a postcard from Prague with one written exclamation: Shhh!