People often ask me: when did you start writing? When did you understand that you want to be a writer?
I answer: I knew it as long as I remember.
I remember myself a five-year-old boy who could retell his favorite fairy-tales word for word. It was as I recall almost a ritual. I stepped up a small chair and recited a story. I spoke very fast and with inspiration. I felt an urge to share to let as many people as possible know a good story.
I also remember listening to my father reading me tales after we put my younger sister in bed. Listening was my favorite activity. Also, I got very angry when my father substituted some words on purpose (I knew all the texts by heart). That is why I corrected him at once.
So that’s it. I love stories from childhood.
The same as writing. I remember the moment when I realized that I could write something voluminous. I was about twenty then. I noted down reflections or wrote short stories or just imagined them in my head.
Unlike then, now I can see writing as a craft, though I am still easily excited by an idea of a new story. And for some reason, I think that it would be forever like that.
