Gentile or Jew, this is a time for reflection.
My own balance tells me that I have learnt much. This year has brought me into contact with many wonderful people all over the world, most of them writers or aspiring writers. True friendships have bloomed, as well as the art of giving generously.
As a writer, I look upon life through a magnifying glass. No detail escapes scrutiny, and many of the things I see hurt me. In my craft, I try to make the good and the bad visible to my readers. At the same time, my own visibility gives me the odd feeling of living in a glass cage.
I am the observer and the narrator, but also the observed and the narrated. Does every writer split into two levels of experience so that her/his self breathes life into the characters selected? Is every writer aware of external influences -the layers of literature in the realms of fellow writers- pervading the structure, spirit, rhythm, and core of creation?
Too many such questions haunt my days. I believe that, if we write realistic fiction, there is only one story to tell: that of mankind's plight. We can change the emphasis, the focus, or the tone, but not the kernel.
Writing is my way of processing the information that assaults me from inside and outside.
It would seem as if my comprehension of what baffles me were aided when I see it neatly laid out on a page. This is partly true and partly an illusion; a magician's trick, if you wish.
The illusion is the best part. I feel I have the power to create, develop, and destroy imaginary lives. I also feel I have the possibility of helping real people heal through my stories.
If these thoughts strike an echo in your heart, by all means share with me.