You’re nothing till you write a book. My love for literature and the written word in general and the charm of a yet empty piece of paper and the insufficiency of any page of print and the intoxication caused by choosing fonts and layouts.. Well, all this makes me a believer, a born (again, again and again) worshipper of the power of word. I can preach the word from any book of word. Preferably, a self-written one. Yep, write a book or die trying.. But.. how? I officially refuse to compose yet another dissertation, currently very much in doubt I want a university career. I officiously oppose freelance journalism and travel writing (although I consider the latter a dream profession).
Well, I’ve found a way, it seems. Not that I was looking for one. I’ve done it all.. involuntarily (no real intention) in connection with a little voluntary project which.. became quite huge.. Polish for Foreigners it is called. A real, palpable book of word with the printed acknowledgement of my name on it.
And so, the pigeonholing is over. She’s done it, the witch has done it. No noble prize.. But she feels she can die happy now.
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