I’m reading “The folded world” by Catherynne M. Valente. Queen Hagia, the blemmye, writes: “I told her that this was her story, but if she had been my daughter she would not be so hopeless when it came to letters. I would have taught her to write her own history, how writing is like giving birth to yourself – no one can do it for you without making a mess.”
Someone asked me where this need to write comes from. That he didn’t understand. I’m not sure, but I think the need is something that I’ve created myself. It started as a game, grew out of boredom, but I lost control and here I am. Sentences growing in my head without my asking for them. I don’t know where it comes from, but I do know that I haven’t been this happy, felt this contentment for ages. Now that I’m writing again.
I guess people are different. That they need different things. I need to be allowed to sing. I need to be challanged. And I need to write.
Katja Malmborg 