Well, I don’t know about you, and your ideas about your writing antics, or where that sense comes from at all? My first memory of my will to write dates back to the time when ‘Anne Frank’s Diary’ was compulsory reading at school. I was twelve at the time and we were taught about World War II and those horrors. I experienced that as a very intense time (and learning).
The documentation the headteacher gave us, with all those horrible pictures. The disbelief that you have to let work in on you at a young age, all that disaster and hardship. I especially remember thinking at first that people could not be able to do those horrors to each other.
But all of that became noticeably tangible and painfully recognizable when I was finally able to read Anne Frank’s Diary. Sensible because of her writing style and recognizable because of her experiences.
Because, I looked into those spunky eyes on the cover of that book, and more or less realized that Anne must have been a lively and interesting person. She radiated it so unmistakably in that photo. And I felt that humor and successive tears very substantially while reading. Her youthful wisdom made me think anyone could write if they wanted to. I finished that Diary within no time.
With a sigh I finally put the book down and, despite that rotten and above all miserable knowledge of how her life ended, I knew that she had more or less given me the go-ahead to start writing myself.
And somehow I think it’s respectful to give her those credits. Here … en plein public.
I don’t know why, but I just suspect that I am not the only one who experiences it this way. What about you, guys?
