Reading David Finkel’s Thank You for Your Service. Blown away.

From p.86: ‘It is such a lonely life, this life afterward. During the war, it wasn’t that way, even in the loneliest moments, when somewhere in the big night sky was a mortar that was on its way down and there was nothing to do but wait for it. Over time, the war came to mean less and less until it meant nothing at all, and meanwhile the other soldiers meant more and more until they came to mean everything.’

I’ve been asked to suggest a writing exercise for Writers Vic. I am not a friend of writing exercises, i.e. I huffed and puffed, but, finally, something did come to me that felt true. I call it ‘Mess it Up’.

I am saying a few things here, including:

If your each chapter starts with a richly conjured ‘significant episode’, which is meant to set the tone for the rest of the chapter and/or to suggest the big themes to be explored, perhaps you could have one chapter start with a thought, or a song, or a small encounter that isn’t oversaturated with meaning? Or perhaps you could start with an excerpt from a newspaper article or a TV show of the time, a dream, a 50-word description of the way women wore dresses and men wore suspenders in those long-gone days when your parents were young?

 

 

Here is the text of my 8-minute speech at the gala opening of the inaugural Melbourne Jewish Writers Festival. 7 writers – Arnold Zable, Zeruya Shalev, Andrea Goldsmith, Lally Katz, Howard Goldenberg and Dara Horn; hosted by Rachel Berger. The theme – ‘It started with a Word’.

‘In English I can say ‘I love you’ to a man in a month or two. Not to any man, to a man I am with. The words fall out of my mouth like milk teeth. ‘I love you.’ ‘I hate you.’ ‘I am happy.’ ‘This feels like home.’ I can say whatever you want me to say. Easy. God is not listening when I speak English.

In Russian, my birth language, it would take years of not saying it – to say ‘I love you’. It would take a war we survived together. Bullets. Trenches. The last piece of bread you handed to me and I handed back to you. In Russian the word ‘love’ (lyubov) and the word ‘freedom’ (svoboda) can have a crushing weight. Just to lift them up to my mouth would take most of my strength.

We are chained to words in our birth languages.’

Read more here.

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