Love Novel by Ivana Sajko

Author:Ivana Sajko
Format: epub

7

GO AHEAD, WRITE, WRITE, WRITE, she tells him, as if it were the easiest thing in the world, as if you could just sit down and start writing, for instance that sentence from a minute ago, about two bears banging on the bathroom floor, without it sounding moronic. She thinks writing is like fishing; you cast your line and wait, you’re bound to catch something – and so she says write, just like that, and she’ll close the door and tiptoe so as not to scare the fish, or better yet, she’ll take the child out to the park, wrapped in a blanket, go out into the knee-deep slush, all so he can catch a specimen, so that he can WRITE in peace, instead of pecking endlessly at the same single sentence, struggling with the bear couple who’ve been locked in a clinch for days now, holding on and not letting go, so that it’s not clear if they’re about to fuck or slay each other, just as it’s not clear why they’re doing this in the first place; he himself doesn’t have a clue what the bear did to his mate to make her hate him so much, nor what the she-bear did to the he-bear to make him want to smack her in the gob. And yet she still tells him go on, write, don’t give up, change the subject, try again, as if writing redeems, as if it’ll compensate for all the negligence and laziness he likes to call fatigue; all the days he slobbered away on the couch watching live parliamentary sessions and listening to them tell him from the podium that it’s time to tighten his belt, or take out a loan, the top-up kind, for bread, milk and phone bills, because everything that could be looted has been looted and everything that could be sold has been sold, and all the money is now gone unless someone lends him some; and so they warn him to be careful with that, too, because other people’s money is easily spent and hard to pay back, as they know best, and they advise him to just hold on for another twenty or thirty years until the appropriated assets are returned to the people in dividends, and to just keep his worm in his pants and not make babies in the middle of a recession, for which, of course, it’s too late now, so they laugh at him with good reason – he’s ended up looking like a fool, earning every right to bang his head against the wall, as if banging his head against the wall was his only right, the only justified response, the only thing he could ever be good at, and presumably that’s why she keeps telling him to sit down and write, to mind his head and do what he’s missing out on every day, a miracle no less; to do something beautiful and noble with words, instead of smearing them on the floor like spit.

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