I just started reading A TALE FOR THE TIME BEING by RUTH OZEKI and, although I've barely scratched the surface, it's affecting me in such a way that is difficult to describe.
I suppose all writers, especially wannabes like me, dream of writing something that stands the test of time, touches people through generations. Some profound statement, the realization of something so obvious and yet voiced in such a way as to astound as though, up to that point, the whole of humanity had been bumbling around with their heads up their arses. Everyone suddenly wondering why THEY hadn't thought of that. Like some kind of epiphany.
In her writings, of what I've read so far, she mentions a book by PROUST, the title is in French but I think it translates as " in search of lost time. " Is there such a book? I suppose there MUST be. Anyway, I have, for so long now, wanted to communicate, commit my thoughts and experiences to paper, but what thoughts? What experiences? There's nothing to tell. OZEKI would have us believe that that is how she sees herself and yes, I suppose, her life/time/being DOES seem quite ordinary and yet I'm interested, happy to "walk with/accompany her through her writings and I want to know her, or rather " of " her, what she sees, what she feels, HOW she feels.
Trouble is, she's taking me from a feel good mood to one of self-analysis introspection. Why don't I have those words and such powers of composition? All I can do is read appreciate and admire.
It's all in the words isn't it. That's what separates the writers from the wannabes.