Vera Kalmykova, poet, prose writer and literary critic
Writing is quite fun when you look at it from the outside. It is especially wonderful when you are young, when you want everything but you cannot do much. I remember when I was 18, I was sitting in the field and writing a deeply felt poem about the war. It began like this: “The circle closes. Fingers in the hair.” It meant that the lyrical heroine sits with her hands raised to her head and her fingers buried in her hair. It really turns out to be a circle, and then it developed. Having completed this text, I happily forgot about it and found it ten years later. How I laughed when I discovered these hairy fingers!
Islam Khanipaev, prose writer
In Blagoveshchensk, a local reading club wanted to meet with me. I asked me not to repent, but to say everything clearly. In response I heard: “No, we are soft guys.” I thought they would praise me again. Three liked the book, three were disappointed, and one abstained. But the leader of the club, a grandmother with glasses, scolded me so much that everyone started defending me. What about me? I humbly agreed. After all, when they tell you: “Well, of course, you are not Fazil Iskander, but try, maybe something will work out,” all you have to do is accept. You cannot argue with such arguments.
Alexey Vitakov, poet
Repairing a car while lying underneath it.
Neighbor Zakhar passes by. In fact, Zahid Abbas-ogly:
– Assalamualaikum, Alexey. How are you, dear?
“You can’t see it yourself,” I reply, “the car is a complete wreck.”
– Ah, what are you saying? There is a temple there. Buy a candle for 15 rubles, go to the icon of Nicholas and say: “Listen, Kolya, you have many good cars, I don’t have one, please.” It will help. Just when you go to your first festival in a new car, don’t forget to take me. I will still be useful to you.
And Zajar left. And I headed to the temple. He did well. Come home.
And there is my aunt, we haven’t seen each other for 15 years.
– How are you? – he asks.
– Fine then. The car is junk. There’s no money and no sign of it.
– Let me give it to you. And when you have them, you can give them away,” says the aunt.
“Well,” I think, “it’s begun!”
Writing is a lot of fun. It’s especially wonderful when you’re young, when you want it all, but you can’t do much.
My wife and I bought a Renault Kanga. I’m going to attend one of the festivals near Moscow. Zakhara, of course, did not forget it.
Two snobs, grimacing, approach, kick the steering wheel and ask:
– Why does a Russian poet need a French postal car?
Zakhar’s shaved head peeked out of the window:
– Wah, why should you fools carry a letter from God?
Aida Arens-Serebryakova, novelist
My son was given a very fun assignment in literature: to write a script for the school holiday “First Snow”. I complained to my older relative how a third grader could be asked this without explaining what a “scenario” is. I was advised:
– Call Lida, she will help you.
– With what? – I asked confused. – She doesn’t have a magic wand to change the school curriculum…
– Lida is a kindergarten teacher, she is no match for you, the writer!
Elena Shumara, prose writer and poet.
I was writing a novel and I really liked the main character. Tall, long-haired… he’s not exactly handsome, but girls fall in love with him instantly. In one scene I saw him as a bird. “He became like a swan, fragile, but always ready to fly and bite,” I wrote, and then I wondered: is this how a swan attacks? The search engine gave no answer and I decided to leave everything as it is. The next day my friend and I were walking in the park. We went down a steep path to the river. From afar a swan was sailing like a snow-white caravel. It came closer, froze, and we looked at each other for several minutes without breaking the silence. Suddenly there were screams and falling stones: a boy of about six years old ran along the path towards us. The swan twisted, then (yes, yes) shot up, whistled, arched its neck and ran to the bank. I pushed the boy up the stairs, my friend covered his bottom – by the way, he got a couple of bites. And someone whispered in my head: “This is how a swan attacks, do you understand?”
Nika Batkhen, prose writer and poet
Two weeks before the Voloshin Festival in Koktebel, I was admitted to the hospital with a severe form of fashion disease, miraculously recovered, received a certificate of health, and went to perform. But due to someone’s personal complaint, I was banned from participating in events because I was contagious. I directed the performance from behind the fence, slipping poems and notes to my comrades through it. I was extremely impressed by a fellow student from the Literary Institute who, the only one at the whole party, had the courage to come out and hug me.
Elizaveta Erofeeva, prose writer and poet.
I broke my deodorant and replayed a scene from my own book, where the hero drinks a glass of poison and falls dead. You should have taken an unbreakable glass, but who knew, it didn’t break during the first takes…
Elena Kovalyuk, poet, prose writer
One day I said to myself: “I am a fool!” Perhaps there is not a single woman in Russia who has not uttered this phrase at least once. The ancient Romans called Amazons dura femina, which means “recklessly brave woman.” It was about this type of woman that I wanted to write a book. Soon I met a teacher who said that in the ancient Slavic language the word “dura” has a secret meaning and means “one who moves towards the Sun,” because “du” is the duality of the path and “ra” is the sun. It turned out that being a “stupid” is not so bad. In fact, on the way to our sun, we gain knowledge and become wise masters of our lives. The book was published and entered the top 100 best-selling novels about Ozon. And now I am not afraid of the word “stupid.”
Ekaterina Gromova, poet
Somehow, two elderly “writers” from our town, apparently having confused a personal message with a wall on a social network, started writing right there, in plain sight, about how I supposedly wanted to join their graphomaniac union, and that I was not ashamed to participate and post everywhere. And they greeted me in person, smiled…
