Lack of any clear topic

Sitting on the balcony reading, going inside just to write a blog entry, because I feel like it


Though not totally without fear of changing the intended topic, I start off apologizing for the lack of any clear topic. In a way, there seems not to be any, but on the other hand, the topic that is lacking is just the topic of the entry, making the lack of it the whole point of writing.

On the other hand, it might seem like just that perceived lack is what triggers creation of feeling, even though that runs counter to the view that I share with most of my friends and acquaintances. Speaking from experience - and on the topic in question, I have no lack of it - just those books we don´t want to summarize, but those that make us stare out into the void air, seem to be the most emotional ones, and in that sense meaningful, because - again just from a personal perspective - there is no meaning if it´s not perceived like a meaning, and if it is perceived as meaningful, it is felt as such, and that means you´re excited, and that excitement seems to me the basis of true knowledge, as - although it is said before and therefore I´m robbed of any accusations of being a genius - knowledge is more easily internalized and remembered if felt, and thus, experienced.

However, speaking personally again, I am sitting on the balcony - not exactly right now, but the balcony door is open, whatever that means to you - reading a book by my favourite writer, or, rather one of them, as I am too old already - and in my case, this implies experienced (I´m 22, in case you wondered), at least in dealing with this topic - to easily pick just one favourite, as I am too diverse to find satisfaction only from one person´s words. As I am sitting on the balcony reading a book by one of favourite writers, I am starting to think, because the main character of the book quite frequently, or rather every day, starts thinking at 10 o clock, although I had been thinking for many hours already, but not really at 10, because I slept till 11. Like me, the main character wants to release a book, but he is afraid of being too incorrect, and besides - the novel has to be long enough, which is extremely important, in the main character´s case because he will be paid more, in my case because some Norwegian publishing companies quite automatically will be against a short novel, quite simply because that´s not what they publish (unless it´s translated, meaning I might have a chance if I wrote in Lithuanian, but then again I can forget it, because no Lithuanian novels are ever translated to Norwegian language, and besides, I am not that fluent in it like I want you to believe, but on the other hand I could learn Finnish, or Russian, which might give me a small chance, if I grow old first).

I like to think that the old man, the main character of the novel I´m reading (by now I can reveal to you that it is "Fiasco" by Imre Kertész) is not happy with the fact that a certain novel is (at least at the beginning of the story) not released, just like I am. And - going personal again - while I´m waiting for responses from the companies, I don´t feel like I want to start writing something new, although I have some ideas, but then again, as the main character of "Fiasco" is afraid it will be too personal, and that he might lack the necessary amount of imagination, it strikes me that I share the same fear, and the same feeling. And this is exactly why I am now reading a fourth book of Imre Kertész, because I feel I can relate to that writer, and this is also why I want to write, because I think that someone would be able to relate to my stories, which might not be stories, but then landscapes, emotions and thoughts. This doesn´t normally make the greatest bestseller, and you might not have the necessary linguistic skills to satisfy the upper strata of readers. Or maybe you have, without knowing it, or maybe not. You just don´t know, that´s why you, in this case me, no reason to be too dualistic, lack a topic, because you don´t believe in that topic, because you´re insecure. And that insecurity is just what might create the book that you would love to read, but that is the book which is hardest to write, because it is hard to write long books from insecurity - they will stop halfway, or at best, be short stories.

And then, as I turn on the computer, or rather, poke the space button, the sound of a happy computer ready to service its master, sounds different from what it used to, which adds a mystic feeling to the whole hour of writing, or rather three quarters or whatever it is. Then again, a certain strand of bitterness is added to it by the fact that I just saw a beautiful young man from my balcony, but he disappeared behind a small house, and then went into a block building, instead of walking further on, which would have allowed me to look at the person for another half minute, and made up some new thoughts about him, and most probably, I would ponder my lacks in comparison with him, or what I would perceive as lacks, or I would just start reading again.

Now I´m taking a sip of coffee.

I just wrote my second blog entry in August 2011.