As a person, but also as a writer, you sometimes hold on to prohibitions and certain beliefs about yourself. Mayonnaise is not for me. Hats don’t suit me. I know how to tell stories, but only ones that are not particularly funny, but usually quite weird. Above all, I’m not a poet. I’d love to write poetry, and I’d even rather write in the language of my favourite poets and musicians. But: I’m not a poet. And as a non-native speaker, I should definitely stay away from writing poetry in English.
Then the following happened: Fate had two years in store for me, in which not only did nothing go according to plan, but some of my strongest beliefs were shaken.
A manuscript that was much longer than any of my previous ones gave me stability in the midst of the turmoil, like a large building in which I took refuge. At the same time, I started fishing: For all the fleeting impressions and bits of stories and capturing them in very short prose texts. At some point, patterns crept in, rhythms, and the emptiness around and between the lines, through which the wind blew, became part of the whole. Suddenly I was no longer fishing for words, but for everything in between. People now tell me that these attempts might be poems.
And now TINT journal shakes my last commandment: Thou shalt not write poetry, and certainly not in English.

„Dear Anke, We at Tint loved your submission, „To be found on Achill (November only),“ and seek permission to publish the piece on our online journal’s website, tintjournal.com, as part of our upcoming issue.“

What do I learn from this? Question everything you think you know about yourself, again and again. Or else:

Do whatever you want. Just pretend. Maybe one of the silver fish will slip through to where you dreamed it would go.

photo: pixabay