The Meaning of Literature in One's Life
A form of escapism that keeps you sane when everything else falls apart.
What does literature mean to me?
Nadezhda Tolokonnikova writes in her book Read & Riot: A Pussy Riot Guide to Activism: “In all psychologically damaging situations, I read. It helps, I’ve never had a panic attack in my life. So far.”
I understand what she means, although her “psychologically damaging situations” are probably vastly different from mine.
I use stories from books to escape. At first from people. Now it’s more often to run away from myself. Sometimes I just need to shut the door that connects me to me.
Literature is fascinating. Words on pages connect into sentences and create scenes in our heads not so different from movies on tv screens. It allows us to enter a world fleshed out of somebody’s thoughts and meet people that feel like we could have passed them by on the street.
Literature becomes a dream
Writing my own stories came to me as naturally as walking or talking. It was the most obvious thing to do.
I distinctly remember writing different storylines on papers scattered on the floor of my parent’s bedroom. Big and black letters scattered on white papers.
I was only twelve, so they were all awful. But I loved doing it, there was no need to question if it was any good since it was only for me. There was no need for comparison.
I wish often I could return to that period that now feels so brief. Soon, I started to dream of becoming a published author. The feeling that comes after realising what your life goal is going to be is nothing short of euphoria. All the career choices I mulled over in my head before became crumpled bus tickets I would never get on.
But then the overwhelm sets in.
I wonder if it was a good thing that I ended up wanting to be a writer. It was the love for the written word that gave me purpose, but it also caused me so much pain.
The need to compare yourself with other writers caused disquietude even while writing. Feelings of inadequacy and the endless loop of “Am I good enough? And if I’m not, will I ever be?” It was not fair. Writing was supposed to be my safe zone.
I worry the pain might ebb away at all the passion, and I will be left with burnt stumps instead of typing fingers.
I understand the need for pain, struggles, and obstacles. It’s essential if you want to improve. You hope your dream is strong enough to withstand everything. But it’s a little regretful that the bliss you feel gets tainted by the need for competition. I guess it doesn’t matter if you win, but the losers must carry the weight of a dream that became too heavy.
What literature taught me
Thanks to literature and my desire to be a brilliant writer, I became watchful of my surroundings. I started to notice the way people talk and walk. Small quirks in their speech, their posture, or grimaces became major points for observation.
Ever since then I carry a notebook everywhere and jot down descriptions of peoples’ features or snippets of conversations. I write in detail about the sound I hear when stepping on dry leaves or the way the sky turns pink before becoming dark.
All sounds and sights became fascinating. And with it, life itself.
I started to read, and writing followed. In the end, I don’t think I will ever be able to erase the impact literature made on my life, and neither do I want to do such a thing. A dream, an escape, and a way to learn. I feel grateful that eleven years after discovering my passion for writing, I’m still in love with it. But I also feel grief because I couldn’t keep the passion as scorching and pure as it was in the beginning.
What does literature mean to you?
