Writing a book is just part of the lifestyle, thinking one can hide anonymously behind the keyboard, a misnomer. Upon reflection I understand how clueless I had been. As I adopted my new role, I found it opened up boundless opportunities.
I joined the world community in my disbelief and abhorrence of the events in Paris just a few days ago. My research for ‘Schicksal’ opened the way for a deeper understanding of trauma, war and the effect of these on the future lives of the survivors.
Quite often whilst writing ‘Schicksal’, I regretted not having asked questions when my parents were still alive. This seems logical now but the trauma of war silenced them. I grew up very aware of the fact that insensitive probing would open wounds deep and barely healing. So their silence silenced me also.
The skeleton of my novel stood like a marionette, loosely hinged, far from self supporting. To do the story justice my role included creating a credible stage upon which to play each scene.
I began a journey nearly six years ago that would see me change so much that I barely recognised myself anymore. To write this memoir about my parents’ lives in Europe spanning forty years, ensured I delved firmly into the unknown. This tale came from mainly my father’s recitations forcing me to connect to the young child who viewed the world through trusting, big, brown eyes.
It was like biting into a ripe fig, full of anticipation but knowing the skin would prickle the tongue ever so slightly.