About
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I was born in Nessebar, Bulgaria where I lived until I was 15. In the middle of 10th grade, I moved to Plovdiv where I graduated college and lived until the age of 22. Then I moved to Genoa, Italy to teach English. Two and a half years later, I moved to Munich. A few years later, I moved to Nottingham in England where I did both my undergraduate and graduate degrees, and where I am at present although I constantly visit the places I've lived in.
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My life consists of constant movement. People often ask me, 'why do you like to travel so much?', to which I say, 'I don't like it, but it seems to like me.' It's just how it's been for me for a very long time now, and I think it's only natural. Life is movement - slow or fast - we move until one day we stop. Then we transform, which I'd say involves one hell of a movement. Spiritual and physical. And then?
Too soon to tell, although I doubt we ever really stop forever.
I wrote my first poem when I was 8 or 9 years old. I was sitting in the back garden of my grandparent's house in Nessebar. My father and grandfather were fixing something in the workshop at the back, and I was drawing puppies in my notebook on the little white table by the strawberries. Only, there were none.
It was early autumn, in the late afternoon, and we'd just started school again. The sun was shouting 'last calls' from behind a cloud. All of a sudden, there was this smell in the air. Something familiar that made me lift my head up from my notebook.
'I know this smell, I know it. It's the smell of rain, and clouds, and snow, and grey; the smell of winter ... but what is it?'
'It's coals,' my father said when I called his name and then the questions, "can you smell the air?"
'Someone's lit their stove. I'll only be a moment ...'
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This smell and everything it meant - all the memories it carried, how it made me feel and understand - is what inspired me to write. A four-verse poem which I copied into a brand new notepad my father gave me. He said this was going to be my poetry notebook and made me promise that I will always write when and what I felt. I never broke that promise.
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So what is 'writing'?
What is singing, what is art, what is life?
All questions that have been asked and answered by many. But this doesn't mean we know the real answers. What if we are not asking the questions correctly?
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Can I sing?
Why, yes, I can. As long as I have a voice which I can bend into a tune.
Can I draw?
Why, yes, I can. As long as I have means with which to hold the tools.
Can I live?
Why, yes, I can. As long as I exist*.
(*what is 'to exist' ...?)
Can I write?
Why, yes, I can. As long as I have thoughts, and hopes, and dreams, and fears, and memories ...
And I believe this goes for each and every one of us.
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When it comes to writing, I believe anyone can write because everyone has something to write about. We all lead our lives, and they are full of stories. We are all artists - writers and actors in our everyday. It's just a fact for me. To be clear, though, this doesn't mean that I can read or like everyone's writing. Far from it! We all experience and lead life differently, and the things we write because of that won't appeal to everyone. And why should they? What I mean is that I'd never say 'someone cannot write', unless I meant it literary for whatever reason.
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This is a place to show that we not only can but should practice what some call 'creative writing'. Writing can help us deal with so much of what's going on in our lives. It can be therapeutic and it can be soothing.
Of course, it can be just for fun ... to explore. And, if you're lucky, it can become a career. I say 'lucky' because from what I've read, luck seems to be the main ingredient for the success of many writers. But never mind this now.
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I write because I want, and no one can tell me that I can't or shouldn't. I don't write to please anyone but myself. I don't try to comply with any made up 'rules' on writing. I write because I can.
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