Festival of Literature in Dubai

This last three days I’ve experienced direct contact with some of the most brilliant minds roaming this little blue planet of ours. At least when it comes to English literature.

Some of them have surprised me with their great sense of humour, so distinct from their favourite subjects; their chosen genre.
Some have demonstrated to be more interesting than their own work.
Some have given me new purpose, along with a sense of urgency.
Some have scared and amazed me with their genius.
Some have made me feel worthy. Some have made me feel ordinary.
None have failed to amuse me.

Kate Mosse and Victoria Hislop convinced me there could still be time. According to Victoria: plenty of time!
Philippa Gregory and Peter James showed me how thorough research could make up for my lack of genius.
Along with Robin Sharma, they taught me it should be fun, loads of fun.
Wilbur Smith convinced me it is all about writing for myself: if I love it, maybe some other people will do too.
It seems Karin Slaughter shares his opinion. Both believe we should also write within the genre we like reading the most.
Claudia Roden showed me culture can spice up things.
Robin told me to fall down and get back up as many times as it takes. Victoria told me that to try, fail, try harder, fail better, trump never even trying.
And, in the end, if I don’t think it is good enough, Karin reminded me that I don’t really have to show it to anyone. :)

So, I have had the greatest of times.

However, I can’t help but wonder: have I enjoyed it so much because I am an avid, compulsive reader, or really because writing is my thing? And if so, why the hack am I not dedicating serious time in my life to do it?

I have conflicting feelings about it. I started writing poetry when I was around eight years old and have won my first literary competition at eleven (By the way, who even reads poetry these days?). Yet, I am now almost thirty seven and I have not written a novel. And, if I had, there is a big chance it wouldn’t be good enough to be published. Proficiency in writing does not mean one can come up with deep, interesting, captivating characters; or gripping, compelling, intriguing plots.

The good news, taking on a different angle, is that some great writers have published their first novel after they were forty years old. So, maybe there is time then. All that remains to be seen is whether there is also talent, discipline and enough luck to have a publisher like all the strings of words before “The End”.

For now, I’m contented by the whole experience and the amazing view of the Dubai Creek outside the large windows of the Intercontinental: the grey undulating sea blown by the sand storm and underlined by the swinging Dhows.

Lost in Translation

I can write. In Brazilian Portuguese, that is.
So this blog is an experiment to see if I can do some decent writing in English too. (Important point: I said 'decent'. Not funny or amusing. That would be a big stretch right now.)
At this point, I must confess I am sceptic about it. However, if I never attempt some actual writing in this language, I will ever be no better than mediocre. I might still be no better than mediocre two years from now, but I will have tried and, even though this scares the hell out of me, I will know that I will have perished fighting.