Many write for a living. I stretch those words until I warp their sense, form and meaning. I have diaries filled with illogical texts. That's how my mind works. How am I supposed to dig up beautiful stories from the muddy pit I live in? How can I write when I feel nothing? Nothing hurts, everything is green, sunny, love is in the air, I'm happy. I repeat it like a mantra. But it's all a lie. I write because the therapist wants me to. Then he reads it and I pay him. He's never satisfied. He wants me to see the beauty in life. Whose life, his?
Mira Wolf
I'm a millionaire. My domestic fiction novel sold like hotcakes. True, it led to a frenzy of divorces but the end justifies the means. Then I bought a castle in Scotland and moved there with Suzy. At night I sit, with the window open, and work on the next bestseller. My houseboy serves me whisky and rare steak, dressed in nothing but a kilt. Suzy meows, outraged. Okay, I may have stretched the truth a little, no need to get on my case. If I manage to sell this novel I'll treat you to some bone soup.
Teodora Ștefănescu
I make a living from writing. Speeches. For any occasion. My schedule is orderly: I wake up at 6 AM and drink my coffee, I check the latest media news, I turn on the laptop at 8 AM and sort orders by price. Being ultra-selective, customer access increases proportionally in euros. I began by wasting time reading social or political platforms. In the end, I created 10 speeches with variations in the addendum. After 4 hours of sending emails, I check my bank account and see how much it increased. I log off the internet until the next day, pick a new novel and start living.
(Translated by Bogdan Nicola / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.