This essay was published in issue #4 of Panel. It summarizes pretty well how I feel about being an exophonic writer
“As a woman I have no country. As a woman I want no country. As a woman, my country is the whole world,” said Virginia Woolf.
This is a beautiful line, indeed. A poetic and liberating, in a way. Especially for a writer who explores not in breadth, but in depth. Or, for someone who never traveled a lot. Or, even doesn’t need to travel a lot to feel in contact with the world. They actually say that the happiest people are those who never really withdraw from their homes… Well, I don’t know about that. But what I do know from the experience is that when you do travel a lot, or try to settle in a new place, certain things somehow infect you – the fear of losing (connections, self-identity, your roots), feeling of not belonging and the irrational impulse you must feel like you’re at home from the first day. During the first year in Budapest I tried much harder then now to give directions to the passers-by who asked for it, to eat both gulyash and borsch on a regular basis. Or, to invite friends from Russia to visit – so they could see my new home and also bring books in Russian.
After some time the statement “my country is the world” turned into a haunting and rather disturbing question: is my only home the world?
In my case, the whole process of getting adapted to a new culture without forgetting where I came from, was compounded with the fact that I write. And not just that: from a certain point onward, I wrote in two languages—Russian and English.
Here, I have to say that I was brought up in a monolingual family, where language, and literature written in my native language, were always treated with deep, if not hyperbolic, respect. My parents worked as theater actors for their whole lives, they are, in a way, typical intelligentszia. Our home has always been overloaded with volumes of books. Quoting Brodsky during the dinner was never a big deal. Discussing Tolstoy’s personal life on a regular basis–why not. Russian literature, undoubtedly and without any irony at all, was taken as the greatest in the world.
During my childhood, we were taught that we should feel honored for being native speakers of the great and mighty Russian language. I accepted that idea and, for many years, I was grateful for that language for choosing me, especially when I started to write. Language was an entity that defined and sheltered me. It gave me context, a sense of belonging, the right to have Pushkin’s face on my coffee mug.
Soon after I had moved to Budapest, I chose English as the second working language. It was a necessity, sort of. Of course I didn’t have to write stories in English at all if I didn’t want to – the world would survive without them. But, like I’ve said, I strongly wanted to connect with new environment – and, for me, people have always been the main link to life. I couldn’t work in Hungarian in the beginning, I was struggling every time I wanted to get something from the counter in the shop, so, I thought that it would be a good idea if I use my upper-intermediate level of English for writing short stories.
It was not a particularly brilliant idea at first.
It turned out that writing in two languages was, for the most part, horrible. It was not just challenging, or frustrating, or disappointing. It was not just about different dialog tags, or using “this” instead of “it”, or phrasal verbs that, as turned out, I never before used properly, It is all these and more, in addition to all the trials and tribulations every writer goes through. Speaking many languages enriches our experience, stimulates our brain, and even helps prevent Alzheimer’s. That’s what they say. I should add that writing in a different language undermines confidence, impacts (read: increases) your anxiety and, simultaneously, triples the effort necessary to get your pieces accepted to a native publication.
When you live in a city far from the one you were born in, write in a language your parents don’t understand, you have to deal with something more nuanced than semantics. You have to reconsider your approach to writing. Should I set this story in the city I come from, or in Budapest, or in Berlin or Rome, or somewhere else entirely—on Mars? Should I write a fantasy instead and make up a whole new universe? And if I set it in Budapest, what kind of characters should I write about: expats, locals, both? If locals, why should they speak English and not their native tongue? Should I include footnotes for lines in Hungarian? What niche will my story fill? Where might I even publish a book set in Eastern Europe and written in English? Not to mention that you don’t want to write a bad book, but a solid, thought provoking, convincing book, which happens in a particular place and with particular people for good reason, and not as a result of the writer’s apathy.
Later on more questions followed. To which professional community, if any, do I belong? What country, if any, will I represent when I am published, and am promoting my book? Should I bother even trying to gain recognition in my homeland? Should I eventually choose one language to write in exclusively? Maybe that was even one of the reasons why I co-started Budapest Friday Night Stories project and then – Panel. To get the answers.
Every time I come to visit my family and friends in St.Petersburg, I every time reconnect – with the environment and, to the certain extent, with language, too. When I go to the bookstores there, I every time think if, by writing in English, I narrow my chances of publishing a book in my mother tongue ever. And if it was a good choice to represent myself as a writing being wherever I locate than to master my native language.
Under different circumstances you’d never concern yourself with the specific consequences of these dilemmas, and, even if you thought of them, they’d be easier to navigate. I, personally, don’t have the answers. All I can do is reinvent them constantly as I handle each problem. I usually say to friends and fellow writers that my stereowriting depends on the day – if I am in the mood for writing in English, or in Russian. This is not untrue, but this is only a bit of truth.
Suprisingly enough, though, this risky business– not just moving to a different country, but writing in two languages and being a member of the international community here –made me bravier. Like, if I can do this, I can do everything. If not now, but someday.
People is another good thing that happened , while I was hunting for my “feel-like-home” sense, using, among other things, tools of writing. Over a short period of time—and in no small part thanks to Panel—I’ve met a great many people who operate in their native language by day, and write stories in English by night. Many have become my friends. It turned out that there were more people around me using their second or third languages to write fiction and poetry than I could have ever imagined. I realized that editors didn’t care if a writer’s name was too long, or too short, or too exotic to pronounce properly, as long the writing was publishable.
Yet, somehow, whenever we meet, we never talk about the issues that naturally arise from writing in two languages. We barely discuss our insecurities, our reservations, our insights. I
We play all these off as if they were natural and only of fleeting importance. It’s taken for granted that each of us has their own background; that most of us come from different countries or have previously lived abroad, and that many non-native speakers write poetry and fiction in English. That’s usually enough. We are expatriates, after all. People with numerous stamps in our passports, interrupted friendships, scheduled Skype dates and discounts on booking sites. We chose to re-shape our identities, took that risk. We don’t have to clarify our cultural differences or similarities to get along. So is there any reason to overthink things?
But I do overthink. Even now, when I have accepted so many things – Budapest as the second home, three languages in operation on a daily basis, the fact that my writing in English will always require careful proofreading (this piece is no exception), the fact that there are days when I miss my root culture so much that I want to read books and watch films only in Russian. And when I other think multilingual writing, I think it’s a game with high stakes, and it’s not for the weak of heart. But if you’re lucky, you’ll meet its other players—they’ll play for their own teams, but between rounds you can sit down with a drink. And that would be my world.