When I was writing in a frenzy, producing kilos of text, I didn't know that my words were going to become a novel.
It seemed so easy to write it. I knew that some people rewrote their books twenty times so it seemed crazy to think I wrote a novel in two months.
But no, it turned out to be my first novel.
My mentor, Istvan Geher, who got me through the nightmare of my academic years with his supportive awe, yes, awe! I was as incredulous as you might be reading these lines, but it was wildly inspiring to have an aged professor, a poet and a Shakespearean scholar saying with such enthusiastic respect that I was a great writer, and mind you, he didn't ever try to get into my panties!
To hear such person saying such stuff was both scary and reassuring.
Thus after my first novel, came my second and then my third one. Now I work on two other ones and don't have much time to worry who the hell would print them and on what conditions because writing is so exciting and rewarding in itself that anything else is peanuts. Even sex.
Sorry. My point was that writing is a lifestyle. A compulsion.
But you've heard all this before...
These samples would show you that my fiction writing up to now is a combination of journalism, self therapy whining, social satire, erotic romance, childhood memoir, travelogue and other serious genres that I am sure the critics of the future veresology literary field would label somehow.
Don't you find it strange that one writer can feed maybe more than 100 literary personnel for centuries discussing, writing books on how poor the writer was, how sensitive and helpless, or how mad she or he was when death came? I do.