A writing bubble where inspiration may arise

Let me share a few questions from a recent interview I did for The Write Stuff:

What’s your latest project? 

In the last few month, I've been translating my father’s book of poetry, Can We Still Love, from Hebrew. This book, published when I was a child, expresses his life during WWII and its aftermath. It raises a powerful question: “In a world that is full of wonder on one hand, and on the other — full of hate and destruction, and faced with the threat of a flood of hatred and a new holocaust that may be immensely more horrific, can we still love?”

Tell us about a piece of work you’ve written. 

My novel, The Music of Us, is a WWII love story. In it, Lenny goes as far back as the moment he met Natasha, when he was a wounded warrior and she—a star, brilliant yet illusive. Natasha was a riddle to him then, and to this day, with all the changes she has gone through, she still is.

Here is a passage:

It’s a new day: January 1st, 1970. The first rays of dawn break through the blinds. They stray gingerly into the room, crawl across the floor, and reach for the mattress as if in hesitation, careful not to touch her ankle, dangling from the bed, or the folds of the blanket, gathered around her chest. 

Natasha is asleep by my side, her hair spread over my arm. I hold my breath, watching the shadow of her eyelashes flutter upon her cheeks. Where are her dreams taking her? She looks so beautiful, so peaceful. I have to stop myself from cuddling up to her, let alone allowing my passion to take over, because who knows what Natasha may do, thinking me a stranger.

She is not the only one confused: I am too, because even as I remind myself not to touch her, I can barely help myself. My body has a mind of its own. It compels me into arousal. 

I stroke her skin, ever so tenderly, and I ache for her, because more than ever before, she is absent.

Until she opens her eyes I can make believe everything is going to be all right. Perhaps the change in her is still reversible. Perhaps there is some cure for it, or at least some treatment to stop it from worsening. It can happen this way, can’t it? With a little bit of luck she may heal, and then go back to teaching piano. Her students will all come back. So will the friends who have drifted off.

Until then it’s a rough time for me. I have to survive it all by myself. My son is distant, in every sense of the word. How that happened, I am yet to figure out. In my loneliness I feel so weary, so close to despair—but somehow find a way to pull myself together, simply because I must. 

If I break down, what chance would she have?

To get a grip over myself I direct my thoughts elsewhere, to my craft. I think of writing about us, about this adventure called life. The few who may read it will surely complain about the story not having a happy end. Like them I wish for it. I pray with all my heart that it’ll happen. But even if doesn’t, here is what I have come to believe: perhaps the best anyone can hope for is to have a happy beginning. 

I am grateful to have lived through so many good moments, so many memories to cherish.

What’s the best thing about writing?

The best thing about writing is imagining how my characters leap from my heart and soul into the pages of the manuscript, and from there they leap into the heart and soul of the reader, and inspire her by stirring her own memories and imagination.

Describe your writing room.

My writing room is rather small, with a small table laden with my art instruments — brushes, knives, assortments of colorful papers, scissors and other tools. There is just enough room on the table to set my laptop, and when I write, I am surrounded by my art. On the wall to my right, my charcoal sketches. On the facing wall, a triptych of oil painting in rich red. At my left, my easel and behind it my paper sculptures are watching as I write the next passage into the manuscript. 

My oil painting depicts my artistic environment, with painting implements travelling across the writing surface, and an oil spill visible on the floor below forming a writing bubble where inspiration may arise: