Fight For It!

Part 1

The title of my book came in the course of its writing. The writing was a wonderful thing filled with both laughter and sadness. The story of this cup is hilarious. I went to the local Hallmark store to buy a happy birthday card and a little something for my husband for his birthday. I guessed, that just a gift card for his favorite restaurant would not be enough.

When I walked around the shelves, this cup (on the photo) caught my eye with its big golden letters BFF. My kids laughed when they saw me holding it. “No, don’t you dare to get this for him.”

“Why not?” I asked but didn’t expect an answer. Of course, I bought it. And I placed my gift card in it.


Frequently we get in arguments. Sometimes, it’s over nothing. Just a waste of my time. But sometimes, it’s more than that. Yes, if someone compares your head with a river through which all s… floats, then yes, it hurts. It was always a problem for me to live only at the expense of basic needs. My head was always full of something inaccessible to him. But gosh, it’s so hard to keep a secret when you have your BFF by your side every day. I wanted to share my project ideas with him so bad! Then, one gloomy afternoon, when he was laying on the couch, watching television and suspecting nothing, I dared. I knew it would be a piece of cake for him to pay attention to me on the commercial break.

“Want to see something?” I asked excitedly.

“Sure, go ahead.” No emotion.

I opened my Word in front of him. He supported his negativism with a sigh of disgust, but as soon as he read in red letters Killing Your Best Friend, his adrenaline finally bumped a level that made him jump off of his couch.

“Are you kidding me?”

“No,” I declared. “This is the title! And I’m not going to change it!”

“People will think, you are a maniac!” he countered.

“Oh well, we all have a choice to believe what we want.”

From then on, he thinks two times before saying something offensive!

To those who think that writing takes nothing than sitting on your butt and picking on the keyboard.

The process of writing a book is time and energy-consuming. When most people on weekends stayed in bed, I’m up at six in the morning and do my job as soon as my coffee ready and sometimes even before that. I can work on my manuscript 6-8-10 hours straight unless somebody lets me know “Hey, don’t you realize you have a family?” Then, attending family dinner I still working on my manuscript. In my head. It’s never over!

As a writer you should not judge, you should understand. Ernest Hemingway

When writing this novel, I decided to create characters that summoned conflicting feelings. There is nothing unequivocal in this world, everything is relative to many things so that to evaluate something on a two-digit scale, which is either good or bad, is doubtful. Any behavior can be understood in terms of causes that summon the such. At the same time, I do not mean an excuse but an explanation of why a person acts in one way or another. Since the time I was inspired by the idea of this book, with all my flesh and soul, I knew the purpose of it – to demonstrate a destructive effect of the feelings of guilt and self-accusation. How many of us haven’t made any mistake, and how many of us have not experienced shame for something that went wrong under some unfortunate circumstances? How many of us haven’t been playing a judge at least once despite our agreement to the Biblical concept “Judge not, that ye be not judged”. I wanted to bring some relief-understanding to the ones and loyalty and tolerance to the others through the clear conception that even with all the mistakes we make and grief we experienced, we can always find our life purpose.

My Doubts In the Moonlight

The moonlight has melted into infinity.

My eyes touched something in the dark.

Now, I have my doubts on such an eternity,

Which is in the simple shape confined.

Thought after thought chasing a meaning,

And I can’t understand how came that

The souls of those who were with me yesterday

Can’t fly like the birds today.

I would say to my mom, “Sorry. Wish you well

In your new life! Bon Voyage!”

This poem came to me in 2008. My mom passed away in 2007. But even a year later, my loss still sore to me. I knew that she wanted to tell me something important before she was gone, but, unfortunately, it didn’t work out. I wrote poetry from the age of eight.

When I left for college, and then returned home with a visit, I could not find any of my compositions. It made me upset, but my mom explained that she burned all my papers down because that was necessary to start a fire in a wood furnace. I didn’t hold my grudge against her. We lived in such conditions in which we had to survive. Battling with her cancer, she could not show her weakness, even if that weakness was a simple love. After her death, the poetry just spurted out of me, and I took it as a sign of her immortal blessing.