Disclaimer.

I have had various comments regarding this blog, from various people. I am grateful and thankful to everyone that read it and give me feedback; it's extremely interesting perceiving how someone besides yourself understands what you've written down in a moment of weakness/passion/happiness/doubt etc.

There is one thing that I feel I need to clarify when it comes to the style and tone of the blog entries. You must have realized by now that the blog is fairly personal, as I always chose to write about things that have happened to me, affecting me positively or negatively or neutrally, even. I have had comments that I sometimes sound bitter, or that I might appear more serious than I intend to. For people who know me, as a very good friend pointed out, it is easy to recognize from my writing when I'm in a particular mood. I urge those who don't to take a lot of the sentimentality (we can even call it hyperbole) that I superimpose on events with a pinch of salt. It's not as if I'm exactly adopting a persona when I write; it's more that the blog has been, from the very beginning, a space where I could experiment and exercise and fuck up and perfect and try out new stuff, meaning that it is not a diary, a journal or the reflections of the abyss of my soul. On the contrary, it is very self-aware and everything that goes on here yes, might be impulsive, sentimental, bitchy etc but it is always considered by me as an artistic endeavor and not a case of psychological venting, a venue where I can disclose my innermost secrets and desires.

To be absolutely honest, I hate that sentimental bullshit. I have no 'innermost secrets and desires'. I am such an outspoken person, that I cannot remember the last time when I wanted something (or someone) and didn't make it quite clear. I am not a romance-stricken damsel, nor an air-head who is blown away by that enchanting effect that literature and writing has on people: they make them think they are more important than they actually are. Or, in other words, people consider that because someone 'writes something', it means they do so with the aim of being in touch with their sentimental side, in order to express their emotions and communicate their thoughts in a generous, pathetic, self-indulgent way. I admit there is a degree of self-indulgence in writing, of course, but what I am trying to say is that writing isn't a necessarily a mushy activity. I will give an example that hopefully will clarify my as-yet-failed attempt to articulate what I mean.

I got a call from my mum (who, by the way, has no idea what a blog is and how it works etc) saying that a friend of hers called her, saying that she had read my blog, and asking her in quite a sly - I found - condescending and even sarcastic manner: 'Does mummy know about this or have I made a mistake in telling you?' My mum of course wanted to know what the hell all this is about. I explained in due course and she liked the idea, I'm planning on guiding her through the internet jungle once I get home. My mum is one of those people that are torn between a very modern, progressive and liberal attitude and the parent-imposed frame of mind of a war-and-poverty stricken Cyprus of the 1970s. She clearly thought that I must have something ludicrously provocative on the blog. And in turn, her friend must have thought that I actually am what I write: she must perceive writing in its most simplest, crudest form. I think the thought process must go like this:

1. I am feeling something (which I, only, consider poignant and significant)

2. I have to write it down in the most sentimental terms, the cliches of bygone modes of regurgitated language

3. Most of the times it's a pile of crap that I produce, but I think it's the best shit in the world

4. I sit and chat about it with friends, as we exchange and analyze each other's poetry.

This, is bullshit.

I write because I love language, and I enjoy manipulating my own feelings and stretching them into words. It's fun. It's a game. It's a serious - but unserious in so many ways - puzzle. It's genuine, but in un-genuine terms. While you're reading an entry that makes you think I'm heartbroken and makes you pity me, guess what, I'm probably out clubbing, dancing and having the time of my life. It is the writer's conceit. The feeling is true, the vehicle can be whatever I want it to be. That's the magic, that's the exciting part of it. If I sat down and wrote all the sentimental crap that I detest the moment it comes into my head, well, then I'd be sorry for everyone that reads my blog and I'd want to apologize for the sewage I'd served them. But I flex, I twist, I adapt and play with expectations. So next time someone wants to hint at my mum about what they perceive to be 'secrets' please know that, if I put this stuff on the WORLD WIDE WEB, then the likelihood is that my mum knows about everything I mention already.

Back to the initial issue. I am not insincere in my writing. I am just dedicated to the sense I want to convey each time, not IN the literal terms I use but VIA them, in a way. Words become avatars (to use a popular culture reference), bodies which I hopefully successfully mold in such a way so that they can carry the unexplained, evasive quality that is what is great about Language and Literature. It is me who is typing the words, my fingers hitting the keys of the laptop. But who is speaking? Don't take it at face-value. Gerard Genette mentions the unfounded trust we have for a narrator and makes an excellent point (think about it): 'the role of the narrator is itself fictive'. I am an actress, and as all my friends and family have borne testament too, a drama queen. So it's only natural that I hem things up a bit.