Writing about feelings is a bit like suicide—too many people try. Of course, it's easy to write about feelings because they're an everyday occurrence. "I love you, Grandma," says little Franek to an old woman, waiting for the traditional twenty złoty. It's not even about faking feelings, because of course we don't—we sometimes get a surge of mysterious "something" at the sight of a meadow in spring, and we'd love to sit in the middle of that meadow, gazing at cow patties, sighing at the beauty of the world, but those aren't the feelings I have in mind. Because love and hate, intertwined, also happen to us every now and then, and we feel either butterflies in our stomachs or the rush of blood in our ears, and then we run, hair flying, toward our beloved, or club in hand, toward a hated enemy.
Not everyone is a historian to write about history, nor can everyone tell cyanide from arsenic enough to write crime fiction, but it would seem anyone can write about feelings. Besides, you probably remember from your youth, scribbling rhyming oohs and aahs on the last page of your math notebook with a photo of your first love in hand. You might say that such writing doesn't require literary skills, and of course I agree – everyone should write what they want; I'd even say – they should write about feelings. Just don't put your work in a visible place – the back of the drawer is making a comeback.
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