"It leads us (conscience) to research, as archaeologist are driven by the desire to discover and uncover secrets…"
Danijela Markovic and Bojan Klacar
I have several passions in my life: nature, writing, reading, dancing, foreign languages, archaeology and dogs. But nothing, absolutely nothing can be compared to writing. It was not a passion, it was like breathing, something without I could not exist. It was a constant that followed me through all the changes of jobs, apartments and cities I lived in.
I always wanted to get into writing. The clear memory of that desire is from the time before I started school, at least from the age of six. At that time, over forty years ago, it was not a fancy thing. The girls then wanted to be ballerinas or actresses or singers (possibly doctors). The fame of being an author is a matter of recent times. However, I knew, quite accurately, though not where it came from, that it was the only and the absolute thing I wanted to do. The reason for that was, when I was writing, even though I was not inventing new worlds, but writing about the everyday life, I felt like time and space did not exist. It was me! Easy-going, fulfilled, and the one who knew what she was doing. Much later I discovered that the condition was similar to meditation people were practicing to get into that state of peace and alignment with themselves.
Writers make up stories, create characters, and place them in situations in which they may face something they have seen or heard, but these are often entirely new worlds. My writing is more like something else. I observed what was happening around me, writing down and discovering certain regularities in seemingly different, but, essentially, equal situations. It looked more like I was photographing life rather than writing about it, because nothing I would have invented or tried to change, so that someone might not recognize themselves in the story, or make it better, was no better than the original (life itself). All I had to do was record the event, take photos (with a pencil).
Years went by. I've written and done jobs (that I did not enjoy), but they were great for paying off karma , . I occasionally re-read what I wrote years, sometimes decades earlier. I was surprised to find out that much of what I wrote about, even if it was my personal experience, was confirmed as a rule. People wrote scientific books about it. And from this perspective I could confirm to myself that what I'd assumed, observed, concluded then, was well noticed. Also, some experiences that seemed unimportant, incidentally (as if they had fallen out of nowhere), turned out to be messages of some much later events. It's like watching a thriller and you may not notice some little thing, but eventually it turns out to be the key that leads to the discovering of the villain.
By then, I had read enough books on spirituality and things became much clearer: that all these years my soul has been quietly, unobtrusively, talking about the essence. Primarily, about my essence. As if I were an archaeologist (which I usually planned to do for a short period of my life), I dug through the layers of the earth, revealing bits of vases, combs, bowls, and based on that I create a picture of a bygone era. In the end, this is how I understood myself and my writing: not as a photographer, not as a typist (like Abraham Hicks or Neil Donald Walsh, but as an archaeologist (which by the way I think most of us are)). To clarify: we all have a soul, right? And it mostly whispers, it doesn't speak clearly like when it speaks to Walsh, or Esther Hicks.
This is the model by which my writing works: first I have to experience something, to digest it emotionally, to get the core out of it, or to simply remain fascinated with how life works, then I have to say it out loud (to write), to shape it into worlds, and then I get a confirmation that I'm on the right track ...
Why all this? I have no idea. My soul has not yet reached the end of this novel.
Stay tuned and follow Vesna’s journey with us.
Author: Vesna Mišić
Vesna Mišić, born in 1968. Leads one ordinary life in Serbia. Has been writing ever since she learnt to write. Publish two novels. Tried various spiritual techniques till Mohanji found her. She realised then that it'd be a long voyage and that she's just got on board an ocean liner.