Stories
9.99 €
Out of stock
Stories
9.99 €
Natalia Meshchaninova is a cinematographer, author of scripts for the films "One More Year" by Oksana Bychkova and "Arithmia" by Boris Khlebnikov Oksana Bychkova and Boris Khlebnikov's Arrhythmia. In 2014, Meshchaninova made her debut as a director with the movie "The Hope Factory." This book is her literary debut. Meshchaninova's prose is fierce and tender, direct and personal, visible and tangible.
At 14 I read "Laura Palmer's Diary" and decided that if I didn't start writing my own, no one would ever know how I lived and was killed (at 14 I wanted to be killed in a loud and tasteful way). I bought a common notebook, put a date on the first page and wrote, like Laura Palmer: "Dear Diary"... It was unclear what to do next. I had to introduce myself. I wrote something like, "My name is Natasha, I'm 14 years old and I'm in ninth grade. I also do sports - canoeing. And I like Sashka Shipulin terribly - he is a future rowing champion. But he doesn't like me. He's so handsome, and I have acne. My mom said I should bake him pies, because the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. I'm learning to bake pies in the oven with yeast dough." I reread it. I didn't like what was written for two reasons. First, the whole thing felt like a school essay, and I didn't want it to feel that way. Secondly, right from the first page I was presented in a kind of light... as if I were ugly and fat, which I wasn't. I had pimples, but my friend Marina said they'd go away if I just fucked a guy. She had already fucked a guy and checked everything on herself - the pimples disappeared. So I didn't want to perpetuate my acne and those stupid pies, because that would soon change. And besides, after comparing my few lines with Laura Palmer's diary, I realized that mine was a joke. So I ripped the page out. I didn't want to write about the everyday. Describing every day, what I did, who and what I said to me, what happened during the day - it was kindergartenish. I wanted to write about my inner world. I wanted to write about what I cared about. The diary had to start mysteriously. I wrote on a blank sheet of paper something like, "I'm Natalie. I'm 14 years old, but I'm mature..." I liked it then that I wrote that I was mature. It wasn't clear what I was ripe for, but it was good, it was promising. I wrote further, "My love overwhelms me" (let's not mention that it's not mutual), "My chosen one is a handsome, with sensual lips man. Yesterday, coming back from a workout (we won't mention what kind of workout, let it remain a mystery), I was walking through the park and my heart raced. I felt that he was catching up with me, my demon, my black angel... I turned around, the wind blew my blond hair, I saw him catching up with me with a quick step! I won't describe here what happened next, but it was dizzying. My lips were still aching and itching for a long time, my hands still held his scent for a long time. He walked me to the bus and disappeared into the night. I'll look forward to seeing him tomorrow, tomorrow at Phantomas'..." I liked the writing a lot. I liked it a lot. It was like the beginning of a novel with detailed sex scenes. I read one of those when I was 12. It was called something like The Harlot of Venice. From there I learned all about Venice, learned a couple phrases in Italian and picked up a few metaphors about intercourse. I didn't want to call sex sex, but to write something like "the unicorn burst into the valley" was somehow... highly literary, for my taste at the time.
At 14 I read "Laura Palmer's Diary" and decided that if I didn't start writing my own, no one would ever know how I lived and was killed (at 14 I wanted to be killed in a loud and tasteful way). I bought a common notebook, put a date on the first page and wrote, like Laura Palmer: "Dear Diary"... It was unclear what to do next. I had to introduce myself. I wrote something like, "My name is Natasha, I'm 14 years old and I'm in ninth grade. I also do sports - canoeing. And I like Sashka Shipulin terribly - he is a future rowing champion. But he doesn't like me. He's so handsome, and I have acne. My mom said I should bake him pies, because the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. I'm learning to bake pies in the oven with yeast dough." I reread it. I didn't like what was written for two reasons. First, the whole thing felt like a school essay, and I didn't want it to feel that way. Secondly, right from the first page I was presented in a kind of light... as if I were ugly and fat, which I wasn't. I had pimples, but my friend Marina said they'd go away if I just fucked a guy. She had already fucked a guy and checked everything on herself - the pimples disappeared. So I didn't want to perpetuate my acne and those stupid pies, because that would soon change. And besides, after comparing my few lines with Laura Palmer's diary, I realized that mine was a joke. So I ripped the page out. I didn't want to write about the everyday. Describing every day, what I did, who and what I said to me, what happened during the day - it was kindergartenish. I wanted to write about my inner world. I wanted to write about what I cared about. The diary had to start mysteriously. I wrote on a blank sheet of paper something like, "I'm Natalie. I'm 14 years old, but I'm mature..." I liked it then that I wrote that I was mature. It wasn't clear what I was ripe for, but it was good, it was promising. I wrote further, "My love overwhelms me" (let's not mention that it's not mutual), "My chosen one is a handsome, with sensual lips man. Yesterday, coming back from a workout (we won't mention what kind of workout, let it remain a mystery), I was walking through the park and my heart raced. I felt that he was catching up with me, my demon, my black angel... I turned around, the wind blew my blond hair, I saw him catching up with me with a quick step! I won't describe here what happened next, but it was dizzying. My lips were still aching and itching for a long time, my hands still held his scent for a long time. He walked me to the bus and disappeared into the night. I'll look forward to seeing him tomorrow, tomorrow at Phantomas'..." I liked the writing a lot. I liked it a lot. It was like the beginning of a novel with detailed sex scenes. I read one of those when I was 12. It was called something like The Harlot of Venice. From there I learned all about Venice, learned a couple phrases in Italian and picked up a few metaphors about intercourse. I didn't want to call sex sex, but to write something like "the unicorn burst into the valley" was somehow... highly literary, for my taste at the time.
See also:
- All books by the publisher
- All books by the author