I speak Writerese like a native Writerese. I say I am working on my novel and that I have writer's block and that I can't work at night because I get too depressed and would you mind reading over my manuscript? And can we sit quietly, broodingly in a cafe together with our Moleskines and Precise V5 extra fine rolling ball pens? And how is the weather today. Am I going insane. What's the point of the period if it doesn't end this life sentence of being a word slinger.
So I guess there's culture shock. The self and the words are intertwined, inseparable. To the unsuspecting eye, I pass myself off as a native. But in my eyes, the written, printed, and published page is foreign. We are apart -- seas apart -- continents drifting, but never touching. I sail around in this literary canoe with a leak. I send a few distress signals, halfheartedly, but instead decide to sit outside of the boat and float in the abstract.
All I want is to bite into a peach and let it leave nectar on my lips. All I want is for my words to be peaches, not flotation devices. But where can I buy a peach in a country like this? The exchange rate is so poor. I may speak your language, but I'll never eat your fruit.