#inspirationalquotes

I don’t need wine, cos’ I’m intoxicated with words

Bury yourself in an inexplicable sweetness of my words. – Olya Aman

The walls are never a prison, and any roof never stifles me. I manage to preserve the adventurism while being locked and isolated, for my words are real, as solid and true as every imaginable experience. They are the product of chaos, clutter, greed, insatiable hunger — love, tender feeling, sexual satisfaction, loving enthusiasm, and every possible set of emotions and reactions.

Like a hundred amorets, a swarm of words flies about my head. They leap from idea to idea and shot their arrows of completed sentences and passages into my willing heart. My imagination clothes the naked days with tender feelings, and in my happiness, the uneventful life turns into a fascinating adventure.

I worship the blank pages, ready to accept my writing. I trod on printed lines and shrug my shoulders with a delightful feeling of doing something venturesome, something magical, and absolutely unbelievable.

A day without my sweet mental struggle causes me every imaginable woe. And my heart beats almost painfully when a glimmer of a beautiful sentence makes my breathing strangely oppressive.

That is love. That is why I write. So if you don’t want to read me, that’s fine. I get my share of dope, pure intoxication, complete happiness in giving my words a chance to live and love.

I am too deliriously happy to care if you don’t like it

When I write I cannot tell if it is pain or pleasure. Every fraction of a second is such pure, beautiful madness. “What can be better than this?”, I say with something between a sob and a laugh.

My wayward nature wishes to be subjected to this strong guidance I feel inside me. Above all, I wish my stories to be written, released. When it happens, and I click on the ‘publish’ icon, I feel as if I shake hands with this independent being I’ve created, and my heart goes pit-a-pat against my chest.

It doubles my happiness if you can attune to the tragedy or laugh heartily with my protagonists — but if none of this happens, that’s fine.

I detach myself from the farther life of my stories

My dreamy and even dreary eye is following my heroes in their final stride to adult life, without my motherly watchful attention.

I reconcile myself to any ridiculous trappings. Acts, attitudes, external objects and people, bad stories written in the past, weaker characters brought to life in the present — all are the necessities that are wending my way to a future masterpiece.

I am resolved to let some of my breezy writings live. The truth is painfully simple: if I cannot make head or tail of some of my past work, there might be neither there. If this happens, I allow myself a prolonged moment of hilarious laughter.

I’m not to be bamboozled with negative feedback

There is something positive in the entirely negative criticism, as there is something damaging in a too favorable one. I am on good, or at least on good-humored terms with both.

I receive the first with that serenity, which is a characteristic feature of my personality, and which is close to gayety — an impulse to work harder.

The bare truth is — my story is liked, not me. I’ve changed since then. It is not me anymore who wrote it. I feel detached from any praise it receives.

I say to my fellow-writers, “Camp out, so to say, away from your finished work.”

Share my fondness for living in a story-book style. Turn the page, start a new chapter, without hesitation, with curiosity and desire to learn something new.

Notice the eternal bliss that is always with you. Don’t let any feedback deprive you of this delicacy of life. It is better to make mistakes often, being happy in the process, than making them often just the same, but with your heart in pieces.

You have words enough in your breast. They beat against one another like birds in a net, struggling to get free. Let them loose with no regrets.

I found patience at a crisis in my life… the blessing that greeted my nature – Olya Aman

Keeping the kids nice and neat, the house cozy and welcoming, the food tasty and nourishing—I reduced my restful, sleeping hours to about four a day, comforting myself with thoughts about excellence and perfection of my life.

In three months I felt as if I was groping forward a few steps in my daily life and strolling backward with increasing speed. The little one cried almost every night with no obvious reason. I often lost my temper with my four-year-old.

The growing family forced my husband to accept an offer of higher pay and longer absence from home, often being away on his business trips for weeks in a row. Left alone with kids I could not find energy enough to keep my old acquaintances and friends. I was busy and very lonely.

I kept reproaching myself for lack of attention to my husband and kids. Too often I ended up snappish in my manner.

The atmosphere at home became suffocating. My husband was providing for the wellbeing of our family, and I was devoting myself fully to the kids. Although our generous impulses had the best intentions, the outcome didn’t provide lasting happiness.

I was aching to the distant time of those happy days when my husband was at home every night. The tears I shed on the occasion of his coming home from another business trip caused the sacred emotional transformation. The only solution was to reunite our family, sacrificing some pleasant but unnecessary luxuries on the way.

My husband decided to go back to his old employment with lower pay and higher healthy, meaningful time spent with his family. With each day at home and each family dinner, the healthy and benign atmosphere was coming back to the house.

We abandoned our expensive car for a cheaper and a trifle less comfortable one and our pompous yearly vacations for a lovely countryside escape. When a chain of unlucky events at my husband’s work culminated in his losing the position, we didn’t despair. We lived out of our humble savings and occasional company commissions that I still received now and then.

My husband, freed up from the necessity to go every day to the office, finally could devote his time to his music experiments. He used to compose wonderful pieces when in college.

My husband was shutting himself up in his study at night, interrupting his work for rounds with our crying son. The little creature grew quieter with time, sensing my increasing tranquility. I had my full night’s sleep thanks to my husband’s loving help. Our older son got much attached to his father with his bedtime stories and childish fighting games.

Sometimes the artistic progress was dishearteningly slow. Producing music, though, became more familiar with each failing attempt at reaching the desired effect. I believed in his talent and future success. I encouraged his persistent work.

The daily treadmill of our home life was sweet and enchanting, notwithstanding the portioned to us hardships. I liked to see my husband, to hear him about the place and at his music work.

One year left us with a feeling that we’ve accomplished a lot of good for our family, which no money could buy. The second year brought the first small yet increasingly delightful music projects. My husband and a few of his college friends got back together and created a small-movie company.

All three of their movies presented at the festivals didn’t gain recognition. My husband became an instigator and a powerful motivator for his small company lot.

His music grew strange, turbulent and insistent, soft and plaintive—and the movie they produced with not much money but with great blissful inspiration became a winner.

Actress / Writer / Producer