Last night, I was thinking about this site and its French version. If the look and feel is the same for both, the actual feeling is not. For some reason, I dig deeper in English. Is it because my style in that language has been influenced by classic writers? It does not really make sense as my biggest interaction with Shakespeare’s idiom lately has been binge-watching Netflix (I expect an email from them asking if I am doing all right any day now) and the array of my interests are most certainly messing their statistics for female viewers aged 30 to 45.
Obviously, only those of you who understand both English and French would know but it still bothers me to some extent. These are pieces of my puzzle and one does not make sense without the other. Why write in two languages then, you ask. Well, who are you to question my art?!
Just kidding. Seriously, your guess is as good as mine on that one. Some texts come in French, others in English. They never do in Macedonian, Spanish or Dutch though, which is a good thing as I would not be able to manage that many websites, not to mention that many inner voices.
When I say “inner voices”, it is not to be taken as some form of psychosis or medium abilities. I don’t hear voices that dictate me my behaviour nor do I hear dead people; I hear myself writing. I came upon the realisation that I always do only recently. It was a good ego boost as I engaged in self-flagellation more than once over the years “I do not write enough”. But I do. I never stop. I do it in my head. All. The. Time. It is not always fiction, it is not always stories, but it is always something I am envisioning writing. This is the closest I’ll ever get to synaesthesia, I guess. *sigh*
But I’m digressing. Splitting my writer personality in two is one thing. Another is expressing myself differently according to my audience. To some of my acquaintances, I am the should-be-a-stand-up-comedian-person. To others, I am wise and mature (they might be fewer in number). To yet another group, I am firm and bossy (I hope they are fewer in number). My speech is faster in French than in other languages. My words are hit on a tapan* in Macedonian, half-munched in Spanish, careful in Dutch and round in English. I only speak in metaphors in French, English or Spanish. I am direct in Dutch and Macedonian. My many languages give me so many identities… or am I giving my many languages an identity? Man, I just messed with my own head.
Recently, someone asked me: “You’re a bit complicated, aren’t you?” and I answered with the words of Francis Scott Fitzgerald, a quote I recognized myself in almost 20 years ago: “I am not [complicated] really, I am just a whole lot of different simple people.”
In the end, I’m happy being a polyglot weirdo; that’s all that matters.
*a traditional drum in the Balkans