I guess I could say she was always a believer. That, of course, didn't involve her trusting anything or anyone, but she could always see a spark of faith wherever it was possible. Having that in mind, it was impossible not to like her.
She was free-spirited and always insisted on being independent. She never allowed nor wanted to be patronized by being offered help she didn't truly need, and always tried to remain exclusively herself, no matter the circumstances. She believed in second chances, giving and asking for them. I can't say it always turned out right for her, but in the end, it never can.
She didn't believe in the expression ‘happy ending’, but was of a firm belief that endings can't actually be happy. At least not the ones mentioned in fairytales and stories. She used to say that when the story-writing ends, it's where the new beginning is born, and that, knowing so, there can't be an ending.
She could sit and write for hours without ever realizing what was going on around her. She was completely immune to sound or noise, or someone coming in, or out; as if she was in some sort of a writing coma. She would say that is not true, but I witnessed many situations that proved it to be very true. Anyway, her mind sometimes worked so fast, she couldn't keep up with it. She had to write things and thoughts down all the time, in order not to forget them. She always had lots of papers and diaries, notebooks and Microsoft Word documents that contained unfinished stories. When I asked her why she doesn't finish them, she would say that there is a time for everything. And after a while, she would come home looking for one of the notebooks, ‘you know, the one with the apricots on it’, and after finding it, she would sit very still, staring at what she had already written, thinking carefully and thoroughly what should come next, out of the pile of ideas multiplying in her head by the minute. Sometimes, when she was out of inspiration, she would just stare at the wall, but when she would come back to writing, it seemed so natural ‒ as if she had stopped a second ago, even if the thinking period lasted for hours.
When she felt that she truly couldn’t continue, she would go out. She preferred to look for inspiration during the day, especially if it was spring. She loved spring. She would walk with earphones in her ears, always listening to the radio and never her own playlist, thinking it's fate and that the choice of the radio station would be the only thing that could get her to calm down and focus. She would sit in a park for some time trying to find the perfect track and if she couldn't find it, she couldn't write. But she was almost always able to start writing again. Wherever she found herself sitting/standing when the song started: in the park, on a bench, in a bus. It was something in the music that kept her going, although she was never a very musical person. She believed in music and always kept coming back to it. I guess she liked to listen, and to hear.
She also liked to walk to a special place that was usually hidden from the rush of traffic and noises and there she would sit and think and write. She used to call them ‘wisdom walks’. In a way, I believe she got lots of her ideas by just sitting, thinking, reminiscing about the past and imagining the future. She needed that time alone to figure out who she was and how she got there. And the answer was always the same: writing.
She would say that whilst having inspiration, one shouldn't stop writing until their thoughts are all worn out. If the phone rang or something distracting happened, like her being hungry or thirsty, she would stop, at first, and later wouldn't be fully capable of coming back to that state she was in before. But, after a while, she learned how to silence everything and everyone. She wouldn’t stop unless she felt she should. In later years, she even learned how to silence me. But still, she would hear my voice, in the back of her mind saying ‘Go to sleep’ or ‘Please, rest your hand’, even though she wouldn't always obey. Even so, I never wanted to get in between her and her work; I just wanted to help her. Sometimes I would manifest myself through the neck pain. Those were many considering she would always bow her head down whilst writing. And then, as in every other similar occasion, she would say ‘Not yet’. After a while, she would go rest on her own accord, without me interfering. I was often the mistakes made by her hand, trying to convince her to stop for a while. She never listened. Sometimes, she would concentrate so hard I would start feeling pain.
But after all, we would always get along well. She would eventually have to listen to me. Because, after all, one can never completely silence the mind.