It is called “Lesung” here. Although that’s not my first time, I’m nervous. I’m trying to do what Germans call “sich ablenken” – to think about something else. My endeavor is futile, though – I’m still very nervous. My ankles are shaking, my heart is beating as if wants to jump out. I suddenly remember my first public reading. That was more than ten years ago in Dilijan, Armenia. I was the second writer who read at the open mic, Gvantsa was the first. I tried to read slowly and clearly. I asked Ana to take a video of me. She did. I sent it to my mom, to my grandma and to my friends. They all praised me. I, however, have never seen the video – I was afraid to hear my own voice. I could how it was trembling while I was reading. THe process ended quickly. I read only the first 200 words of the story, the one that I had used as a writing sample when I applied for the program “Write in Armenia”. In addition to my first public reading, this program gave me a lot: new experiences, new friends. All of them have continued writing. I often meet Gvantsa, Marta and Ana, but it’s been a while I haven’t got in touch with others. I wonder where they are now.

My thoughts are again turning around the upcoming events. The program is overloaded: the presentation of my novel in the framework of Buchmesse and public reading of an excerpt from there; the meeting with publishers; panel discussion with foreign writers. I have a little time left before the “Lesung”, so I’m strolling around. I’m coming across the Ukrainian section and looking through the catalog of books. Suddenly I recognize the familiar faces among Ukrainian authors. Marina, Daria, Oksana, Katerina – all of them are there!

An idea is occurring to me. I’m rushing to the Armenian, Turkish and Russian sections, which is a problem, because my book presentation starts in fifteen minutes and the sections are not on the same floor! I still manage to find all the catalogs, however. Finally, I’m running to the venue my reading is going to be held and, exhausted and excited, I’m shouting to Gvantsa and Ana:

“They are here! They are all here! All of us!”

“What?!” Marta has just come. “What’s happening?”

I can barely breath and can’t make my tongue utter any more sounds. I’m giving the catalog to girls. My excitement is spreading over them like a virus. We wonder whether we are going to meet them. We hope that we will.

The day ends with a panel discussion. There is no detailed information given in the program regarding the participants. Only as we reach the venue, we see them gathering. It turns out that the discussion is between Georgian, Armenian, Turkish, Russian and Ukrainian writers. It also turns out that all of them know each other. The organizers are looking at us with confusion and surprise as we’re hugging each other with “Hello”-s and “How are you?”-s.

We remember how sad we were when the camp ended and we’re realizing:

 That nothing ever ends;

And that time passes, but it’s still there;

And that what has connected us (the literature) is eternal;

And that we are only at the beginning of a great journey…