The story which will soon begin has a protagonist. The protagonist really wants to leave his house, but he doesn’t know how. He thrashes about, although he knows perfectly well where the door is and where the balcony is, but none of these exits lead him to his goal. Because of his indecisiveness, the beginning is difficult indeed. We acquaint ourselves with his daily life, the reality he is trying to flee, although the conditions in which he is living are seemingly favorable and pleasant, rather than gray, sad or colorless.
There’s a novel… it’s called The Blue Castle. Before the book’s plot unfolds (long before things get rolling), we listen to two old women talking to each other. We find out what color the walls in the room of our young protagonist are, and we can sense how cold and bad she feels there. And then, unexpectedly, after many unconditional yawns and brief smiles, the book opens its second door to us. At that moment, we experience how the main character passes through it. And as I remember, it is a wonderful experience to watch her as she walks. It’s much like observing a crawling toddler. I wouldn’t even dream of comparing myself to the author of The Blue Castle, but I would like to wish every person who will witness the actions of my main character the same: patience.