It happens that a writer may also do a bit of drawing from time to time. There are also artists who occasionally put their thoughts into writing. But it’s almost never the case that both sides, united in one person, grow into fully developed forms of creative expression. How did it happen that I, having considered myself an artist since childhood, suddenly became a writer as well? Perhaps the most interesting part—just like in any endeavor—is that fateful threshold one must physically cross in order to transform into something else. Under what circumstances does a person approach that threshold? Why does he suddenly abandon familiar concerns and set off for distant shores, often without even the faintest hope of success? What must happen to an adult to make him set aside his everyday affairs and actually sit down at a writing desk in hopes of finding something, though he doesn’t yet know what?
In my case, it happened like this. It all began with a modest request from my friend, Yevgeny Voronin, to find a professional who could write a screenplay for a feature film based on a circus show in which Yevgeny had starred as the lead performer—a show that was, at the time, his pride and joy. Making a film out of it was his cherished dream.
“Find a screenwriter,” my friend said, “and tell him about my show. Get him up to speed, so to speak. After all, you know everything about it just as well as I do.” Indeed, we had worked together on the “Dinner Show” for many years. Primarily, I was involved as an artist, but I often helped stage certain episodes and even full scenes. Naturally, I knew the show quite well. So I told the screenwriter the entire storyline from beginning to end. I described my vision of the future film as best I could, explained all the important details, and tried not to miss a thing. I spoke passionately, waved my arms, and showed him pre-prepared YouTube videos. In short, I did everything I could. But the screenwriter said: “I’m not going to write the script.” My eyes widened. “Why not?” He shrugged. “How many times have you seen the show?”. “Well, I can’t even remember how many. Probably a lot,” I replied uncertainly. “There you go,” he said. “And I haven’t seen it even once.” He glanced at me quickly over his golden glasses and suddenly said: “You should write the script yourself.”
To be honest, I already had a fairly clear outline of the intended film in my mind. At the time, I thought all it would take was placing three or four cameras on stage and hiring a great director—and that would be enough to achieve the goal. But once I actually tried to write the synopsis, I realized how wrong I was. It suddenly occurred to me that it would be far more interesting not to focus solely on the show itself, but—taking into account circus performers’ tendency to identify with their characters and often continue playing them even off-stage—to create an ephemeral space on screen where the boundary between the stage and real life would vanish entirely.
I sketched out the synopsis, created a scene-by-scene breakdown of the screenplay, and even, as I recall, showed it to some Hollywood stars—like the renowned Brian Yuzna. Despite receiving very positive feedback, the project stalled. As often happens, some of the investors who had shown interest in supporting the film backed out, and later, my friend Yevgeny Voronin moved on to other ventures.
A year later, he called me and said he was ready to resume work on the film—but now it had to be a children’s fairy tale, and all the materials I had prepared would need to be adapted to suit a young audience. I was outraged. To adapt for children what had been created specifically for adults! I was ready to flat-out refuse to do what seemed inherently impossible, but suddenly… I realized that not only was it possible, but it could actually result in something so intriguing that everything I’d done up to that point would pale in comparison. And this “something” could never have come into being under any other circumstances.
That’s how my first novella, “The Cemetery of May Beetles”, came to be.
Of course, what I ended up with went far beyond the bounds of an ordinary film script. Or, more precisely, if one were to consider it a script, then it was far too literary a one. In essence, what came from my pen was nothing other than a novella. As an atavism, the novella turned out to be highly cinematic—suffused with action from the first to the last page, with vividly drawn characters. After all, they were all heroes of a real existing show, only slightly altered by my imagination.
Formally speaking, the novella was targeted at a Young Adult audience, but I must admit that this was little more than a cover. Figuratively speaking, any of my artistic statements can be compared to a vessel containing another vessel, and so on. Such multilayered meaning is possible for me only when, in obedience to Shakespeare’s wise precept, one set of words conceals another. When I speak of one thing, I always imply something else, and I believe this approach allows me to express that which cannot be conveyed by any other means.
The book was published in 2019 by the Moscow-based publishing house Meshcheryakov Publishing House. For marketing reasons, the original title of the book was changed, and it was released under the name Land of the May Beetles. My design proposal was also rejected by the publisher, as it was presumably deemed too mature. As a result, the novella came out under a different title and in a more “childlike” format—which, in my opinion, did it no favors.
“Lysina Yama”
My second novella is “Lysina Yama”. I worked on it for six years — from August 2018 to July 2024. And if it is at least theoretically possible to say something aloud about the psychology of artistic creation — and not disgrace oneself in the process — then I’ve tried to do just that. “Lysina Yama” is a book about how one becomes a poet. It is, if I may put it this way, a kind of experiment meant to confirm or refute the idea that art is indeed capable of saving a human life.
The story takes place in the 1950s. In a dense thicket, cut off from the rest of the world by a kilometer of impassable forest, a remote orphanage is hidden. A series of inexplicable events begins with an innocent game played by two teenage friends who, as a joke, decide to write a fairy-tale story. Very soon, it becomes clear that someone else has joined their game — a mysterious figure known as the Alder King. This means that fiction and reality have traded places. Imagine the astonishment of one of the boys when he realizes that whether he has the courage to resist another’s will and guide the plot of his own story himself will determine whether a girl who drowned in a nearby river many years ago can be saved…
The book is currently unpublished and I am still looking for my publisher.
