As an author, I am predominantly concerned with beauty, the exploration and mysteries of the human soul.

When I wrote my first (never published) novel, I clearly remember in my mind’s eye, a tall man came, in a dark suit, his hair darker than his eyes, slicked back, his smile almost shy, though mischievous, he sat next to me and telepathically told me, ‘Let’s start the journey’.

I am an author who was predominantly concerned with beauty, the exploration and mysteries of the human soul; I don’t know how many are still concerned with such a matter, I don’t even know if younger generations are interested in matters of the soul, in the mysteries of life, the role and meaning of pain, love, loss, existence … but I can’t write about other topics, for I would consider it as a betrayal of my own needs or talents, so I do preferably and mainly write for myself, but still, I do hope that there will be others who would be touched with such interests and explorations, as I know from those readers that make an effort to reach out and tell me about the impact or the impressions my novels evoke.

A poet never dies, a novelist never dies; our thoughts and feelings put in order to sing and to vibrate in the right sequences or melodies stay captured between the covers waiting for the right reader to take them on a journey that you are about to reveal to them, to touch their intellect, and stir their soul.

On even more personal note, one of my favourite novelists, my dear, long-time friend, Mr Caleb Pirtle wrote to me: “Beautiful writing. A work of art. Keep the stories coming. The world needs them. I need them.”

For a writer, it couldn’t be any better, any more meaningful moment than when you get such feedback from a colleague who you immensely respect. Authors, we find inspiration in each other, often we encourage each other, more often we learn from each other.

Leonard Cohen was a living legend, we hope that our work will survive us, that some other kid, just like I did finding Cohen’s poetry, will find inspiration, or solace, or comfort in our words, for writing is contributing to the collective knowledge, to our collective soul.

A short excerpt from the novel “The Mosaic of the Broken Soul”

“When we claim that we have lost ourself, does that mean that we have lost our very soul? And what is the soul and what is the self? Are they the same, inseparable like a canvas and the paint? Is it so that the beginning of one is the end of the other? Or are they interwoven so finely that no scientist can separate them, no mystic can define them, and no fool can find the words to say which one is hurting? Is this grand malady of mine, and my fellow humans’ who walk unnoticed with me, simply the loss of soul? Do you simply call for it; are there secret rituals for it so you can be initiated in this fine art of finding it? Can it be the same, the loss of soul and loss of meaning? Which one led the way, which blindly followed? Does the soul prefer to be unanswered? Is it just a tiny voice that can tell you how to separate good from evil? Which tells you which way to take when in confusion? When it goes, the voice, where has it gone?

Where does the soul live? Between understanding and unconsciousness? Is it married to imagination? Oh, sweet lovers, they cannot be separated! It uses the body to live in it and the mind to wonder, but its instrument is neither the body nor the mind.

If I say ‘my soul’, does it really belong to me?

One more question before I go:

Pain, loss, sadness, frustration, looking for meaning and personal substance, are they gifts so that we can come face to face with the grand invisible?”

Please click HERE to find Part 1 of Branka’s two-part series on writing: My favorite author? The Poet of Brokenness

 Please click HERE to find The Mosaic of the Broken Soul on Amazon.