For a long time, the place I was born meant I had to be something: I had to belong. With that came the pressure of adjusting. But the active act of adjusting and the passive sense of belonging are contradictory. It leads to conflict, both internally and externally. For a long time, this conflict fuelled my writing. I could have chosen to pinpoint this conflict by using it to describe what immigrants must feel when trying to build a home in a new country. Instead, I chose fiction. Maybe because I was afraid of making bold statements about real people.
This is the first time that I am back in the country I was born without feeling conflicted. I guess I am finally seeing it as a holiday: not having to be something, not having to belong. Not even having to write.
I just completed a novel. My theme has shifted. I say this because it matches the shift in how I feel. My new novel no longer focuses on issues of identity, but rather it analyzes the consequences of choices made.