Sara Poisson (b. 1964)
I was born uncomfortably in a little house at a lake. My mother, a midwife by profession, found herself in two roles at the same time: that of giving birth and that of assisting a birth. Very likely it was what caused my inclination to impurity, to the ability to take on several roles simultaneously, to the inner obligation I felt to view everything both from inside and from outside. All this and me being a journalist were totally incompatible: the duality of my personality or the mingling of things that are sacred to others when taken separately; the ability to impart meaning to what is insignificant and stripping meaning from what is significant;  deconstructing what is usual and comfortable;  building a hut of words from material fit for nothing useful and doomed to rot. I write uncomfortably. Someone is always asking if I am scared, if I feel safe, if what I do is hazardous to my health. From 1999 to 2016, different publishers in Lithuania published nine of my uncomfortable books: four collections of poetry, two novels, one collection of novellas, and two books of essays. Writing uncomfortable books was the most comfortable, cheapest, and safest of all activities known to me. Some of those books have been noticed.