Searching for Words by Tania Hershman

I mentioned in my post that I would be doing a Faber Academy course on writing across cultures, and writing alien. And here, right on cue, is Tania Hershman with an essay on feeling alien when she first went to live in Jerusulam and, then on her return home to Britain, feeling alien all over again. It's a neat exploration of the duality of identity, and the complicated relationship some of us have with both our adopted lands and the lands we are "from". I owe Tania a public apology: she sent this to me ages ago, but my inbox, alas, it runneth over, and I did not see it. If you enjoy this, as I know you will, please read more of Tania's work at her blog. She has also published a short story collection, The White Road and Other stories, pictured here, which was commended at last year's Orange Prize for new writers. And, over at The Short Review , which she edits, Tania is, if you will pardon the mixed metaphors, breathing life and giving legs to the short story.

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In Jerusalem, where I moved to from London in 1994 and lived for 15 years, no-one was going to mistake me, with my pale skin and blonde hair, for a native. I tried as hard as I could, learning Hebrew until I was fluent, but you can only go so far. Despite being bilingual, my friends were English speakers, I was an “Anglo”, and I learned to accept that.

As a freelance science journalist, I wrote in English, conducted interviews in English, and hardly used my Hebrew, but loved being able to make myself understood in another language. I travelled the country, meeting scientists and technology entrepreneurs, all of whom were excited and optimistic: they thought their invention, their new process, would change the world. It was a wonderful and inspiring job, but after ten years, I realised that I was writing about other people's creativity instead of being creative myself. I started attending short story workshops in America and England. On one of these, a few years ago, Ali Smith, whose short stories inspired me to try writing in the first place, advised me to give up journalism and throw myself into fiction full time. I did, and a few months later, Salt Publishing offered me a book deal for my first collection.

It all happened so fast.

The White Road and Other Stories was published in Sept 2008, and life changed. Life changed radically. The book got more attention than I had dreamed of, and as a consequence, I got more attention, especially in Jerusalem. People wanted to talk to me about my book, about my stories, which is always wonderful. But I also found it very stressful. The nagging feeling of discomfort I had had about being the only English-speaking full-time short story writer around grew. I wanted other writers to talk to about all this. I have many writer friends online, and they are a great support, a real community. But I felt very lonely in Israel. The Hebrew writing community was something foreign to me. I started feeling very, very English again.

The decision to leave, to move countries, came suddenly, but when it came it felt right for many reasons. I had done a reading at the Frank O'Connor Short Story Festival in Cork, Ireland, last year, just as my book was published, and was electrified by being around other writers and talking about short stories. In England, I thought, I can get this “fix” more than once a year, much more.

So we moved, with our two cats (who are now, sadly and cruelly, in quarantine), two months ago. And that is when the culture shock hit. Yes, I had been back often on holiday. But something shifted inside me, knowing that this wasn't a short trip, and I found that I couldn't get through a whole sentence in English without stopping to search for a word. After 15 years, there were gaps in my English that I would have filled in in Hebrew. (I like to think this bilingualism made my fiction more "innovative"!)

Here in Bristol, I look English, I sound English, but I feel totally foreign. It's not just the language; I have lost all sense of cultural cues. In Israel there is no concept of politeness and formality. Anyone will talk to you, anywhere, about anything. During my first few weeks in England, I noticed a glazed look that would come over the shop assistant's face quite suddenly, and realise that I had chatted “too much”. I'd gone over acceptable boundaries, because I didn't know them. Every time this happened, and it was pretty frequent, I felt embarrassed, ashamed, alien.

Things are getting a little better. My spoken English is more fluent, I am watching more carefully for the signs that I am getting close to “over-talking” to someone. I have found an ex-pat hairdresser to share experiences with!

And, on the far more positive side, I am running around the country from literary event to literary event, thrilled at the wealth of opportunities. I have given two readings, been offered the position of Fiction Editor of a literary journal, invited to judge several short story competitions, host an evening for emerging Jewish writers, and go into schools to talk about writing. That intoxicates me. The thought that all this has come to me without even trying makes me dizzy with the possibilities that are still out there when I do get my act together.

I am beginning to feel settled enough to write, and am interested to see what comes out. I have never written anything set in Israel. Most of my stories are set in places I have never been to. I like to make things up, that is what entertains me, and I am, always, the reader I am writing for. Will what I write about change with my location? It's too early to tell.

Right now, I don't feel English and I don't feel Israeli. I am straddling worlds. They tell me a writer should always feel somewhat alienated from society around her. But I am in a country, on a continent, where I can meet people and talk short stories all the time. I may chat too much to strangers in shops, I may struggle to find the right word when I speak, but at least in this language, I am fluent.