I contribute Russian literature as a metaphor to my writing because like Russian literature, I often go through existential crises while writing. Often while writing I ponder and think to myself, “What is the meaning of my existence?”, “Does a god exist, and if so, what is his nature?” and “What is the purpose of evil in the world?”.

We often have these conversations with ourselves when the surface of life is stripped away, usually by some tragedy, and are forced to face death.

Having these thoughts with myself, I am forced to face myself and ask what my true nature is, what is my essence as a human being. For example, I am devoting my entire life to learning the Russian language, but what do I become when you remove that aspect from my life. What does my life mean when I can no longer study Russian language?