Junior Writer
London, United Kingdom 🇬🇧

Xenia R

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Bio

Xenia is a journalist, poet and neurodivergent activist. She currently working as an investigative journalist/researcher with the global journalism and production studio, ‘Project Brazen’ and regularly guests on the ‘Unpacking Neuroqueerness’ podcast. Of Russian origin, Xenia attended an international school in Moscow before moving to London for her Bachelors in History and Masters in Digital Culture & Society (MA) from King’s College London.

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As a Story Terrace writer, Xenia R interviews customers and turns their life stories into books. Get to know our writer better by reading the autobiographical anecdote below!

"He's dead! He's dead!" I shouted!My mother's head whipped towards me, "Who's dead?""Pushkin! He died""Oh?""Why are you not upset? Why is no one upset?""Honey, that was a very long time ago. We've known about it for hundreds of years.""Not me.""I thought you knew."At five years old, I had only just discovered that Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin – poet, playwright, novelist, and author of countless childhood folktales – was dead. I was utterly distraught… I'm still not quite over it.Nestled into the navy, faux-leather cushions of our living room sofa, I was deeply engrossed in a 4 A.M. retrospective on the life and work of Pushkin, courtesy of the Russian 'Kultura' channel. Morning television wasn't typically permitted, a minor complication, which, after some trial and error, I naturally devised a way of circumventing. I discovered if I woke up before five in the morning to pestered my parents while they were half-asleep, they were more inclined to a lenient perspective about pre-established household screen-time regulations. To this day, my parents and I have varying memories as to the efficacy of this technique.Yet, there I was: shocked still by horror as some noted historian described the untimely demise of one of Russia's greatest writers on the 10-inch screen of our Samsung VCR-Combo. I took it upon myself to alert everyone. Indeed, they too would feel the immense loss of such a beloved storyteller… except they already knew. Worse – not only did they already know, they didn't seem particularly bothered.I still feel the smouldering indignation of that five-year-old: How dare they not care? How could they remain so unmoved? Pushkin, whose words single-handedly rescued me from the daily threat of napping tedium, whose stories consoled me during inescapable trials of childhood boredom, whose life's work continues to inspire mine: for his life to be cut short by a duel with a cheating Frenchman… I couldn't accept it. The worlds, the rhythms of his poetry and prose, jostled with a liveliness my little five-year-old brain couldn't reconcile with the stillness of death.According to my mother, that’s when I started writing. I guess I never stopped.

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