Details of Beauty

My house is a mess, I barely talk to my husband and child and live up on cloud number 9 more than ever these days, but at least I do what I like: writing! And here I'm sharing with you a poem I came up with. Enjoy and comment!

Details have no life outside of their tiny space, no resemblance.
They have no memory, like people whom nobody has ever helped to wipe a tear.
Sometimes they hide behind a smile.
Others nature camouflages them, so their indifference rebels.
And their silence cries to free them from their hiding corner, before the earth forgets them.

This was meant to illustrate the 5 pics I have to show for my second project at the photo class this coming Thursday. Each sentence illustrates one image.

What do you think?

The original version is in italian, which I think is more intense and moving. For those of you who can understand my language, here you go:

I dettagli non hanno alcuna vita al di fuori del loro spazio angusto, nessuna somiglianza.
Sono senza memoria, come persone cui nessuno ha mai asciugato una lacrima.
A volte si nascondono dietro un sorriso.
Altre la natura li camuffa, loro così ribelli all'indifferenza.
Ed il loro silenzio grida di essere strappato dal loro nascondiglio solitario, prima che la terra li dimentichi.

And here's the Spanish version too, gentle courtesy of my special friend Lorena from Chile (now a proud Dutch expatriate):

Los detalles no tienen vida fuera de su pequeño espacio, no hay semejanza.
Ellos no tienen memoria, como las personas a quienes nunca alguien ha ayudado a limpiar una lágrima.
A veces se esconden detrás de una sonrisa.
A otros los camufla la naturaleza, así su indiferencia se rebela.
Y su silencio grita para liberarlos desde su rincón escondido, antes de que la tierra se olvide de ellos.

Now I know whom I can trust and commission the translation of my books when I'll be a published writer, hey! :) 

Announcement

Just wanted to announce that I opened a new blog. It's in Italian, but I added a Google translator bar. The translation quality is monstrous, I'm sorry. You still can have an idea of what I'm blogging about, though. And if you're curious to know what's going on here in Trieste, you can't miss to regularly check  Chronicles from my foster city: diary of an Italian in Trieste too.

I'll keep blogging here, this is my main diary and it'll remain personal like this. I just felt the impellent urge to communicate my impressions in my mothertongue. The fact this new blog arrives just two years after A time for everything is a mere coincidence. I realized that this current blog is 2 years old only after opening the new one. Maybe November is my inspirational month!

Thrilled!

I have a news to share with you today. I was interviewd by Anna Deskins, a children's book author. It was my honour and pleasure to answer her changeling questions, which you can read here.

It's great my blog is being noticed and is going somewhere, reputed interesting enough to the point an author asks an interview with me. Thank you, Anna!

Dreaming

I shut the door behind me while carrying a tray piled with food. It will be hard to swallow all the precious extra in the stairs, before the elevator opens to the canteen and I must keep eating the unsuspectable  quantity in front of my colleagues.

The advantage of knowing the kitchen staff provides me food for the break but also extra pounds on my figure. ‘Oh come on, we only live once,’ I think whilst biting a cheeseburger.

I sit down with the tray on my knees in the middle of the stairs and start to taste the cheese that melts in the mouth, quickly, before someone discovers me.

I see a figure beyond the darkness of the corridor but before I get alarmed I recognize the bloke James introduced to me last week and I do not mind. He takes care of the garbage. He must be here for a pick-up. I just hope he does not try to invite me to dinner again. He and James are rivals in this.

"Good food, yeah? " he asks, taking with him a whole wave of trash.

Poor thing, withstanding all that smell every day. I can hardly keep myself from telling him. Perhaps he got used to it and doesn’t notice anymore.

"We could go out one evening by my car," he continues, "I could take you for a ride and maybe get to see Highgate by night. What do you think? "

Before I answer 'give me a break' my mouth says yes, even consenting with a head movement. Am I numb or what?

"What about tomorrow at 11pm, then? It’s when I finish work, " he continued, encouraged to the point I can notice his lightened eyes. And I am too hungry to worry about the trouble all this means and how the hell he knows my timetable.

Well, who cares. Sooner or later I'll have to go out with a guy who isn’t you. I might as well as start now.

PS: Extract from my first manuscript. I really want to try to send it to publishers and agents. Tell me what you think, please. And be honest!

Typewriter nostalgia

The Guardian has a fantastic slideshow of some famous authors posing with their typewriters. Ah, the literary charm of a typewriter, with its noisy writing process and vintage charm! I'm mad for them and the idea that they were such tools of trade for so many writers I love sends a thrill down my spine.

Bernard Shaw

Hernest Hemingway

WIlliam Faulkner

Tennessee Williams

Agatha Christie

Margaret Drabble

You type so much quicker than you can think on a computer. On a typewriter, you have to think. Another virtue is simplicity. Typewriters are good at only one thing: putting words on paper. “If I’m on a computer, there’s no way I can concentrate on just writing, said Jon Roth, 23, a journalist who is writing a book on typewriters. “I’ll be checking my e-mail, my Twitter.” When he uses a typewriter, Mr. Roth said: “I can sit down and I know I’m writing. It sounds like I’m writing.”   credits 

The click of a classic typewriter is the best sound I know. Only the click of my Nikon seconds that. The sound of those old keys jumping up and down would lull me into a trance when I wrote up in the attic of my parents house. My dad had a manual typewriter and a stack of paper there, which I used to write the word I wished and project towards a better future. 

Which I had, but I still want to be a writer. I want to write stories for a living. I want to win a Pulitzer and spend the rest of my days putting down my inspiration, so that one day I may be photographed in front of my computer. No cigarette in my hand and no black coffee on my desk, because I don't smoke neither am a coffee addict like so many literary romance. Just because.

a room of one's own

'a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction'

 Fanny Price (Sylvestre Le Tousel) writing from her attic room 

source

virginia woolf got it right. in her famous essay a room of one's own she pointed out that we cannot know the true capacity and genius of women because women rarely create under the same circumstances as men. we are burdened with domestic duties, socialized to care for others' needs, and rewarded for catering to everyone but ourselves.and since writing is a selfish task that requires uninterrupted stretches of time, hours spent actively putting words to paper and sometimes just the need to wander around and let ideas knit themselves together in your mind, you cannot rush. you can't just schedule it into the hour blocks while the kids are in school or wrap wrap it up in time to get dinner on the table. writing requires the freedom, agency and resources that allow you to close your own door, set your own hours, and make your own rules. 

fortunately, i've the luxury of an entire room for myself and the privilege to use it with alice in school until 4pm and al at work until 7pm. this way, mornings and early part of the afternoon are all for myself. it's heaven, but i never was a morning person, so i'm not at my best with this timetable. most of the time i don't ge the feeling of accomplishment and i get carried away. my ideal day would be to sleep away around 10am, then slowly functioning through the day, starting to write late in the afternoon and through the night, when i'm more productive. impossible. there're my mommy and wife-duties by then. but i don't complain at all. better having a forced timetable than not having time to write at all hey! lbecause, like lord byron said, 'if i don't write to empty my mind, i go mad'. 

Writing at Grizfork studio (Pica Pica)

Each day begins
w/ the conversations of magpies
who never run out of things to talk about


Each morning unfolds
w/ the fact of those mountains
who never feel the need to say a thing


I sit at my desk
w/ both of them and try
to grab hold of something that lies between the two


On a good day,
I come close.


--from The Moon Cracks Open: A Field Guide to the Birds 

considering this nature of mine, my father used to say 'you better find a husband who is willing to read what you wrote during the day rather than someone who wants to find dinner ready when he gets back from work!'. he was right, having a partner who appreciates and supports your artist soul is important. i consider myself an artist and believe that the designation artist is not in the first place an honor one earns after years of work but an attitude and goal one takes on in order to get where one is going. and artists don't have much of domestic skills. but i also think that imy responsabilities as a wife and mother are the essence of my life and i don't wish any of them away. i just hope one day my body will eventually adapt to the change (i doubt my night-owl nature will ever turn into an early bird, i'm afraid i'll keep stealing moments to empty my mind!).

so by the time i leave ali safe with her teachers, get home and make myself a cup of tea, i turn the computer on and i'm gone to another place, that space which woolf prophetically described as essential to writing. in there i'm alone with the words but i also use the internet to strave off isolation. for me, establishing a space means finding a way to be alone but not solitary. a place that cointains all my photos, messages and cards around, because when i write i like to be srurrounded by evidence of love. they inspire me. in addition,in every place of mine there must be a world map on the wall. here i've got one pinned with some of the penfriends i met during my trips worldwide. i also like to have eveything at hand. i write well in public places too, but only when ideas are emerging. that's the moment when i can write anywhere. when it's time for the real work to be done, instead, i need to stay here, surrounded by familiar things that suggest my life as a writer. 

it may not be the most romantic of places, but i do good work here. it  used to be the masterbedroom when owners lived here, where they left a permanent desk that doesn't match well with our style, but it's pretty practical and it contains my huge mac as well as papers holder, calendars and phone. i colored it with the books, which spin over from other parts of the house, and with piles of papers hehehhe i wish ithere was a window in front of my desk, rather than a lamplit little corner.  

being writing my priority, i always gave it a space. i remember i wwas in love with my father's studio. he had this cool attic room with the most amazing view from the terrace. the place he built around himself was terribly fascinating, i used to spend hours looking at the things he chose to live up with. and he wasn't even jealous of his things, he let me spy and pop in whenever i wanted. my room at my parents was small and never contained all the books, notebooks and papers i had, so they scattered everywhere. it had a white, immaculate desk that i only used for piling up more papers. i used to write on the floor or in bed. all the piling drove my mother crazy. i saw a writing space, while all saw she was trash and she often removed important notes somewhere before i could get back to them. no matter how much i yelled, she didn't respect me and intruded in every possible way. 

privacy was way much better at my grandparents. my room up there was  modeste but more personalized and, more importantly, i was allowed to do whaetever i wanted in it, even tapping it with nasty teenager posters. now i live with my husband who doesn't remove my papers, but he always complains about the piles, which is unnerving all the same. like my mother, he doesn't seem to understand that my creativity begins with the physical space i occupy when i work. i've to be honest anyway and say he's right to see mess because it's true that i need my own space, but it's also evident that, paradoxically, when i'm writing, i'm truly immersed in the project so that the space dissolves and becomes irrivelant. therefore i try to keep everything tidy and organized, because this is the place where he comes to watch his soccer matches when al occupies the master tv and viceversa, and it's also the place where little ali has her subsidiary mini-desk near mine. 

'the state of my desk is always an indication of how the writing is going' - ronan bennett

so virginia woolf knew that having a room devoted to the work of writing not only gives the writer a refuge in which to put pen on paper, but it validates the work itself. the guardian has posted a nice collection of photos of where the great writing gets done, illustrating the rooms of the most famous writers. 

by looking at these places of great significance, i was impressed by virginia woolf's minimalism. just a chair, a small tripod and a pen was all she needed to write such masterpieces like mrs dalloway.

talk about modesty of genius, huh? even when she moved and finally had a room of her own, minimalism remained essential.

This was where Leonard came out in July 1931 to tell her that The Waves, which he had just finished reading, was a masterpiece. This was where she struggled for months on end with The Years, trying to cut down on her smoking (from six or seven to one a morning in 1934). This was where, on Friday March 28, 1941, on a cold spring morning, she wrote a farewell letter to Leonard before walking down to the River Ouse, leaving her papers in disarray, with several revisions of her last essay on Mrs Thrale in the waste-paper basket and immense numbers of typewritten sheets lying about the room (credit)

minimalism seems to mark luis de bernieres' room too. 

Anyone who works at home needs a refuge from the rest of the household, as far from the house as possible, and definitely without a phone. Mine is in one corner of the garden, overlooking a vegetable patch and young orchard, and I feel great happiness in it. I am hassled only by the cat - a catflap would reduce the inconvenience.

just like what we write, where we write is part of our identity and necessary to the process as a whole. many writers share woolf’s philosophy, and set up home offices or studios in which they can work in privacy, surrounded by their favorite scenes and souvenirs. 

maggie gee

mberyl bainbridge

some don't hide the piling and a bit of artistic mess (necessary), like marina warner.

others don't need conventional desks to write.

wendy cope

murpurgo

 nabokov

 simon callows, who writes between theater performances in his dressing room.

 charlotte mendelson

the thing all the rooms have in common are books. 'it's all about the books and where to put them' (simon armitage). these rooms awoke my voyeurism and gave me a hard time chosing my favorite room, because each one is special for its own reason. in the end, i can say my favorite one is margaret drabble's room. neat, practical, cozy and with a view. and with an extra space for jigsaw. i love them too! perfect, isn't it?

future plans

i'm getting crazy, writing too many things at a time and not having enough moments to concentrate carefully on anything. among the posts i'll publish in the prompt future there are articles about:

- my perspective on motherhood

- severgnini, my favorite columnist

- why i miss abruzzo so much

- anthology of a moving part 2

- my personal music taste evolution

- palmistry visibility

will i succeed or not, stay tuned for more blogging of mine okay?

my first award! yeah!

i got an 'honest scrap' award by my friend claudia from guatemala today. thanks sweetie, it was unexpected and it surely made my day! i am honoured that my little corner in the blogosphere has been liked to the point of scoring such a prize. it's very rewarding.

since this award calls to list ten unknown facts about the recipient, here are mines.

10 things you did not know about elda

1. i have a terrible fear of snakes. this phobia is so deep that even viewing a picture of them gives me the creeps. it's stupid because usually snakes aren't aggressive creatures towards humans, they just run and hide when they corner us and they only bite you if you happen upon them and threaten them in some way. see? i'm feeling uncomfortable even to write about them, so i better keep this short!

2. i had a bad car crash back in 1993 and i was in the territory between life and death for a few minutes. i was in a white country, very peaceful, calm and absolutely not painful where i kept walking, feeling content, curious and not scared at all. a voice was becoming more insistent, i followed it and it ended up bringing me back. i still have very vivid memories of those moments, like if it happened yesterday.

3. my 2 grandfathers passed away in the same year, with only a 3 months gap difference between them. it was devastating because i was attached to both of them. they were my guides. my maternal one 'waited' for me to come back from spain to see me one last time and then passed away. i believe this is the greatest thing someone has made for me so far.

4. i used to have 87 penfriends, whom i wrote to very regularly.

5. i gave up piano lessons because of my hand warts. the teacher made me feel so uncomfortable and embarrassed, with her mad belief that piano players were to be judged by the beauty of their hands rather than by their talent. i had my warts removed later by a surgical curettage that left me permanent scarring. my mother told me it wasn't painful. it utterly was instead, and i never trusted her again. because of this big lie, i'm always honest with my baby now.

6. i suffered from ingrown toenails for many years. it was extremely painful and quite bothersome but i still managed to do sports and even ballet classes. i had to give them up when it was time for pointe. even if i was ready, pointe shoes were too hard on my nails.

7. when i was small i looked very chinese/japanese. one of the few childhood pictures i have was taken in switzerland during a family trip and it portaits me with a japanese couple. i truly looked like their baby!    

8. i was in the soprano division of a choir back in my university years. 

mmmh, what else? i'm running out of things here ... oh yes!

9. i never borrowed any money. don't ask me why, but it gives me enormous pride.

10. i could kill if someone bullied my baby.

this award also asks to pass it on to a number of blogger friends. though every single one of my friends out there deserves an award for their amazing blogs, i have to prioritize and so i nominate:

claudia at claudia's desk and sandra at elephant lover, because i love them and their blogs are interesting, passionate and personal;

bobby at big rock cat and at her flickr photostream, for her daily adventures and thoughts of a free-spirited writer and photographer;

claudia at museworthy, for her affirmation of beauty and the trascendant power of art from life.

thanks again for you award claudia. i love you, bella! :)

encouragement

i see my blog is flourishing in comments. it was high the time! thanks, because it was a bit like a desert before, and it certainly motivates me more. thus i encourage all of you, readers, or those of you who just stop by, to leave a sign of your presence. it's very appreciated! so come on, keep those comments high!

to do

keep using those creams for ast least 28 days
eat healthy
not to buy more trivial magazines
walk more
eventually restart swimming
blog
find alice a plain white t-shirt for the kids marathon
pick up al's renewed passport

thanking the readers

damn, i shouldn't have accepted david's caffelatte yesterday at sandra's, because it dind't make me sleep and made me go to bed at 4am last night! i've nothing against david of course, he actually prepares the best latte ever, but it was 6pm when i drank it, and i'm only used to tea. my body metabolizes caffeine very slowly, so when i have it it really is a psychoactive stimulant drug for me.

this morning i feel like a zombie, unable to compete with a 5 years old. neverthless, it seems like my spirit is lifting up. i'm slowly distancing from the weird static phase made of boredom that included homesickness and discomfort. writing is my therapy. if i don't let my emotions out, i'll explode. i didn't try to suppress my crappy feelings on here, my blog is transparent because i'm real, i don't act like everything is sunshine and roses all the time. life is messy, parenthood has ups and downs, marriages can be rocky. nothing is easy. and i'll keep this blog running against all odds.

i want to take a minute and thank those of you who've been my readers so far. i'm honoured about the time that you spent here with me. i love this blog and i'll continue investing my time and energy in it. thanks also to all the new people who catches my journal and come back for a visit once in a while.  i hope you all find the sense of community or inspiration or even relation you were looking for!

a piece of good news

gosh, it's like if my last post about art sucked all my inspiration! it took me nearly 3 weeks to prepare it and now i'm living by the day. well, the truth is that, after a period of retirement from the pen palling scene, i'm catching up with my friends around the world personally, letter by letter. this explains my silence here on my blog. somewhere all the writing has to come out from! and you're all warned, out there: to those of you i still owe a letter, and i know you're many, it's coming soon!

muah for being patient with me!

and they didn't live happily ever after

i'm still ecstatic about the theater night i had yesterday. my friend viviana bought me a ticket for the romeo and juliet's play as a birthday present, so yesterday night we ventured out in the storm to reach the lovely rossetti theater and enjoy the show.

the cast was young and very talented, the prose translated in a brilliant way and i particularly loved the lights on the stage, underlined by a nice music. yes, this version followed the tradition of employing music for stage plays during the victorian period when shakespeare lived. all this performed in one of the loveliest theaters i ever saw. it has a beautiful roof with clouds, which lights on with stars seconds before the show debuts. i was lucky enough to capture it.

i took a few shots of the play too but i won't post them here. i don't want to be taken to court for copyright, i know it was forbidden. i'll just copy the most intense scene, the balcony one, which comes from a safer book, my shakespeare plays collection from university.

Act 2, Scene 2

ROMEO

But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?

It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,

Who is already sick and pale with grief,

That thou her maid art far more fair than she:

Be not her maid, since she is envious;

Her vestal livery is but sick and green

And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.

It is my lady, O, it is my love!

O, that she knew she were!

She speaks yet she says nothing: what of that?

Her eye discourses; I will answer it.

I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks:

Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,

Having some business, do entreat her eyes

To twinkle in their spheres till they return.

What if her eyes were there, they in her head?

The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,

As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven

Would through the airy region stream so bright

That birds would sing and think it were not night.

See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!

O, that I were a glove upon that hand,

That I might touch that cheek!

JULIET

Ay me!

ROMEO

She speaks:

O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art

As glorious to this night, being o'er my head

As is a winged messenger of heaven

Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes

Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him

When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds

And sails upon the bosom of the air.

JULIET

O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?

Deny thy father and refuse thy name

Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,

And I'll no longer be a Capulet.

ROMEO

[Aside] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?

JULIET

'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;

Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.

What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,

Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part

Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!

What's in a name? that which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet;

So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,

Retain that dear perfection which he owes

Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name,

And for that name which is no part of thee

Take all myself.

painting by frank dicksee

with these poetic words, shakespeare teaches a lesson of beauty and strenght of love. romeo and juliet were willing to die to stay together, no matter what. they overcame many obstacles and put aside differences. under the immense power of youth and love, the hatred between two families dissolve and this will always be a theme in our society. that's why the story is timeless and universal.

but ... we forget they're teenagers who meet at a ball and instantly fall in love, then decide to get married after knowing each other for one night. the main characters support their angst-filled heads with the idea that yes, they really are in love with that guy/girl they met five minutes ago, and no one can stop them, especially not their meddling parents

moreover, a love story like theirs could be punished. juliet is 14, and romeo a few years older. in some of the us states, like florida, thanks to the romeo and juliet laws, an older teen who has sex with his younger girlfriend can be arrested, prosecuted, and jailed for the act. even worse, he may carry the stigma of being labeled a sex offender for the rest of his life.

to support my opinion, i found this brilliant article by ph.d., j.d stanton peele. he believes that romeo and juliet  is what results when two unformed-maladjusted youths meet at vulnerable points in their lives and are then forcibly separated - addiction, withdrawal, suicide. the play ends with the lovers killing themselves, it's pervaded with death imagery and violence. contrary to the popular image that their warring families are the source of this violence, it stems from the lovers themselves, and is directed at themselves.

this is one funny version of r&j i read on goodreads. it was posted by a member, a young madeline and it's how she images the dialogues of the play.  it's fun and it made me laugh a lot.

ROMEO: I’m Romeo, and I used to be emo and annoying but now I’m so totally in luuuuurve and it’s AWESOME.
MERCUTIO: Okay, three things: One, there’s only room in this play for one awesome character and it’s me, bitch. Two, you’re still emo and annoying. Three, didn’t you say that exact same stuff yesterday about Rosaline?
ROMEO: Who?
*meanwhile, Juliet prances around her room and draws hearts on things and scribbles “Mrs. Juliet Montague” in her diary over and over. Because she is THIRTEEN. How old is Romeo supposed to be? Let’s not talk about that, k?*
CAPULET: Good news, Juliet! I found you a husband!
PARIS: Hello, I’m a complete tool.
JULIET: Daddy, I don’t want to marry that apparently decent and unflawed guy! I’m in love with Romeo Montague – we met yesterday and it was HOT.
CAPULET: I WILL BE DAMNED IF I SEE MY ONLY DAUGHTER MARRIED TO THE ONLY SON OF THE MAN WHO IS MY MORTAL ENEMY FOR REASONS TOO UNIMPORTANT TO SPECIFY IN THIS PLAY!
JULIET: *stamps foot, runs off to her room to watch High School Musical again and sulk*
TYBALT: Hey Romeo, your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!
MONTAGUE POSSE: Oh, snap.
MERCUTIO: YOU TAKE THAT BACK!
TYBALT: MAKE ME!
ROMEO: No! You can’t fight him, Mercutio because I already married his cousin!
TYBALT: I KEEL YOU!
*Romeo attempts to stop the fight and fails miserably*
MERCUTIO: FUCK YOU ALL! *dies*
ROMEO: Okay, forget what I said about not fighting. I KEEL YOU!
TYBALT: *dies*
PRINCE: I’ve had enough of your shit, Emo McStabbypants. You’re banished.
ROMEO: Waaaaaahhhhhh! I’m banished and Juliet is going to marry another guy and it’s not fair WHY DOES GOD HATE ME?
FRIAR LAURENCE: Jesus Christ, not this again. Okay, if you promise to grow a pair, I’ll help you and your wife out. Here’s the plan: she takes a potion that’ll make her go into a coma, and then she’ll get put in the family tomb and then you’ll sneak back into town, break into the tomb, wait until she wakes up, and then the two of you escape and live happily ever after! It’s perfect!
AUDIENCE: …the hell?
*Shockingly, the plan fails. Romeo goes back to the tomb (pausing to kill Paris just for good measure), but he thinks Juliet’s dead and drinks poison and dies, and then like two seconds later she wakes up and sees that Romeo isn’t mostly dead like she was, he’s dead, so she stabs herself.*
MONTAGUE: Wow, we are awful parents.
CAPULET: I have an idea – let’s make solid gold statues of our dead children to commemorate their love and serve as a constant reminder of the fact that our only children killed themselves because we were such uncaring parents.
*they actually do this.*
SHAKESPEARE: Beat that, Stephenie Meyer.
THE END.

the world is full of unknow talents! maybe we should ask madeline to write her own unique version of the finale, had romeo received the letter on time. i'm sure she could be even more hilarious!

writing in the rain

the fitful alternations of the rain,
when the chill wind, languid as with pain
of its own heavy moisture, here and there
drives through the gray and beamless atmosphere

by p.b shelley

so you want to be a writer

okay, back to routine now, and mainly, back to writing. i re-read this piece of inspiration this morning, in one of my charles bukowski books collection. it is 'so you want to be a witer' and i'll share it here so to remind me the right attitude to adopt.

if it doesn't come bursting out of you

in spite of everything,don't do it.

unless it comes unasked out of your

heart and your mind and your mouth

and your gut,

don't do it.

if you have to sit for hours

staring at your computer screen

or hunched over your

typewriter

searching for words,

don't do it.

if you're doing it for money or

fame,

don't do it.

if you're doing it because you want

women in your bed,

don't do it.

if you have to sit there and

rewrite it again and again,

don't do it.

if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,

don't do it.

if you're trying to write like somebody

else,

forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of

you,

then wait patiently.

if it never does roar out of you,

do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife

or your girlfriend or your boyfriend

or your parents or to anybody at all,

you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,

don't be like so many thousands of

people who call themselves writers,

don't be dull and boring and

pretentious, don't be consumed with self-

love.

the libraries of the world have

yawned themselves to

sleep

over your kind.

don't add to that.

don't do it.

unless it comes out of

your soul like a rocket,

unless being still would

drive you to madness or

suicide or murder,

don't do it.

unless the sun inside you is

burning your gut,

don't do it.

when it is truly time,

and if you have been chosen,

it will do it by

itself and it will keep on doing it

until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

back to full-time writing now, and bukowski's spirit may accompany me. because if “some people never go crazy, what truly horrible lives they must live!”

to do

- blog
- sleep
- let alice chose her birthday cake
- order that cake
- clean nasty house
- get some more sleep
- eat healthy
- enroll alice in primary school

moment of fame

i was on air for a few minutes this morning! journalist stefania ulivi interviewed some of the cast of gabriele muccino's last movie (kiss me again) in a video chat, chosing some of the audience's on line questions.

my question was sent at 12:45:52, in case you want to read it on the link above (called legami, by elda di trieste). i asked if the actors noticed any difference in muccino's way of directing after his american adventure.

as a matter of  fact, gabriele signed a two-picture deal with miramax following the success of his breakthrough film, the last kiss (2001)– a humorous look at two twenty-something men coming to grips with accepting the responsibility of adulthood. he directed wil smith in the pursuit of happyness, thanks to which will won a nominee as best actor at the 2006 academy awards, and seven pounds, starring will smith too. i was curious to see if the american scenario had influenced him in some way.

i didn't get the full answer, though. all actors nodded and sabrina impacciatore confirmed that yes, they had noticed a few changes, but she didn't explain why. she ended up complaining about how italian filmmakers have tried to revive a film industry that has remained paralyzed through decades. 

i agree, italian cinema is still interesting but illuminated by small flames and flashes of creativity and it is no longer supported by the same distinctive will and ability to create of the past. but, well, i would have liked to know how actors liked working with muccino for the second time, since the cast was mroe or less the same of the first movie.

maybe i should have asked personal questions to the actors. argh! but i enjoyed my few minutes of glory on the net!

inclinations to write

okay, done, i did it, i posted 7 copies of my short story for good! this is a great accomplishment for me because there were days when i truly felt i wasn't going to make it. i knew what i wanted to write about but extrapolating all the ideas from my mind and putting them into coherent sentences wasn't always that easy.

if you add to this that i had to write, because there was a deadline, well, this wasn't good for my inspiration. fortunately i never lost my motivation. i didn't have problems in putting my ideas down, they were even beautifully written. it just didn't click. then the other day, when i was driving back from ikea and was listening to elisa, inspiration arrived. driving always inspires me so much. so i rushed home and wrote everything from the beginning. and i continued writing all night long.

thanks god i've a husband who supports me and ignores my negligence towards him and the house when i'm in the writer's moods (you should see what a disaster our apartment looks after these writing days!). my dad is a fool but got one thing right about me. by appreciating my inclinations, he used to say that i'd better find a husband who was more interested in reading my stories rather than expecting a meal when he got back from work at nights!

anyway, i'm satisfied with the result and i don't think it is a difficult story except in one sense, that because it refers to experience and not to other literature, it challenges readers to trust me. the story is already out of me now, though. it's really like a birth. you gestate all the ideas, then you give birth to the story, with all the labour that the writing takes, and finally, there it is: your own creature, but with a life of its own!

will the commettee appreciate it? i hope so. and even if it won't, well, my self-esteem isn't that low to be put down by a bunch of literary experts. i know where my talents stands and where it may take me. i'll keep trying, sooner or later some editor will have to notice me, right? i keep saying that isabel allende became famous ast 40 ... i still have 3 years to go!