My Writing: Where It All Began

The Beginning of the Journey

Hi everyone, today I want to reveal a few anecdotes behind the pages I've written. The first is that, when I started writing the first lines of the story, I thought: but where the hell does the punctuation go? Absolute mystery! I had completely forgotten where the comma, the semicolon, and so on went. The last time I had written a page was about thirty years ago, and so I said: in the meantime I'll get on with the writing, put a period here, a comma there and then we'll see. When I got to the end of the story, read and reread, with additions and cuts, I said to myself: now I'm going to look for someone online who can correct it and add the right punctuation. I found these people, I contacted six or so of them, now I don't remember exactly. Always on tiptoe, sending them a few pages (a little ashamed) to see the work to be done and also to find out the price I would have to pay. There were people who refused (I understood them very well), others told me how much it would cost, and I thought it was a bit too high for a correction that would only have been useful to me, because the desire to publish came later. There was one person who, a bit arrogantly, wrote to me that the story needed to be completely rewritten. Well, you can imagine what a burden it had hit me. I obviously didn't reply, because I don't think he had any intention of helping me. Maybe it was fate, because immediately afterward I found a very kind person who would have helped me. His name is Riccardo Bruno, who I had correct all my writings and whom I still thank now. Meanwhile, the title of the novel and the various chapter titles are all my own work. If you want other anecdotes or tidbits, feel free to ask. In the meantime, I'm working on other surprises. For now, goodbye everyone and see you soon, bye-bye.

Even deeper, it wasn't all simple

Now I'll tell you exactly how it all began, even though something is already hinted at in the biography. It was Christmas 2019, more precisely the week from Monday the 16th to Friday the 20th, and I had signed up for health insurance (what a vagabond). The first two days, maybe three, were tough, with a fever of 39°C, and I was wandering around a lot; there was always this image of two people doing something (no, it's not what you're thinking, you rascals). Of course, I imagined them all blurry; they didn't have clear faces. These two figures appeared over and over again, and at a certain point I felt nauseous. So, without knowing why, I said to myself: "When I feel better, I want to start writing about these two people." Now I don't remember exactly if it was the evening of the 18th or the next day, the fact remains that I began writing even though I didn't know what, why, and, above all, not knowing that writing would take me on the most beautiful journey of recent years. And nothing, between moving forward with writing, then going back, rereading, then erasing and rewriting, while I was doing all this I was smiling, if not laughing; in short, I looked like an idiot. And to think that until a few days before I would never have thought of all this! What I was writing seemed to me as if someone was dictating it to me, or that it was already inside me, somewhere, hidden waiting to be brought to light. I was writing like a river in flood; in fact, I finished the first story in a month (but, in terms of pages, it's also a third of the novel) and after that I read it and reread it, cutting, adding, moving something here and there. But I always had the urge to write, so I said, "I'll keep it open-ended and move on to the next story." I can say that that one almost wrote itself, too, while for the third one I had to push myself a little harder; in fact, I wrote the word "end," and then... and that was it, I've already pissed you off as big as a hot air balloon. Come on, we'll get back to you!

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