As you can probably see, writing is something which is happening for me beside. Beyond my biography, on the side of my own history called life. It is somehow true, that writing as far doesn't get in my life the place it deserves. And some of you may want to ask me: why do I write? What do I need it for? Let me explain it to you by recalling a story of a great man. His name was Eric Blair. But most of you might most probably know him as George Orwell.
Eric could afford doing something I never could. Reject all the opportunities he had in his life. Just because since he was six he knew that all he wanted was to write. Therefore, his idea was to dedicate himself to two things: to read and to experience.
Because every writer his own flow. Eric was aware of something unfortunately most of contemporary authors seem to be missing: without a good literary preparation you remain a child in a fog. Only reading can give you the right tool to use the language entirely, to express and to reflect these expression on your readers. You cannot create a real dialogue with your reader without being once a reader yourself.
WHY EXPERIENCE
Due to a simple true that it's always easier to write about something you know. One old quotation I learned during my literary studies said: If you really don't have what to write about, write about yourself. Sadly in reality there are only few authors who can write about a world they only imagine (as a brilliant example we can mention, of course, sir Terry Pratchett himself). Most of work nowadays crated in a total dettachment from a real experience is somehow naive. (I am trying not to be judgemental.) That was indeed the idea of Blair, born in a well-situated family and spending his youth on a respected playground of Eton, not really having a clue of how the life can be. Fueled by his desire to discover the truth (mind my sarcasm) he moved to Paris where he was meant to experience a real working class poverty in order to finally publish a book about this experience. I do not recommend anyone to do that, but if you feel pushed to the extreme, actually why not. For example Paolo O. Martin, known also as Paul Portier, is now roaming around the streets of Thailand before he tries a modest life in a monastry- that's speaking about extremes.
ME
Now it's going to be about me. When I was six I felt exactly what Eric did. The difference between me and him was an access to information. Plus, on the less pleasant hand, a reality we grew up with. My first memory was a revolution. I started to write short stories in primary school using both: my imagination (which is sometimes, gently speaking, etraordinary) and random stories overheard by me as an invisible child. I swallowed books. Whatever could get in my hands. Carried by this flow, I won my first literary award at the age of thirteen. Looking back, it was probably the worst experience which could ever happen to me that time: my author's mind became an adult. My author's ego was an adult within a body of a teen. I still have this short story- after all these years, I wouldn't change a single line in it.
I stopped writing for ten years.
And there all of a sudden here I go again. After years of a break spent on reviewing only issues of ecosystem in Gamboa (and that's on my best) I get stuck in the airport in Amsterdam. Then after getting close to panic and reminding my miserable bits of German I try to organize myself in my new reality. Wearing summer shoes in Decemer and with several Balboas only left in my pocket I keep wandering through the labirynth of lost and forgotten souls of Schippol. Then I put out a piece of paper and write my first short story of my adult life. Later it would be appreciated and awarded, but back then, how could I know. It was just a coming back to an old addiction, a wake up call telling me that nothing else, nothing, can give me that kind of thrill. Then it started again and I already knew I didn't want a rehab.
In 2011 the things my head happened surprisingly fast. I packed my backpack and went to Winchester. It was, believe me or not, a huge step. It cost me debts, sleepless night and my whole savings to do it. But I left it with confidence and the words of encouragement from amazing people. And I smile on my face, cause again with the same packpack and two hundred pounds in my pocket I was heading to London. London which was supposed to bring me money and fame.
THE REALITY
Ok, this money and fame things were not quite accurate. It was actually the least thing I was expecting and I found it a real honour to win a place in a magazine nobody ever heard of. For several months I was writing reviews of the concerts I couldn't afford to attend, I was recommending Holidays in places I have never been to and describing great parties in the clubs I was staying away from. Everyday at five in the morning I was heading to East London to assist in preparing breakfast for the builders in Olympic Park (or rather something meant to be) as my salary was not enough.
I cannot record the actual date when I sent my professional career to hell but I guess it was quite a long time ago. At the meantime I created Monkey Seduction, simply to learn how to write in English, which seemed to be something like a magical ability to be. After few months I opened my blog to find a comment from an absolutely outraged reader. What I wrote made him angry and he felt like telling the whole world that I was an unconfident and feministic result of a gender evolution and several other things which sense I didn't really get. I read this comment seven times and I couldn't believe my eyes: I had a reader.
I had a reader.
And there it is where you can't stop anymore.
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