Author’s Diary, Entry #1
I’m not a big fan of sharing personal issues.
The screen is a wall. Right now I sitting in my room; I have a desk made of glass, I am writing in a black laptop that has the letters A, S, E and the arrow of the Delete Bar without paint. I have a cork pin board full of notes and the wall in front of me full of yellow post-it notes with reminders written on them. I have a big wooden chest of drawers almost empty and a pile of books on it that I haven’t read yet because I got used to download everything I can’t buy in the cell phone.
I have a window in front of me. During the last three days the sky had been cloudy. I love it. And now the sun is shining, the garden lights up but the sky is still wearing that lovely grey. Like a diva on her night dress. This is my favourite picture to look at.
The screen is a wall. You can’t see all of this. And I can’t see you either. The miracle of internet is the protection we believe we have, protection that let us say whatever we want to say. Without shame, without shyness, without fear.
It hasn’t been long since I started writing. When I was younger I used to think that I was going to be a writer when I grow up, and for a long time I tried to write without succeeding. I used to buy big coloured notebooks and wrote in them with propelling pencils, but I could never finish one of those books. I don’t know what happened, where are those notebooks now, what I did with the remaining white pages. After that I stopped writing, and I think it was something good.
The insides of those notebooks were simply awful.
Two years ago I started writing again, this time for me and in the computer. I wrote a simple novel, it was really bad but I still remember it with affection. I befriended some writing blogs and I informed myself about every method and advice about writing novels. I got used to write every day for an hour, before going to sleep. It became my hobby.
(Note: The day I finished the first draft of that novel I stayed awake until morning, because I didn’t know what to do. I think I was excited from being so happy).
At the beginning of this year I proposed myself to work on a blog. My experience on blogs reduced to a cooking blog that lasted some months. I’m going to be honest: start this project was like throwing yourself from a plane with a parachute just because you put on your CV that you had experience on flying kites.
At the beginning of this year I found myself with the draft of the second novel I want to publish myself (throwing myself from the plane again, but this time I don’t have a parachute) and with a bunch of stories I wanted someone to read. I want someone, on the other side of the wall, to read my stories.
I have published here a total of twelve stories. And their respective twelve translations. In my computer I have another fifteen stories. Five of them are quite long. Another one is really long. I know there are at least three I won’t publish. Inside my head I have around five more stories to write. I know it’s not too much, but it’s what I have.
And I only have one work to publish. And I’m writing this.
I don’t know any excuses. This year I graduated from the first half of my career (after an incredibly long exam I had been making for seven months), I participated in some contests, I was selected on an exposition. I travelled inside my country five times. I started to learn a new language, I adopted a bunny. I’m working on my novel.
I want you to read my stories. And is my responsibility, only mine, to find you. To reach you. From the other side of the wall.
I know I don’t have ‘fans’. I know my writing has a long way to walk until being considered professional. I know that the most professional people don’t seem themselves as professionals. Every morning I wake up and I think ‘Please, I hope I’m not the only one that doesn’t know what I’m doing’.
I hope that outside there, there are more people like me, waking up from their beds, getting dressed or getting a shower, with the best expression on their faces saying ‘Everything is under control. Everything is fine. I definitely know how to escape from a building in flames. There is nothing to worry about’. At the very end we are like particles’ floating in the middle of nothing, crashing each other’s randomly, because is in the crash that energy gets dispersed and things happens.
If this is like that, then I may have a possibility to succeed.
My blog has now eighteen followers. I started to post in March, and if I go back to when I didn’t know that I like writing horror stories, when I still had photos to take, I do see that my blog had no direction. But four months, almost five, have passed by, thirty three blog posts and I’m still here. I’m still in the way.
Even though I still have to learn more about aerodynamics and how to open a parachute when you are screaming of fear in middle air.
But this is the further I have reached ever.
Thanks a lot.