Annoyance at the end of August
It is night here, but the temperature should be about thirty degrees. The fan, at its maximum power. He points me. I drink an infusion of lime and lemon balm, so I sleep easier. Although sometimes not even that. Sometimes neither the droplets of valerian and passionflower. I had already said it. Yes. Sometimes, the head plays me some nights of those in which at the end of thoughts the fear sneaks in and, like an octopus, it unfolds from the mouth of my stomach, inside of me, it extends its tentacles, until my neck, and down to my feet. Then I remember. Sometimes I remember, for example, his white, strong arms, his firm torso. It is not him I miss, but a company, a romance. And how not to eroticize me too (and not to violate) when I come, in hours of insomnia, that image of Afro in the middle of the act, sinking whole,
Oh! A revelation: writing is much more than writing. I speak of fiction. Write fiction Others have already said it, but this is my process, my discovery process. Writing is, then and also, correcting. And even, during the process of writing, you have to think, go around this and that, because the plot is not defined from the beginning, or at least almost never in my case. Then I find, I want to confess, a gloating in the typing, or even when I had to write by hand, in the act of depositing ink on paper. Gloatingin the pure form. But writing stories, stories, is much more than that. Is to imagine, using the mind (the body, the whole soul?) Depending on the story. There the thing acquires a little more complexity. A joyful and painful complexity.
Another day. I meditated. But I left the room and, seeing Mom talking to her cousin about another of the cousins who is suffering from a mix not yet diagnosed with dementia and mitomania at a very early age, see her mom accelerated repeating the same thing she spoke yesterday with other relatives and with me, it annoyed me, and I went to bed again, to wait for her to finish the conversation: between the accelerate and the gossip, I get irritated, and I run the risk of "letting go of the chain".
There are so many writers now. And many enter directly through the big door, with the help of belonging to the printed media: from editors to editors, and from there to having novels or published books. And here, in the center of my chest, when I see his successes, a little envy I perceive in me. After work (to envy, I say), I try to heal. And it is not that I despise everyone, no. I despise some arrogant, others who show the airs of divos, and I envy one that other mannered whose technique is mediocre, but still dares to flood with verbiage some portals. Nothing worse than a mediocre prolific. Yes, there are also many of my generation or the one immediately before me that I admire and respect. Go yes. But good It is not convenient to compare, they say. I just want to express and confess that, sometimes, I feel jealous. What is this blog if not an attempt to confess as honestly as possible some of my miseries. I follow.