Post by account_disabled on Dec 9, 2023 22:51:08 GMT -5
A particular series of posts starts next Sunday. These are short articles - as I decided to propose for the Sunday releases - in which I quote some passages from Guido Morselli's Diary - of which a review will also be published - relating to the themes of writing. What is the usefulness of these quotes and what is this series of six articles for? Morselli has written truths that I consider irrefutable about writing and fiction and I am convinced that they are excellent food for thought, as they have been for me. The series therefore begins on Sunday 28th July, interrupts on 1st September, because another appointment is scheduled, to end on 8th September.But they still remain unread.
Until one day he arrives in a land of other writers, Phone Number Data people who like him write stories and who, unlike him, show them to others. People who are not afraid to say "I write", people who like him dream of publishing books, but who, unlike him, at least try. People who have taken the plunge. Who jumped to the other side, regardless of the abyss, the unknown, the absolute darkness. And he, the shy writer, watches them from a distance, safe behind the yellow line just before the abyss. He greets them from afar, sees them talking to each other, but none of them look towards him, because he is only a shadow, he has no consistency, no substance. It's just a daydream, which disappears in the morning without a trace.
The shy writer goes home and rereads his dusty stories. He relives the dreams of published books and now, as if by magic, those dreams have lost details, are increasingly hazy, incomprehensible. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot fully relive that dream experience. He wonders why, but no one has an answer, because no one knows that he writes stories. Thus he returns to the land of writers, sees them talking to each other, laughing, exchanging advice and opinions. They all have a story in their hands, but it's not theirs, the one they wrote, it's someone else's story. The shy writer also imagines himself with a story that is not his in his hands and, above all, with his story in the hands of someone else. Look at the yellow line, it's getting closer.
Until one day he arrives in a land of other writers, Phone Number Data people who like him write stories and who, unlike him, show them to others. People who are not afraid to say "I write", people who like him dream of publishing books, but who, unlike him, at least try. People who have taken the plunge. Who jumped to the other side, regardless of the abyss, the unknown, the absolute darkness. And he, the shy writer, watches them from a distance, safe behind the yellow line just before the abyss. He greets them from afar, sees them talking to each other, but none of them look towards him, because he is only a shadow, he has no consistency, no substance. It's just a daydream, which disappears in the morning without a trace.
The shy writer goes home and rereads his dusty stories. He relives the dreams of published books and now, as if by magic, those dreams have lost details, are increasingly hazy, incomprehensible. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot fully relive that dream experience. He wonders why, but no one has an answer, because no one knows that he writes stories. Thus he returns to the land of writers, sees them talking to each other, laughing, exchanging advice and opinions. They all have a story in their hands, but it's not theirs, the one they wrote, it's someone else's story. The shy writer also imagines himself with a story that is not his in his hands and, above all, with his story in the hands of someone else. Look at the yellow line, it's getting closer.