Among authors in the Twitter-verse, there's an interesting ashtag ravelling around: WhyIWrite (divide it in single words and you'll have "Why I Write").
I couldn't possibly explain it in only 140 characters, so I'm going to try to explain it to you now, taking a little bit more room for myself...
See, sometimes I close my eyes and I find myself in an abandoned castle.
Some other times I go round the corner and there's a stormy sea right in front of me.
There are times when I think I'm alone, until I realise how crowded the room actually is.
This - all of this - is not the reality that anyone would recognise.
If I close my eyes, I'm not moving from my chair.
If I go round the corner, it'll be just to find myself on the other side of the wall.
If I'm alone, then I'm the only one in the room.
For real.
It would be easy, if there was only one reality.
But what can I do, when there are hundreds of realities, all of them packed and crouching between the moments of my flowing time.
What will I do, if from time to time one of these realities slips between the folds of my thoughts, stands up and stretches its long legs and has a walk - between me and myself.
What will I do, if these realities are populated with personalities, some Irreverent, Sparkling, Boring, Annoying, Self-Centred, Shy, Self-Confident and No-Confident.
So I write. But is this writing?
I open my eyes before a different world, I notice the shades and outline the landscapes.
That's where I have a chat with the Irreverent personality and rest to listen patiently to the Annoying one. Then it comes the Funny one and there, in the shadow of the tree, you'll see the Shy one sitting and listening, giggling from time to time.
I write because my mind cannot contain all of this. I could forget, leave behind, drop something important.
So I write. As if it was writing.
A couple of times I tried to keep a diary.
It's good exercise, I told myself.
It helps to get something off my chest, I told myself.
It helps to tell about myself.
Except it's not about me I want to tell. It's not about ME that I want to talk.
How can I talk about me to a blank page, ignoring those voices from the back of the room - asking me to tell that old story again, the one about them.
So I write.
There it is, my dear friends. How could I summarize all of this in 140 characters?
Now, I'm pretty sure that some of you could give some good piece of advice about that, but please, keep it for yourself. The Cynical personality is already whispering in my ear a whole series of nice solutions...
I couldn't possibly explain it in only 140 characters, so I'm going to try to explain it to you now, taking a little bit more room for myself...
See, sometimes I close my eyes and I find myself in an abandoned castle.
Some other times I go round the corner and there's a stormy sea right in front of me.
There are times when I think I'm alone, until I realise how crowded the room actually is.
This - all of this - is not the reality that anyone would recognise.
If I close my eyes, I'm not moving from my chair.
If I go round the corner, it'll be just to find myself on the other side of the wall.
If I'm alone, then I'm the only one in the room.
For real.
It would be easy, if there was only one reality.
But what can I do, when there are hundreds of realities, all of them packed and crouching between the moments of my flowing time.
What will I do, if from time to time one of these realities slips between the folds of my thoughts, stands up and stretches its long legs and has a walk - between me and myself.
What will I do, if these realities are populated with personalities, some Irreverent, Sparkling, Boring, Annoying, Self-Centred, Shy, Self-Confident and No-Confident.
So I write. But is this writing?
I open my eyes before a different world, I notice the shades and outline the landscapes.
That's where I have a chat with the Irreverent personality and rest to listen patiently to the Annoying one. Then it comes the Funny one and there, in the shadow of the tree, you'll see the Shy one sitting and listening, giggling from time to time.
I write because my mind cannot contain all of this. I could forget, leave behind, drop something important.
So I write. As if it was writing.
A couple of times I tried to keep a diary.
It's good exercise, I told myself.
It helps to get something off my chest, I told myself.
It helps to tell about myself.
Except it's not about me I want to tell. It's not about ME that I want to talk.
How can I talk about me to a blank page, ignoring those voices from the back of the room - asking me to tell that old story again, the one about them.
So I write.
There it is, my dear friends. How could I summarize all of this in 140 characters?
Now, I'm pretty sure that some of you could give some good piece of advice about that, but please, keep it for yourself. The Cynical personality is already whispering in my ear a whole series of nice solutions...
Nessun commento:
Posta un commento