Last night I finished the beast. Three months. More than six hundred folders. I had always wondered how the hell did the "Grand Old Man" to make similar undertakings, and now I know: one word at a time, with obstinacy. At the risk of harming themselves.
The feelings are ambiguous. On the one hand I am proud, really. Other: well, not I think it will ever read. The beast is ... too. Too all the senses. I think I now understand how the head of the Market. I told you: there are these parts of the authors (and authors) than if they were born in California, Texas or (good Lord!) Ohio at this hour would see the green mice with a bunch of well- more famous colleagues. Until not too long ago when I received the mail of "aspiring" always I ended by saying "but it's worth it." Now I'm not sure anymore. Now I can see my little book published in the midst of the world (can not remember if I told you WKids, but the W will be released in Bulgaria) would say: write because writing is beautiful, but not published - ever.
Non serve a niente.
Mi spiego.
Fra le centomila cose che sto facendo in questo periodo ce ne è una di cui sono molto orgoglioso: leggo (e, ahimè, devo giudicare - cosa che elimina un po' il piacere della lettura) i racconti per il concorso Urban Gods organizzato da Writer's Dream. Fra questi racconti ce ne sono alcuni che dimostrano che il talento, in giro, c'è. E pure parecchio. L'underground è vivo e sta bene nonostante, in perfetto italian style, non sia supportato dal benchè minimo fandom - che poi è quella cosa che rende davvero viva una scena letteraria. Ma sul fandom parleremo un'altra volta. Concentriamoci su questo: il talento, le buone storie, ci sono. Manca esperienza, certo, and lacks a good editing, but it is obvious given the premises totally "underground" (a word that is very dear to me) of the project.
What is the problem then?
The problem is that, as I try, to know how many people in gear, I do not think of a who has the ability and willingness to do this kind of quantum leap that the narratives deserves. We have been successful in Sweden with noir (in Sweden). In France ... I tell you to do? We are succeeding in Germany (where writers are born with two balls so every three minutes - see Sebastian Fitzek and then tell me) and soon we will succeed even in Spain - at least from what they tell me my contacts (And I am proud of the fact that, in this sense, from those parts of the W has had its weight in the theme of "underground"). In Italy, in this infinite moment of stasis, no. None. After all, hey, you're talking to the one found next to the Geronimo Stilton books, right?
After the beast, now what?
First of all do a better reading. It is added here and there off. Will the weight the engine and gives a nice polished the bodywork. I'm sorry it's over, you know? We had a great time with the beast and I, really beautiful. Then I will read a few trusted reader, listen carefully to what I say, give a hammer here and there, I'll change the candles and I will clean up the carburetor, then I will send it to my agent who, shaking his head, lift up the phone and tell me "GL, okay, this book is crazy, but are you sure sure ...?" In the meantime, I'll finish reading the stories of WD, I'll take a few Allegra Mazza (and pay double - let this be known friends and neighbors listening ...), read some good books and start to take notes for the next novel. Novel of which you speak, but as I suspect, very few will read. There was a time this year that I was shown a question. "GL, you want to stop and make some sestertius or want to push on the accelerator and go the wonderful world of those who die with arrows in his back? "The answer was obvious: you see the cloud of dust?
Amen, boys and girls (especially of you are looking for and try to WD), let this be known. You write for themselves. You write because you need to. Because like it. Because it is a privilege for the few. And when you return to the world and who knows what you find on your usual desk, with the usual load of trouble, remember this: nobody, nobody, will succeed never to steal those perfect moments. And 'this, deep down, that makes sbarellare parasites that revolve around a book.
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