A few years ago, I was still living in Italy and trying to sort out my life.
I knew very little of what I wanted to do and even less of I could do. The only thing I knew was that I could write and I loved doing it.
When the hashtag #WhyIWrite started trending on twitter, I thought I could at least sort that out, but I knew 140 characters weren’t enough.
So I took my Italian blog and wrote what in English goes pretty much like this:
Sometimes I close my eyes and find myself in an abandoned castle. Some other times I turn the corner and I find in front of me the story sea. There are times when I think I’m alone, until I realise how crowded the room actually is.
All this is not the reality everybody else would recognise. If I close my eyes, I won’t move from the chair. If I turn the corner I will only find myself on the other side of a wall. If I am alone, then it’s only me in the room.
It would be easy, if there was only one reality. But what can I do, when there are hundreds of realities, all crouched there, between the moments of the flowing time.
What can I do, when, once in a while, one of these realities slips through the folds of my thoughts, stands up and stretches its long legs and takes a walk, between me and me.
What can I do, when these realities are inhabited by irreverent, sparkling, boring, petulant, self-centred, shy, sure of themselves and sure of nothing.
So I write. But is it writing?
I open my eyes in front of a new world, I notice its hues and create its landscapes. I chat with the irreverent personality and listen patiently to the petulant one. Then the funny one comes along and there, in the shade of that tree, you’ll see that the shy one will sit and listen, smiling from time to time.
I write because my mind can’t hold all of this, I would risk to forget, leave behind, overlook something important.
So I write. As if it was writing.
A couple of times I tried to write a diary. It’s a good exercise, I told myself. It helps to unload, I told myself.
It helps to tell my own self.
But it’s not 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 that choir of voices that from the bottom of the hall ask me to come back and tell that old piece, the one that talked about them.
So I write.