I have always liked writing. First time I felt like I want to express myself in writing, it was when I was about 12. I wrote some naive poems and a story about two brothers that every night, after bed time, were travelling around the world on a magic carpet. Later on, I started to write a novel about a teen girl, Beatrice, that was going through all kind of adventures, together with her friends. The adventures mainly consisted in stuff I wasn’t allowed to do, of course. I gave up this project quite soon, once my parents got mad I was losing my time with crap instead of studying.
Anyway, I kept on writing some juicy poems and texts, containing way too many figures of speech. The topics were life, stars, love and many other things I had no clue about, whatsoever. During secondary school, I even had a small business. I used to write compositions for my less gifted collegues, in exchange for crackers, gum and chips. I really deserved all that, as writing at least ten different compositions about autumn or mother or my city is not exactly easy.
During highschool, I published some of my romantic creations in the literary magazine of the school. It was not such a big deal. All students that wanted, got published. During university, I also got a job and that was when all my muses ran away. But I had few more moments of glory, when some of my late work was published by my little sister, in a literary magazine, under her name. She was considered very gifted.
I started writing again in 2010, to make some fun of my little sister. She kept on accusing me I am insensitive regarding love. From her point of view, if you don’t cry on daily basis and you don’t get head over hills when having a boyfriend, you are insensitive. Also if you don’t die or at least get into a coma after a break up. So I wrote a very romantic and sensitive material and I emailed it to her. Ten minutes later, she called me back:
She: Wow, that was so beautiful! I have read it twice and I almost cried. Who wrote that?
I (laughing my ass out): I did.
She: Oh, shut up! You couldn’t have! You need to have a soul to write that!
So I kept on writing, following the same line: romantic, juicy, lame. The texts were received with major disbelief, something like: “No shit! Did you really write that?” Because I had enough of their sceptism and because I also got bored of all that cry baby writing, I started to do my stuff, just the way I liked it. I started writing in a cold, cocky manner. Every now and then, I write some romantic crap, as a kind reminder that somewhere deep, deep down, I have a soul.
Nowadays I write for a very simple reason: to tell the stories that are growing inside me. I am surrounded by people to whom unusual things happen. Or maybe they only seem unusual to me. Once upon a time, a friend told me I have a story for everything. That everything I tell him is sensational. I don’t know how things really are. I know I like to tell stories and maybe they seem sensational because I make them a bit hypebolic. This is never my intention, I swear, it is just the way the story comes out from my mouth. It is the way I remember the story and I admit, when I don’t remember it very well, I bring my own personal inputs to the story. Some might call me a liar. I call myself a story teller.
P.S. My little sister may be sweet and juicy like a multi-layered cake, but she never wrote one word. Except for a love diary she had when she was about 16. That is one great diary! I have read it, but I promised her I wont’t tell a thing. Unless she upsets me…
Listening to moneky stories, in Gibraltar.