I still remember the first book I read. The novel was ‘Journey to the centre of the Earth’. I was young, very young, and I couldn’t truly understand the innovative power of Jules Verne.
The book was written in an age in which scientific progress had just dawned upon us. People couldn’t yet travel from a corner of the planet to another as easily as it is nowadays. There was power in that writing. A power which soaked me to my bones. That book emanated a mysterious energy. My passion for reading has since continued, taking me to the novels of Isaac Asimov. The Foundation series plunged me into a world characterised by Imperial tradition, historical narrative, and changing forces. It was mesmerising. There was something more than mere adventure. There was an intriguing fight for the power. On one hand, the Imperial establishment struggled to survive a state of increasing degradation. On the other, a bunch of scientists was ready to accomplish any sacrifice possible to create a new and better world. There was one side of the story which increased my sense of astonishment. Asimov had cleverly created a society in which robots could live in and interact with human beings as they had been human beings. Being an adventure wasn’t the real force of this story. Its connection to the reality of our world was. The struggle for power and the search for common well-being are daily real facts. George Orwell and Aldous Huxley came afterwards. The first described how politics might degenerate, creating highly controlled and oppressive societies. He foresaw the coming of a society in which cameras could control any movement of its citizens, and governments were capable of creating fake news and a special language to silence the people voice. His writing instilled the importance of democratic values and the necessity to protect them. Aldous Huxley in “Brave new world” was a step ahead. His dystopic view told of a world in which human beings were created in the laboratory. Any of them had a specific role in the society and belonged to a determined social group without any chance of change. Huxley didn’t only criticise the oligarchic concentration of power, but he warned about the insane use of the science. Agatha Christie, Conan Doyle, and Tolkien struck me with their narrative ability and the importance of values, such as friendship, honour and justice – Sherlock Holmes, Poirot and Samwise Gamgee still remain my favourite characters. I believe books have power. They contained an intrinsic sacredness. This is what I feel when I have a book between my hands. It is a sort of invisible force. I can’t help entering a bookshop and perceiving that divine halo that hovers over those mysterious and undiscovered pages. I hang around observing the covers, looking at the titles, and absorbing the energy of those square objects. This sacred energy is what makes a book appealing and venerable. I may pass hours and hours walking around the stalls and bookshelves, trying to embody the writer to understand what he wished to communicate with that work. This sacredness can’t be overwhelmed. It invades you. Ray Bradbury understood the sacred power of books in his masterpiece ‘Fahrenheit 451’. In this story, Bradbury told us of a world in which special fire brigades burnt books because the establishment considered them as dangerous for the society. Books are sacred objects which must be preserved and protected. They deliver the thoughts and knowledge of people who identified positive and negative aspects of the society. The authors want to entertain us, make us laugh or ponder, and, sometimes, they also want to scare us. That’s why I always feel that magic, attractive sacredness whenever I pop into a bookshop.
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It’s an evening of January. I sit comfortably at my desk, writing and rewriting the few paragraphs I’ve been able to put together. Suddenly, the email notification pops out. I rub my eyes. Is what I’ve just read true? It takes some seconds to me to realise that I’m already staring at the newsletter I received. My lower lip drops. I read the headline. I reread the headline because I’m not sure if what I read is real.
Ursula Le Guin died. Sadness fills my heart. The author of the most beautiful science fiction book I’ve ever read passed away. She was eighty-eight years old. It seems yesterday that I was flipping the pages of “The left hand of the darkness”. I discovered that strange world in which was continuously winter. That planet populated by living beings who had the same gender. It was revolutionary. I was revolutionised. Ursula Le Guin pointed out clearly and smoothly the biggest flaws of our society. Her simplicity hit me without hurting. She made me think. She made me brood on the deepest and most savage fear of the humanity: the fear of them who are different. There’s no need to be scared of the diversity; it is part of our life. Diversity makes us richer and richer; it allows us to grow and mature; it renders us better and better; it enriches us. When Genly Ai came to Gethen, he was scared. He didn’t know anything about that unusual planet. He didn’t know anything about the strange beings living in that world. Even though at beginning he was extremely diffident and embarrassed by those creatures, he learnt to understand them and live peacefully along. Tolerance and respect became fundamental and vital values. In her stories, Ursula Le Guin taught us these values: the respect of the others, the equality among living beings, the necessity of cooperation, and the uselessness of the hostilities. I stare at the screen, perusing and observing the endless messages that writers and authors are frenetically pouring down on the internet. I owe you, Ursula, a thanking. Thank you for having taken me by hand and sweetly accompanied in a world unknown to me. You made me think, dream, upset, laugh and hope. You made me travel to a world in which the future was better and liveable. Your stories and ideals will live with me forever. LINK: The New York Times BBC CNN The Guardian Salon Since I started blogging, I haven’t mentioned what my projects are. One of them is my novella – which I’ve richly talked about in the previous posts – but I’ve been working on more complex and demanding stories.
The genre is crime and thriller. I’ve grown up watching “Murder, she wrote” series and reading Sherlock Holmes and Hercules Poirot novels. I do think they influenced my imagination and creativity. The first work I’d like to introduce is my first complete novel. Although it’s finished in its 93K words approximately, I’m considering to get back to work on it. The novel is about a woman who grew up in one of the worst slums of the world. She survived by theft and, unfortunately, selling her body. One day she met her ‘prince charming’, she got married and flew to the United States. What seemed the beginning of a new and prosperous life soon became a limit. Theft was her soul. She had lived illegally for decades, and this kind of freedom allowed her to get what she wanted: huge amounts of money and, especially, jewels. Once she got rid of his husband, she maniacally pursued the precious French diamond called ‘The Regent Diamond’. The woman craved it. After having followed the stone all over the world, she planned to steal it during its exhibition in London. Unfortunately, the mysterious deaths she left behind caught the attention of the police. DCI Smith and DCI Murphy started investigating and discovered the identity and the reasons behind this woman. The idea came up to my mind in February 2016. I was on the plane from Dublin, and a customer was complaining there was no space on the overhead locker for his bag. I was struck. Although the customer was upset, he had maintained a quietness and politeness that I wish everybody could have. But what triggered my brain’s cells was his luggage. It was a simple, black, leather bag with a golden latch on its side. It probably contained a laptop or documents, it was hard to say. Its simplicity made it fascinating. What was inside? I started daydreaming. Maybe, the man was an architect with important projects. Maybe, he was a spy, carrying information about the national security. He might have been a high-specialised worker, working in high-tech or engineering. He had passed the last months working on an important job for his company, and now was getting back home after the final approval of his bosses. I thought the latter option was the most reasonable and unpredictable. I brooded on it. I liked the idea of this professional who had an important task to complete. It happened that, at that time, I was reading “Eleven minutes” by Paulo Coelho. I’ll quickly explain what this novel is about, and I guarantee that quite soon you’ll find a review of this book on Sam’s Bookshelf page. The novel is about a poor girl convinced to move to Switzerland to have a better and wealthier life. Unfortunately, the man who wanted her to go to Switzerland framed her. She is forced to work in a brothel, where she will meet the true love of her life. I needed a girl like this, but my character had to be manipulative and selfish. She also had to be beautiful and capable of using her beauty to her advantage. My main character was born. Stealing, cheating, and murdering were her means of surviving. The only thing she cared about was her well-being and diamonds – she definitely did. ‘The Regent Diamond’ was the perfect connection between her and our engineer. In approximately one year, I had written the book. I have to be honest; I started submitting it to publishers and agents without any luck. I don’t give up. I’m planning to start revising and partially rewriting my novel to make it more thrilling and darker. I’ll keep you updated. Although I had it finished, I carried on writing. I’ve currently been writing a thriller. It’s about a journalist who, after having got back to his hometown, discovers that Wendy, his college flame, died in an unusual accident. The journalist investigates and finds out a thick net of corruption, bribing, and criminal activities. The inspiration – as often it happens – came from the real facts. I was reading the news when my eye caught an article about a mysterious death in a village in India (LINK). A woman died, and her husband had got away without any legal consequence, although the proofs demonstrated he was guilty. The journalist then discovered that the husband was in a good relationship with the mayor, who, to maintain his position of power, used bribing and corruption to get him unpunished. I’ve just written seven chapters, but I hope to finish it within the summer. My efforts don’t only focus on novels, but I also write short stories. I’m concluding some of them, which I hope to be able to submit to mystery and detective stories magazines. I will publish some of them on the Short Stories page of this website, too. After this long post which explained what I wrote about, I wish an amazing week of reading and writing. Take care and see you next week! Cheers! Although writing is only a hobby, a thought has been mulling over my mind since I concluded the novella: what am I going to do with it?
As I previously said, “The fear eater” was born as a short story. The transformation in a novella came afterwards. However, my main desire is to publish it. Obviously, before going through this process, it needs to be treated by a professional editor who polishes and corrects every detail, then a good graphic designer for the cover, and, finally, the release. I still don’t know how to do that. I mean, shall I go for traditional publishing and submit it to a publisher, or go self-publishing? I don’t know. I personally would like to go through a traditional publisher, but novellas aren’t very marketable. On the other hand, the prospective plan of going self-published is quite appealing. I could have the total control of the different phases of the publication. It would really become my ‘baby’. What makes me hesitate is the fact that the complete marketing campaign would fall on my shoulders. I haven’t made my mind up, but somehow the novella will be published. Besides - I shouldn’t write this - I have a few ideas for a sequel! And, actually, I also have a few ideas for a prequel! Ka-boom! I’ve just dropped a bomb! Don’t worry, anyway. I’m still quite away from drafting and writing them, but the ideas are in my mind. I’ll keep you updated. Before ending this post, I’d like to tell you one last thing about the novella. It’s not a short story, but a sort of breaking news. Do you remember Jonathan and Lisa? The nice couple that found the body of Justin? They were on their first date, a quite shocking first date. It would be for everyone. I presume that you wondered what happened to them. Well, I was told that Lisa went out with Jonathan again. Then again. Date after date, things turned very well, and guess what? They’re still happily and lovingly together! With this final good news, I get back to work on my writings, and I wish an amazing week. See you next Thursday! Cheers! “The fear eater” is available on Wattpad for free. For reading it CLICK HERE. Gimmy and Don were like brothers. They lived together; they helped each other; they confide their fears and thoughts.
Since the first meeting with James and Roger, Gimmy has appeared to be the only person who could know what was crossing Don’s mind. Gimmy, indeed, found Don in front of Mark’s house. How did he do that? In the next paragraphs, I’ll try to tell you how Gimmy realised where Don could have gone. “I’m being lucky.” Gimmy sprinted back to the shopping centre. “That car came exactly at the right moment to allow me to disappear from those detectives.” Gimmy didn’t regret to have talked to James and Roger, but he feared that somebody might have seen him. “My companions don’t like bottlers’n’stoppers.” The emergency door screeched as Gimmy opened it. “I’ll get to my…” A scream echoed in the main aisle; a man ran after another. “It’s my pillow, you beast!” The follower shouted. “You have one already, Sim!” Gimmy watched the men passing by and shook his head. “They’re like kids.” He lay on his old, battered sleeping bag, but he couldn’t help but thinking about Don. Where was him? Why were those coppers looking for him? Was he going to avenge Ivonne’s death? “Don has always been able to manage his life. I shouldn’t get worried so much.” Gimmy was woken up by the noise of morning commuters going to catch the first train from Stratford Station. After a while, the electrical humming of the cleaning floor machine decided that the day had to start. Numerous homeless got up and started picking up their stuff. Some of them did it in complete silence, while others started grumping and moaning at the man who was driving the machine. Gimmy followed his mates and began to fold his sleeping bag and the blanket. He, then, walked to the second alleys to his left and stocked everything in a small, unused alcove. “The stalls’ owners stock everything in these back alleys. This niche has been empty since I arrived, and nobody has ever complained.” People were starting to bring in stands and trolleys full of goods and clothes, but Gimmy didn’t consider them. He was still thinking about Don. “Where is he?” He decided that he had to find him, and, to do that, he had to check in a few places before going to his main shelter in Primrose Hill. Gimmy walked to the station; there were some tricks for travelling without paying the tube ticket, and Gimmy knew almost all of them. He stood in front of the busiest gate. The perfect moment immediately came; he queued and stuck to the traveller before him. The unaware man swiped his Oyster cad, and, before the gate closed, Gimmy walked fast behind him. “I’m sorry!” Gimmy unintentionally stamped on his heel. The man scowled at him and walked in his way. Gimmy grinned satisfied; he had got through without the tube staff noticing him. Gimmy visited Southwark, then Waterloo Station and Victoria Station, but he found no sign of Don. “I don’t know where to look for.” Gimmy desperately thought. “I may get back to Stratford. Maybe, he got back to Papa House.” Late afternoon had come to Gimmy. When he entered the shopping centre, the big supermarket had already closed, and the stalls had disappeared. In a corner, in front of an emergency exit, Gimmy recognised two men. “What the hell are they doing here?” James and Roger beckoned him and went out through the green push door. Gimmy glanced carefully around and followed them. The hallway smelled rotten food and urine. The sides of the pavement were slimy because of the rain of the previous days. At the end of the alley, there was a three-steps stair. The passage led to a huge parking area for vans and lorries. Gimmy found the detectives waiting for him at the bottom of the steps. “What are you doing here? Are ya outta mind?” “We need to talk to you.” James started off. “No! My companions don’t like people like ya!” Gimmy was furious. “What if they saw ya?” “Nobody saw us.” Roger said. “We need you to take us to Don’s refuge in Primrose Hill.” James briskly explained. “It’s important for our investigation.” “Why should I do this?” Gimmy asked. “I don’t want to have anything to do with you!” “But you want to find Don as much as we do.” Roger grinned. “Help us, Gimmy.” James said. “You know where it is! Lead us there, and we’ll leave you in peace.” Gimmy stared at them. “This might be a good opportunity for having a look at that place. Even though I have the coppers with me…” “Will you take us there?” James asked. “All right! All right!” Gimmy sighed. “I’ll do it, but I’ll do it only to find Don, and we’ll have to move carefully! I do not want anybody to see me with people like you!” James and Roger exchanged a look, then nodded. They quickly headed to the car parked a few yards from the exit. Gimmy stared at the two detectives who were inspecting Don’s shelter. “They’ve been searching this area for a while, but they found nothing.” He thought. “I didn’t find any clue about where Don might have gone either.” James crawled and picked up a business card. “Wow! They found a business card.” Gimmy scoffed. “They haven’t got any clue of what they’re doing at all, that’s just rubbish.” Gimmy walked around the bushes. There was something he couldn’t figure out that annoyed him; a small, insignificant detail. “The detective said…” Gimmy’s train of thought stopped. “How could I have been so stupid! Don knew where Ivonne used to go three times a week!” He instinctively brought a hand to his mouth. “Of course, he must be there! I know where you are Don! And I’ll get you!” James and Roger came out of the shelter, and Gimmy reached them. A cunning smirk grew on his face. Marble Arch was crowded with commuters entering the tube station. Gimmy rapidly avoided them and looked around, trying to guess where to go. “To my left, I have Oxford Street. To my right, I head to Notting Hill. In that way, I’ll reach Hyde Park Corner.” Gimmy pondered. “What was that she used to say…she said that…” Gimmy made a huge effort to recall Don’s words about those strange sessions with the psychologist Ivonne used to have. “She liked…there was something in the office that she liked….it was…” Gimmy thought, then the exact words popped out of his mind. “The stunning view of the trees in the park trembling at the soft breeze! This is what she said!” Gimmy turned in the road leading to Hyde Park Corner. A tall skyscraper towered over the surrounding buildings. Gimmy strolled around it and peered inside, trying not to be seen by the guardian sat at the reception’s counter. “I can’t be sure Don’s here.” Gimmy sighed. “What if I’m mistaken? Probably, he is at Papa house and…” The noise of an emergency door slamming made Gimmy turn and hide behind a car. He stealthily peered towards the direction of the slam. Suddenly, to his surprise, Don came out of the narrow alley. “Don! What are you doing here?” Gimmy thought and was about to call him, when he strolled in the opposite way. “I better off follow him. When he won’t expect, I’ll come out and stop him! I want to see where he’s going!” Without making any noise and keeping a safe distance, Gimmy trailed Don. The fourth instalment dedicated to “The fear eater” is out. If you liked it, and you want to read the novella, you can find it on Wattpad for free. CLICK HERE. Take care and see you the next week with some news and a short answer to the last interrogative left. Cheers! |
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