I've just come back from a voyage related to work (although I've been having more fun than working, but don't tell him) and he's already shouting at me because he says I had to write an article for friday morning and I didn't. Well, poor boy, he's not wrong because in fact I dind't but... you know that the intention was there. Don't you? So, my idea was to start writing it now, first thinking about one interesting topic, then developing it, and showing the onclusions where I had arrived at the end. Then I would send it to him and he'd open his e-mail and realise that the article he had been waiting for, for more than 24 hours, had arrived; and he would smile and breath free. But... you know, intentions don't always become real, and my one's tend to hide from the reality so you can imagine what had happened. Yes, he's still waiting some piece of news from me. Oh, yes, I know I should be more reponsible and... but if I was, then I end up not being a pain in the neck of every boss I have, and that could be really boring. Don't you think?
In fact, perhaps I have to wait until he tells me: "you don't have to come tomorrow". Well, thinking about it... perhaps I can send him all this I'm writing to you. In fact, he's used to my style. Hmmm... yes, I'll send this hole post to him. Well, first, what do you think I should do?
I'd like you to answer me, my friends. If you don't... "jumm", "jumm", that's gonna be the crazy life of a crazy writer! Terrible!
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Saturday, October 18, 2008
one story to my son
- One day there was a little blue house in the middle of a beautiful landscape. All you could see was divided in two parts: the house, and kilometres and kilometres of high mountains. A little man called James lived in that special country where everybody had a secret. Yes, that was the particular thing in there: the mystery. That's not an horror story, and that's not an strange one either. My little baby, that's just life. Some years ago, James went to the closest city in there and bought a book written by a famous writer, his first book. But he knew her father didn't want him to read because he said that when he stopped working and sat down in the grass to put his eyes on that fantastic words, he wasted time, and if he wasn't reading, he could be helping his mother in the kitchen, for example. Therefore, little James decided not to tell anyone about the book he had hidden under his bed, and night by night he pretended being asleep when his parents went to bed, and then he switched on the light, and read ten or eleven pages, which were a chapter more or less. And, in that way, James created his own secret. And he smiled every time he thought about it.
Most stories would finish with James' mum looking for anything under the bed and founding the book. And then, you know, it would come the argument between the mother and the son, and all this kind of things. But in life, my little baby, people lie and they are not caught so I'll tell you what really happened: James has lived all his life with books under his bed, getting back to the city every month and buying a new one. His life always has had a secret, his own secret, and nobody has looked under the bed, and nobody has seen him reading at high hours at night. And he has never told the truth because, although mum and I say to you that you have to tell us everything, actually you don't.
So now you are asleep and perhaps I'm lucky because I don't know what you'd do if you had listened all this, but always remember you have to dream, and to have illusions, and save your secrets only for you. Because they will be one of the most important things in your life, my baby. Perhaps the only one thing which is really yours.
Now I'm going, that's my story for tonight. Good night, James.-
(And the little baby, who had been sleeping since the story had started, opened an eye and said: "Good night, dad")
And here you have one of the stories I told my son when he was a little baby. Now he's thirty-two. It's possible I tell you more one day, but not them all because they are the secret between him and I.
Most stories would finish with James' mum looking for anything under the bed and founding the book. And then, you know, it would come the argument between the mother and the son, and all this kind of things. But in life, my little baby, people lie and they are not caught so I'll tell you what really happened: James has lived all his life with books under his bed, getting back to the city every month and buying a new one. His life always has had a secret, his own secret, and nobody has looked under the bed, and nobody has seen him reading at high hours at night. And he has never told the truth because, although mum and I say to you that you have to tell us everything, actually you don't.
So now you are asleep and perhaps I'm lucky because I don't know what you'd do if you had listened all this, but always remember you have to dream, and to have illusions, and save your secrets only for you. Because they will be one of the most important things in your life, my baby. Perhaps the only one thing which is really yours.
Now I'm going, that's my story for tonight. Good night, James.-
(And the little baby, who had been sleeping since the story had started, opened an eye and said: "Good night, dad")
And here you have one of the stories I told my son when he was a little baby. Now he's thirty-two. It's possible I tell you more one day, but not them all because they are the secret between him and I.
Thursday, October 02, 2008
Hats and shoes? Start writing!
Hello. I think I don’t know you. And you don’t know me either. Well, in fact that’s a question of time. In a few days we’ll know each other as if we had talked for years and years.
I don’t really know what to write in here because it’s my first day at work and my boss has told me to write something you could like, because otherwise you won’t buy that magazine anymore, but that’s difficult. Actually I think my boss has no idea of the kind of texts I like writing, so perhaps some day he has a surprise!
Well, now you know what my job is about, and perhaps it’s a good idea to introduce myself. Isn’t it?
I’m an old man who likes wearing hats. Yes, that could be my best description. But don’t worry, I’ll tell you more things: I’m quite short and I’m pretty thin, I’ve got little ears, a little mouth and a very little nose; and my eyes are grey and have the size of nearly two oranges. Well, perhaps that’s too much, but what I mean is that they are enormous. I’ve got such long fingers that seem that I’ve played piano all my life (you know pianists use to have long fingers), but I’ve never played an instrument. Perhaps my fingers have grown in this way because they know I love listening to piano melodies and, on the other hand, I don't play them, and they are so confused that they have though perhaps I would start playing it if I saw my fingers were as the pianists’ one’s. Well, it’s not a bad reason.
Going on with my description, I can tell you’ll easily recognise me because I’m always wearing colourful shoes, although they sometimes don’t mix with the clothes I’m wearing. My shoes and my hat: that’s me. Now you know much more about who I am. But after finishing today’s story I want to tell you one secret: I’m a frustrated writer. Yes. I’m not joking. Many years ago, when I was a child, I started writing. At the beginning I wrote things which were not very good, and then I continued with the same tendency. Yes. I’ve never known how to write. I’ve read a lot and I’ve tried to copy many different writers to learn this art, but I’ve realised it’s something you have to be born with: the magic of inventing stories and making people laugh, or cry, or smile, or hate with them. So, don’t tell it to my boss, but I think I’ll be his ruin, because every time I start working for a new magazine, I end up without a job again because people say they don’t like my texts. And I’m sure it’s true. But I don’t want to stop writing. So, you know, if you notice there are horrible stories in this magazine, don’t panic. It’s my lovely art of writing!
Now yes, I’ve finished for today.
Apart from all I’ve told you, in general that’s a good magazine so keep having a look at it, and perhaps one day you are a testimony of the first good text of a frustrated writer!
Somesketh
I don’t really know what to write in here because it’s my first day at work and my boss has told me to write something you could like, because otherwise you won’t buy that magazine anymore, but that’s difficult. Actually I think my boss has no idea of the kind of texts I like writing, so perhaps some day he has a surprise!
Well, now you know what my job is about, and perhaps it’s a good idea to introduce myself. Isn’t it?
I’m an old man who likes wearing hats. Yes, that could be my best description. But don’t worry, I’ll tell you more things: I’m quite short and I’m pretty thin, I’ve got little ears, a little mouth and a very little nose; and my eyes are grey and have the size of nearly two oranges. Well, perhaps that’s too much, but what I mean is that they are enormous. I’ve got such long fingers that seem that I’ve played piano all my life (you know pianists use to have long fingers), but I’ve never played an instrument. Perhaps my fingers have grown in this way because they know I love listening to piano melodies and, on the other hand, I don't play them, and they are so confused that they have though perhaps I would start playing it if I saw my fingers were as the pianists’ one’s. Well, it’s not a bad reason.
Going on with my description, I can tell you’ll easily recognise me because I’m always wearing colourful shoes, although they sometimes don’t mix with the clothes I’m wearing. My shoes and my hat: that’s me. Now you know much more about who I am. But after finishing today’s story I want to tell you one secret: I’m a frustrated writer. Yes. I’m not joking. Many years ago, when I was a child, I started writing. At the beginning I wrote things which were not very good, and then I continued with the same tendency. Yes. I’ve never known how to write. I’ve read a lot and I’ve tried to copy many different writers to learn this art, but I’ve realised it’s something you have to be born with: the magic of inventing stories and making people laugh, or cry, or smile, or hate with them. So, don’t tell it to my boss, but I think I’ll be his ruin, because every time I start working for a new magazine, I end up without a job again because people say they don’t like my texts. And I’m sure it’s true. But I don’t want to stop writing. So, you know, if you notice there are horrible stories in this magazine, don’t panic. It’s my lovely art of writing!
Now yes, I’ve finished for today.
Apart from all I’ve told you, in general that’s a good magazine so keep having a look at it, and perhaps one day you are a testimony of the first good text of a frustrated writer!
Somesketh
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