Because my life is not a special and very often I have to invent me When I was in elementary school I loved math: If I had to do the math homework and any other matter, you could be sure that the first book that I picked was the one with the blue cover and the rest reduces me to ' Finally, with great desire for my mom to give me two slaps in the face because "it is not possible with all the time you had, you bring back to doing homework on Sunday evening" (yes, I have always had a great ability to waste time on the crap and let the important things last). In particular, I hated writing, a hatred so strong that you can not describe in words, type that every time I had a deadline to do I cried and write two lines we used whole days with very questionable. Nevertheless I loved reading and I loved my Italian teacher, Luisa, who always gave us lots of good books to read: I was the entire afternoons closed room with a book in hand, so that my mom forgot that I was also at home .
Luisa still love it, because she taught me practically everything I have learned to read and write, that before the 'p' and 'b' there is always the 'm', that 'there 'and' there ' are written with the accent and that 'here', 'quo' and 'here' but no, because first the Word spell-check did not exist and some things you had to know, I still remember her dearly and beautiful calligraphy rounded, typical of a primary school teacher, with all the letters clearly drawn and legible. Every so often I still see her on the street, or the market, and each time it is as if I had never left and I start thinking about what has been lucky to meet her at some point in my life. But that's another story.
In middle school then it happened a strange thing: even though I continue to appreciate the algebra, geometry, and also the technical drawing in which I was also very good, fun to solve problems, expressions and equations and first try a certain pleasure in seeing that my almost always result coincided with that of the book, and despite the school play during the preparation of a nuisance to all teachers so that I put in the group setting technique (I was only heard, finally, the last year) - because " ; want to put the fun and satisfaction you get from building things with their hands? "(I still carry the marks of a close encounter that took my left hand with a gouge) - I began to realize that not only had read a wonderful thing and that the books contain wonderful stories just waiting to be read, but also that it's nice to know lives of the authors, know what they were doing and where they were while writing this book and what led them to do so, knowing the historical context of a work to appreciate. All thanks to the prof. letters, Annameris (yes, it's called just like that, not that I am making this up) that was so crazy unbalanced throwing chalks to my classmate (even though he I must say that if fairly tried, and if the search yet), but above all it was and is a woman with such a passion for what they taught at least to try to convince you to do even what you did not like to do, "then maybe you like. " Thanks (or blame) I played her - and that I will not ever again - but mostly I started composing the themes worthy of the name and I realized that writing is not so bad, in fact, that with the reading to discover new worlds invented by others, you can create yourself with writing your new world and nobody can tell you anything because that world there it's just you and the rules you do.
Technical Institute I began to hate cordially first, and then simply hate anything that has to do with numbers, mathematics, financial mathematics, economics, public finance at the beginning that if we tried to let me go a genius, trying to force myself to get good grades anyway, at the end I was doing right and not caring about the minimum required to pull a living and not be rejected. Because of the numbers I do not care anymore, I started writing on the school newspaper and then when the older children graduated from the past is everything in my hand, reading a lot of books, to study and to get interested in history and literature. To write, write and write, so when the teacher of letters has decided to start a creative writing evening course, the first person to whom he proposed to take part was me. In the years of high school I learned a lot of things: first of all, with the numbers that I did not want to have nothing more to do, and then that writing is the most beautiful thing there is and that with the passage of time You can change your mind. I started to write short stories that nobody has ever read and that no one will read, I discovered thanks to my dear Mario Baricco, I Pasolini and discovered I loved it, so that the Italian part of my dissertation concerned the fifth himself, I found Bulgakov and decided I wanted to read "The Maestro and Margarita" in the original language. Meanwhile
studying English in the afternoon - because English is not the technical institute I studied really - on my own, then I enrolled in the courses, I realized that I wanted to study the life languages as well as read and write, the best thing is to talk to people who use a language that is not yours, and through Language discover new and different cultures.
is how I decided to leave the numbers and sign up for languages and study English and Russian, the things I learned there are indeed billions, I'm not even tell you because if not we end the day after tomorrow .
Meanwhile I discovered the pleasure of writing more complex stories, maybe stupid, but completely invented and a lot of characters to write with other people, to pool ideas and pull out the things that perhaps others are not nothing, but for me it was beautiful because Valentina, Judith, Elisa, Ilaria and I had thought and thought, We had worked on the characters, we thought to their history, their style, to places where they lived, we were able to set the stories in New York without ever been there. They were beautiful because Valentina, Judith, Elisa, Ilaria and I live in a completely different part of Italy and when I write these stupid things, but beautiful, it was as if we were all close and we've known all along. For years we wrote and invented the stories of our imaginary friends, then we have grown, the school work first, then work, we have deadlines to write more and more distant until we stop. All this came to my mind just because yesterday Valentina I wrote a message saying that the case had found an old file in which we had written some very nice things and we wrote a lot.
I now do not write more.
Not because they want to, but because I lost the inspiration. The kind that I put myself in front of the pc and I'm hours looking at the blank page in Word, until then I give up and close everything. That perhaps is a good, then why not write some kind of masterpieces that, eh. Mica did not write for others, I was writing for me.
And without writing really seems to me to live an empty life.
And to think that I did just write crap.
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kiu22 
