V.P. Colombo's Blog

February 28, 2018

Tribe is war. Writing is love. I choose love.

How our connection with words varies depending on our background and/or experience.I was watching a writingcraft video when my mentor said the word "tribe". My back hardened and I had to stop the video to gather my thoughts. I assume that she said it meaning community, a group you belong to, a family, and somehow in a nurturing sense; but for me it doesn't have the same meaning.As you may know, French is coming from Latin and Greek. Since a young age at school we learn etymology in French classes because it helps us to understand our language. So to me tribe has an inherent violent connotation, it's coming from a division and has a historical meaning of clan or race.TRIBES FIGHT! Nowadays, people want to find their tribe in order to belong, to find a community of like minded people - actually they're kind of desperate to find their tribe, because marketing says that you're valuable only being out of the box BUT part of a tribe, meditate this one for me please. Although it's with a good intention, modern tribes tend to send a message of exclusion, and to erase individuality or the permission to have a different opinion, life style, diet, haircut, and so on:US VS OTHERS, WE'RE RIGHT YOU'RE WRONG! Look at all those wellness movements and fad diet gurus stirring anger. Look at all those new converted vegans (not that I have anything against vegans, my body didn't react well to the diet though) shaming you all the time as a meat eater, a cruel blood thirsty person, unaware of the environmental issues. Well, we have six pets at home that we love to the moon and back, but we eat meat because :1. We love it2. I have a weird low red blood cell count which is under control only if I eat rare and sometimes raw red meat.To me writers are a community, where people with different backgrounds, experiences, religions, lifestyles, come together because they have something in common: the love of words. It includes people. There's no wrong nor right in writing, no style better than another. It's the freedom of speech and to express ourselves the way we want to. Can you imagine how awkward it would be:- Published Authors vs Unpublished Authors- Poets vs Novelists- Romance vs Erotica- Sci-Fi vs Children's book Authors...and so on.I'm glad to be part of a tremendous community of beautiful writers coming from everywhere in the world, some writing since they were children, some started yesterday, some are already successful, and the others will be...but I never ever want to be part of a tribe.Tribe is war, writing is love. I choose love.Virginie
 •  0 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on February 28, 2018 23:36

January 19, 2018

The day I was born as a Writer

I've been thinking about writing a book for few years now. Actually, I've been dreaming of writing a book all my life. It's only a little less than two years ago that I took the big jump. And it was terrifying. First, because I found myself writing in English, which is only my second language; second, because I wasn't about to birth the kind of book I fantasised about since I was a teen.No, it wouldn't be a philosophical essay about the search of happiness and humankind's eternal dissatisfaction. It was going to be a cookbook and just the idea of it depressed me. Let's be honest. Cookbooks can be beautiful, they certainly are useful, but from a writer's point of view writing straight forward recipes can boring, to me anyway. So reluctantly I wrote an introduction that I had to submit for a writing retreat. It was bad, and when I say bad it's an understatement. It was lifeless and totally uninteresting. I still got a spot to spend five days in Fiji amongst ten other women to learn the craft of writing. How? I don't have a clue!The first day was painful, as I realised I had nothing to do there; that everyone else was working on memoirs, crime books and self-help books, and of course had an exceptional ability to express their ideas. I was miserable and felt worthless. I followed the workshop as I could and did the exercises, not without struggling a lot though. Then came the homework. Not only I had to suffer all day, it was following me at night.There were two exercises for the next day. I don't remember what was the first one, and frankly I don't know if I've done it. But the second one was from an excerpt from Eat Pray Love, and I had to impersonate an emotion, a quality or a flaw as a character. It wasn't easy. I spent hours trying to figure out what to do; and then it came to me, it flowed. I switched the light at midnight, happy to have completed at least half the task.On the second day, we learnt plenty. I felt a bit more at ease, thanks to the incredible women who surrounded me. They were supportive and not judgemental. So, when at the end of the day, our mentor asked who wanted to read what they wrote the night before, it's almost naturally that I raised my hand. I was shaking, stumbling on words as my heart rate was at the roof, but they were listening, captivated even. I could feel the emotions, the intense silence was benevolent, comforting and a sign of approval. Then they bursted into laughter. Jackpot! That was the reaction I was expecting. Their feedback was constructive and way better than I thought it would be. My text moved them and made them dream.On that day, A Little Bite of Happiness was born. At that particular moment, I knew that it wouldn't be a cookbook but a book about emotions, sensuality and pleasure; and that the recipes would be there only to illustrate the stories.On that day, I realised with pride, that it wasn't only a dream, that I could write.
 •  0 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on January 19, 2018 14:07

October 16, 2017

Me too

"If all the women who have been sexually harassed or assaulted wrote "Me too" as a status, we might give people a sense of the magnitude of the problem."I am not going to list the countless times I've been sexually harassed and/or assaulted over the last thirty five plus years. There are too many. But I'm going to illustrate how society protects abusers since their younger age, and gives them a free ticket to assault women.It was the third year of kindergarden. My daughter just turned five years old. My happy little girl wasn't so happy anymore. She was scared. She had come back home with biting marks over the last few days. I asked what happened at school, repeatedly, until she told me.A boy was threatening her. That was simple: if she didn't kiss him he'd bite her. I went to see the teacher to complain about the boy. Days passed and nothing changed. I then took the matter to the principal. The teacher came back to me saying that the poor boy had learning difficulties (he started talking late) so we shouldn't be too hard on him. To which I answered that it didn't excuse his aggressive behaviour, and that he had to stop. I was dismissed. My daughter told me more. The boy had a friend who was tall and strong for his age and was playing muscles for him. At recess, they'd go to the bathroom and pressure the girls to take off their undies and show them their genitals. I finally understood why my little girl wouldn't go to the bathroom all day at school.I tried to talk and warn the other parents. They didn't have a clue of what was happening and frankly they didn't want to know. For them, I became a trouble maker.The school didn't protect my daughter so I had no other choice than to go to the police to make a formal complaint. The police officer told me that unfortunately there was no legal ground for a complaint. Reality stroke me. The system wouldn't protect my little girl. I was sitting there, at the police station, contemplating the idea of shaking the boy to scare him off (and get in trouble myself) when the police officer looking at me, saw my despair and said:- If you want, with my colleague, we could pay a visit to the school tomorrow and talk to the boy. Hopefully he'll be intimidated by our uniforms and stop.So they did, and it worked. The boy stopped harassing and assaulting my daughter in favour of other preys. But the school punished her.There was a ritual in class before morning recess. Kids in turn would have the privilege to pass on the box of biscuits. It was a big deal. My daughter's turn never came. All the other children had that privilege several time during the year, but not her. They could see how unfair it was to her, and would sometimes talk about it. But no, she had talked, she had brought trouble, so the teacher ostracised her as a punishment.And here is, ladies and gentlemen, how society teaches women to stay silent from the younger age.
 •  0 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on October 16, 2017 13:42

August 10, 2017

Perception

We’re often told that we should be objective, put ourselves in someone else’s shoes, try to understand their story and their point of view. It is important as a human being to be able to channel that objectivity to be empathetic towards others.But what does make us ourselves? Because the way we perceive ourselves, the idea others have of us, and who we really are are different. Different but complementary. It’s the combination of all of them which makes us who we are, how we act, react, and behave. Someone who went through cancer or abuse can see themselves as somehow broken, lacking something or scared, when people around them could see them as survivors, admire them for their courage, etc… To fully understand a person you can’t leave out one of these perceptions, all are essential, all of them are their truth and what makes them unique. Why? Because if you take only one and leave the other on the side, you only have a half truth. When writing we have to create multidimensional characters in order for them to be relatable to the reader.  So let me explain that differently. For example, I have two dogs at home. Luna is a thirty kilos American Staffy and Lola is a  seven kilos spoodle.People are scared of Luna because she’s big, strong, and really impressive with her square face. Add to that the stigma around the bulls breed and see how people often cross the street to avoid having to walk near her. For most of them she's a blood thirsty beast. People who know her, see how gentle  and loving she is. She wouldn't hurt anyone nor anything, not intentionally, even if she can be brutal sometimes and crushes you a little bit, and when she does she's mortified and doesn't know what to do be forgiven. Her 'deadly' jaws will never scratch you, even if you take a bone away from her. Why? Because of who she really is. Which leads to how she perceives herself. Luna thinks she’s a tiny tiny little puppy, she loves it when we call her that - yes dogs and cats understand words. That’s the way she sees herself, and she acts accordingly. She runs into door frames and furniture because she really thinks she’s small and her interaction with space shows it. If she's threatened or attacked by another dog, usually way smaller than her, she just hides or submits, but never defends herself. She's clingy, loves cuddles and has separation anxiety.Now let’s talk about Lola, who’s the cutest looking spoodle. She looks like a teddy bear and people are drowned to her. First because she’s an attention seeker, and second because they think she’s harmless. Well she’s not. I would never let a child approach her, because I can’t trust her. She can be aggressive sometimes. We don't try to grab something from her because we could lose a hand or at least few fingers. She growls and bites Luna without any reason. Lola also sees herself as a tall dog. She stretches to show off how long are her legs, and nothing can make her happier than when we tell her that her legs are long, then she proudly stretches them more. That’s the way she sees herself.She doesn't cuddle us per se, we have to pat her exactly where and when she wants and she's quite bossy about it. If she’s been naughty, she doesn’t care about us telling her she’s been a bad girl, no what really hurts her is when we tell her she’s not beautiful. Go figure!Now if you had to judge my writing on this article. You'd say that my English is not that good, that I use 'she' instead of 'it' when it comes to animals, so why the hell do I write? Well, English is my second language, so yes sometimes I make mistakes. But it is consciously that I use 'she' or 'he' for an animal. In French, everything has a gender. Although I can understand and use 'it' in English for objects because they're inanimate, it's something I refuse to do for animals because they are living beings, have a soul and emotions. You see, everything is subjective.Well it’s the same with human beings and characters in general. They are an interesting mix of how they're perceived, how they see themselves, and who they are. As a writer we have to objectively show their subjectivity.Happy writing everyone.V.P Colombo
 •  0 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on August 10, 2017 22:18

July 13, 2017

First Draft Writing Challenge

Hello fellow writers,As I am almost reaching Camp Nanowrimo's halfway mark, I want to keep the emulation going. Except that there is no existing challenge to cater for my needs.I plan on finishing my first draft, 120,000 words by the 1st January 2018 without being brain fried in the process. How to keep myself motivated?I browsed the internet for the last few hours, and although I found few word count trackers, it didn't feel enough for me. Yes I am going to track my progress but will I keep going if I am not accountable to anyone but myself? Who will motivate me when I hit the wall? I know by experience that without being accountable to a mentor, a publisher, or a community, we can easily become lazy in our writing and never finish that draft.So I decided to create a First Draft Writing Challenge, starting on the 1st August 2017 and ending on the 1st January 2018. Five months to kickstart your next book with achievable and flexible daily goals, surrounded by a supportive community of like minded writers.I wish it would be for free but I will be spending time monitoring the community progress as well as moderating a Facebook private group where everyone can share their thoughts, tips, advices, ups and downs. There are only 100 spots so hurry up!5 months of support for only $229.50It's only $1.50 per dayOnly $200 if you register before the 20th July 2017. Send an email to contact@vpcolombo-books.com , with "First Draft Writing Challenge" in the subject line, to receive your registration details.I am looking forward to kicking off some goals with you.V.P Colombo
 •  0 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on July 13, 2017 00:02

March 20, 2017

The Princess Bee (not an alternative fairy tale)

Two months ago, I entered the NYC Short Story Challenge. I was given a genre, Fairy tale; I was given a character, a beekeeper, and finally I was given a subject, a duel. I must admit that I was everything but thrilled about this heat. I really wasn't in the mood of writing a fairy tale, especially as one of our bunnies died that day. I am not even mentioning it was a very tough week for the free world and women in particular.I just received the results, and unfortunately, my story didn't make it to the second round. I am still waiting on receiving the feedback from the judges. It was a long shot, as this story is quite political. Nevertheless, I want to share it with you,Here it is.The Princess Bee(Not an alternative fairy tale)This is the story of a princess saving her kingdom and all the women from the greed and the barbarity of a monstrous imposter.Once upon a time in a far faraway land, an awful swollen orange headed monster took the throne by force and proclaimed himself king. The imposter was so infatuated with his own importance that he renamed the kingdom Bigly Land.As soon as he accessed the power, with the help of his infamous sorcerer, he cast a spell over the realm making all the women mute and keeping them prisoners of their own home. At the same time, all the men where transformed into swollen orange headed soldiers. Their purpose was to keep their wives submissive and treat them as reproductive machines, so the king could increase his army of swollen orange headed monsters and invade other realms. He decreed an endless series of curses and resolutions, turning everything beautiful into misery. Only five minutes had past since he took the power and the kingdom already looked like a graveyard.The swollen orange headed king decided he should marry a princess so he would look a little more legitimate, but all of them refused. He then plotted a vicious revenge.- “ You don't want to marry me, very well! You're going to work for me night and day and make me a fortune! I will be the richest and the greatest king of the entire world. I will be a Kingly.”The sorcerer, raised to the rank of chancellor, metamorphosed the princesses into bees. The evil king then requisitioned all the hives, kept them in the castle's most secured room, and assigned each princess a hive of which they would be the queen. They would spend the rest of their life giving birth to more and more bees and producing royal honey which he planned to sell at a exorbitant price, having now the monopoly of honey.All the princesses but one. Golden Honey, the former king's youngest daughter, who was a very clever young lady, had hid herself behind the curtains when the swollen orange headed monster abducted and cursed her sisters. Unfortunately, the curse also affected her and she transformed into a bee. She saw the opportunity to fly out of a window before they got all sealed and took it. There was no way she would have let anyone locked her up for ever. She had to seek for help, come back, fight, defeat the imposter and restore peace into the realm.She started a long and tedious journey around the kingdom, meeting refusals every-where she went. She begged the bee keepers; who had been ripped off their trade, their hives, their beloved bees by the evil king, but they were too scared of the king's fury if he ever discovered the plan. None of them agreed to help her.Golden Honey was desperate. What could she do? She was alone, she was minuscule and powerless. Feeling defeated, she wandered into neighbouring kingdoms, slept in foreign forests, drank at crystal waters and climbed unreachable mountains from where she dreamt of her lost happiness, admiring a sunrise her sisters will never get to see again unless she found a solution.As she was lost in her nostalgic thoughts, she didn't hear the bee keeper approaching.“What are you doing here little bee?” He whispered slowly reaching out to her with his hand, “Don't be scared. I am not going to hurt you.”The princess bee told him her story: the putsch, her father's murder, the swollen orange headed imposter, the curse, her sisters' abduction and the kind of slavery they were living. The bee keeper was moved by her tears and the terrible hardship she and her kingdom were going through. He promised to help Golden Honey and brought her to his home, where she could rest and regained strength amongst his beloved bees, while they would figure out a plan.A few days later, once the princess bee had rebuilt her spirit, Golden Honey, the bee keeper and his bees started their march towards the lost kingdom. They walked during the night and slept during the day, taking shelter in fairies’ land so no one would see them coming and give the alarm to the swollen orange headed monster's army.They arrived near the castle at dusk and hid in the trees near the fortifications, where they waited for the town to be asleep. Golden Honey and her little army could hardly contain their anger when they heard several swollen orange headed soldiers passing by, laughing, drinking, talking of how now they were ruling the kingdom, and how great it was to come back home to a mute wife, beat her, rape her, and being congratulated by the new king for it.Once the streets were clear of those disgusting misogynists, Princess bee and her army of bees flew over the ramparts and unlocked the gate, so that the bee keeper could enter the town. The bees attacked all the guards, creating a diversion so that Golden Honey and the bee keeper could sneak into the castle without being seen. As the swollen orange headed army was fighting outside the walls, the Princess bee and her friend rushed up the stairs, straight to the dungeon where the princesses were jailed. They were stopped by the door which was protected by an invisible shield.Golden Honey slipped into the key hole, leaving the bee keeper behind to stand guard.The swollen orange headed imposter was deeply asleep, snoring and lying on a bed made of money. The hives were scattered all around the room, each with a tap attached so the royal honey could constantly run and fill the royal treasure. The princesses, all excited at the sight of their sister, yelled with joy and hope, which woke up the king.“What's all that noise. Quiet females! Go back to work!- Not happening, said Golden Honey while flying around his head.- Who are you? Why aren't you locked in the hives? How did you escape?- I am Golden Honey, youngest princess of the kingdom and the woman who is going to defeat you.”She then started a dance over his head. He tried to beat her, cut her, slice her with his sword, unsuccessfully. The Princess bee was too fast and too small. In front! Behind! To his right! To his left! The evil king was getting dizzy as Golden Honey kept flying around him, landing on his head, his nose, tickling his nostrils, making noise in his ears. He then started to slap himself in the hope of smashing her. Right cheek! Left cheek! Right cheek! Missed again! Because of his constant self-beating his head became bigger, redder and heavier. He lost balanced and fell. Golden Honey took this opportunity to sting his throat. The swollen orange head monster's head swelled, swelled, swelled like a balloon and exploded.As soon as the monster died, the curses were lifted. Golden Honey and her sisters meta-morphosed back into delicate princesses. The dungeon's door opened, and the bee keeper followed by his wonderful army of bees, entered the room, kneeled in front of the Princess bee and swore allegiance to their new queen. At the same moment, all around the realm, the swollen orange headed soldiers exploded too — only those who hadn’t abused their wives transformed back into decent men, the others died —, and all the women of the kingdom were set free.Golden Honey and the bee keeper formed a free exchange alliance between their realms. They decided that honey should only be produced by free and happy bees, that women wouldn't have to marry anymore nor have children if they didn't want to, and that boys would be raised to respect women.The Queen bee and the bee keeper lived happily ever after, in a childless, loving and respectful open relationship (and had sex with whom the fuck they wanted without being accountable to anyone but themselves).THE BEGINNING
 •  0 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on March 20, 2017 21:43

February 13, 2017

The day I was born as a writer

I've been thinking about writing a book for few years now. Actually, I've been dreaming of writing a book all my life. It's only a little less than two years ago that I took the big jump. And it was terrifying. First, because I found myself writing in English, which is only my second language; second, because I wasn't about to birth the kind of book I fantasised about since I was a teen.No, it wouldn't be a philosophical essay about the search of happiness and humankind's eternal dissatisfaction. It was going to be a cookbook and just the idea of it depressed me. Let's be honest. Cookbooks can be beautiful, they certainly are useful, but from a writer's point of view writing straight forward recipes can boring, to me anyway. So reluctantly I wrote an introduction that I had to submit for a writing retreat. It was bad, and when I say bad it's an understatement. It was lifeless and totally uninteresting. I still got a spot to spend five days in Fiji amongst ten other women to learn the craft of writing. How? I don't have a clue!The first day was painful, as I realised I had nothing to do there; that everyone else was working on memoirs, crime books and self-help books, and of course had an exceptional ability to express their ideas. I was miserable and felt worthless. I followed the workshop as I could and did the exercises, not without struggling a lot though. Then came the homework. Not only I had to suffer all day, it was following me at night.There were two exercises for the next day. I don't remember what was the first one, and frankly I don't know if I've done it. But the second one was from an excerpt from Eat Pray Love, and I had to impersonate an emotion, a quality or a flaw as a character. It wasn't easy. I spent hours trying to figure out what to do; and then it came to me, it flowed. I switched the light at midnight, happy to have completed at least half the task.On the second day, we learnt plenty. I felt a bit more at ease, thanks to the incredible women who surrounded me. They were supportive and not judgemental. So, when at the end of the day, our mentor asked who wanted to read what they wrote the night before, it's almost naturally that I raised my hand. I was shaking, stumbling on words as my heart rate was at the roof, but they were listening, captivated even. I could feel the emotions, the intense silence was benevolent, comforting and a sign of approval. Then they bursted into laughter. Jackpot! That was the reaction I was expecting. Their feedback was constructive and way better than I thought it would be. My text moved them and made them dream.On that day, A Little Bite of Happiness was born. At that particular moment, I knew that it wouldn't be a cookbook but a book about emotions, sensuality and pleasure; and that the recipes would be there only to illustrate the stories.On that day, I realised with pride, that it wasn't only a dream, that I could write.
 •  0 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on February 13, 2017 22:40

The day I was born as a writer.

I've been thinking about writing a book for few years now. Actually, I've been dreaming of writing a book all my life. It's only a little less than two years ago that I took the big jump. And it was terrifying. First, because I found myself writing in English, which is only my second language; second, because I wasn't about to birth the kind of book I fantasised about since I was a teen.No, it wouldn't be a philosophical essay about the search of happiness and humankind's eternal dissatisfaction. It was going to be a cookbook and just the idea of it depressed me. Let's be honest. Cookbooks can be beautiful, they certainly are useful, but from a writer's point of view writing recipes is boring to death, to me anyway.So reluctantly I wrote an introduction that I had to submit for a writing retreat. It was bad, and when I say bad it's an understatement. It was lifeless and totally uninteresting. I still got a spot to spend five days in Fiji amongst ten other women to learn the craft of writing. How? I don't have a clue!The first day was painful, as I realised I had nothing to do there; that everyone else was working on memoirs, crime books and self-help books, and of course had an exceptional ability to express their ideas. I was miserable and felt worthless. I followed the workshop as I could and did the exercises, not without struggling a lot though. Then came the homework. Not only I had to suffer all day, it was following me at night.There were two exercises for the next day. I don't remember what was the first one, and frankly I don't know if I've done it. But the second one was from an excerpt from Eat Pray Love, and I had to impersonate an emotion, a quality or a flaw as a character. It wasn't easy. I spent hours trying to figure out what to do; and then it came to me, it flowed. I switched the light at midnight, happy to have completed at least half the task.On the second day, we learnt plenty. I felt a bit more at ease, thanks to the incredible women who surrounded me. They were supportive and not judgemental. So, when at the end of the day, our mentor asked who wanted to read what they wrote the night before, it's almost naturally that I raised my hand. I was shaking, stumbling on words as my heart rate was at the roof, but they were listening, captivated even. I could feel the emotions, the intense silence was benevolent, comforting and a sign of approval. Then they bursted into laughter. Jackpot! That was the reaction I was expecting. Their feedback was constructive and way better than I thought it would be. My text moved them and made them dream.On that day, A Little Bite of Happiness was born. At that particular moment, I knew that it wouldn't be a cookbook but a book about emotions, sensuality and pleasure; and that the recipes would be there only to illustrate the stories.On that day, I realised with pride, that it wasn't only a dream, that I could write.
 •  0 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on February 13, 2017 22:01

December 14, 2016

I am a writer !

I AM A WRITER !September 4, 2015 editI always pictured writers sitting at an old wooden desk, a glass of whisky in their hand, a cigarette in their mouth, and typing on one of those beautiful antique machines.I never thought it could be an elegant woman in her early twenties, long like the sand, with a delicate fair skin like porcelain and large blue eyes like the ocean…nor that it could be a woman in her forties, tall strong and exuberant…nor a woman in her sixties, frail but exuding an amazing strength as soon as she talks, words filled with joy and wisdom.I actually never could get a clear picture in my mind of a female writer. Not that I don’t know some of the most famous feminine pieces, just that the romantic image of a young lady in the English countryside, writing in front of her window, listening to the rain, doesn’t feel real to me. And to comfort me in this idea, the famous French women writers had this temper and attitude that they took from their fellow male authors, and were more likely to adopt their behaviour too.So here I am, no wooden desk, no smoky atmosphere but incense burning, no whisky but a margarita time to time on a Saturday night, typing on this 1924 three bank Underwood typewriter, having this sense of deja vu while writing this sentence. The sound of the keys hitting the paper, the melody of the bell making me travelling to a past i have never been. Here I am, on the edge of proclaiming myself a writer, telling it to the world, with typos and forgotten letters because it is not that easy to work on this antique beauty.People around me think it’s just a hobby that I will be soon getting tired of. They don’t know that my mind is bubbling, boiling with ideas, dreams, fears for those books I have within me. I am writing, struggling sometimes, begging inspiration to enlighten me, fighting my laziness or should i say my fear to succeed…just writing those last few words I can feel anxiety rising. Am I too scared to become myself ? Am I that fearful to be in the light for once ? That people may see me, that I won’t be invisible anymore ? Does it give me freedom or chains? Is it my reason to finally step in, give and take ? Did I miss courage all my life ? Was I a coward ?Maybe, maybe not…what I do know is that this is terrifying, stepping into the shoes of those I admired so much all my life, am I worth it ? It is almost like approaching God. Can I imagine my books in my shelves amongst Balzac’s, Zola’s, Kant”s, Montesquieu’s, Flaubert’s and many others’ ? How can I triumph of that fear of not being good enough ?
 •  0 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on December 14, 2016 22:48

September 14, 2015

I am a writer!

I always pictured writers sitting at an old wooden desk, a glass of whisky in their hand, a cigarette in their mouth, and typing on one of those beautiful antique machines.I never thought it could be an elegant woman in her early twenties, long like the sand, with a delicate fair skin like porcelain and large blue eyes like the ocean...nor that it could be a woman in her forties, tall strong and exuberant...nor a woman in her sixties, frail but exuding an amazing strength as soon as she talks, words filled with joy and wisdom.I actually never could get a clear picture in my mind of a female writer. Not that I don't know some of the most famous feminine pieces, just that the romantic image of a young lady in the English countryside, writing in front of her window, listening to the rain, doesn't feel real to me. And to comfort me in this idea, the famous French women writers had this temper and attitude that they took from their fellow male authors, and were more likely to adopt their behaviour too.So here I am, no wooden desk, no smoky atmosphere but incense burning, no whisky but a margarita time to time on a Saturday night, typing on this 1924 three bank Underwood typewriter, having this sense of deja vu while writing this sentence. The sound of the keys hitting the paper, the melody of the bell making me travelling to a past I have never been. Here I am, on the edge of proclaiming myself a writer, telling it to the world, with typos and forgotten letters because it is not that easy to work on this antique beauty.People around me think it's just a hobby that I will be soon getting tired of. They don't know that my mind is bubbling, boiling with ideas, dreams, fears for those books I have within me. I am writing, struggling sometimes, begging inspiration to enlighten me, fighting my laziness or should i say my fear to succeed...just writing those last few words I can feel anxiety rising. Am I too scared to become myself ? Am I that fearful to be in the light for once ? That people may see me, that I won't be invisible anymore ? Does it give me freedom or chains? Is it my reason to finally step in, give and take ? Did I miss courage all my life ? Was I a coward ?Maybe, maybe not...what I do know is that this is terrifying, stepping into the shoes of those I admired so much all my life, am I worth it ? It is almost like approaching God. Can I imagine my books in my shelves amongst Balzac's, Zola's, Kant"s, Montesquieu's, Flaubert's and many others' ? How can I triumph of that fear of not being good enough ?
 •  0 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on September 14, 2015 00:19