V.P. Colombo's Blog, page 2

The Sacred Water

If you don't feel well enough to write, do some research, get out of the house, be inspired by what is surrounding you! It is what I did last Friday. The sun was shining, the birds chirping, and it was going to be a beautiful day. So I dragged my daughter with me, one hour bus trip to get there, but eventually she agreed to come with me.As we arrived in Coogee, the temperature was cooler than we expected, due to the crisp ocean breeze. We thought we would be too cold to take off our clothes, and enjoy the sun's caress on our skin. We placed the take away meal on our white and blue mandala rounded beach towel, and ate, observing the few brave persons jumping in the cold waves. After warming up a little, we decided to show off our bikinis and sunbake ; but I am not very good at staying still so I run to the shore and dipped my feet into the freezing water. Despite my strong will to brave the cold waters of Coogee Beach, I was stopped in impetus when a frosty curl crashed on my stomach. But I wouldn't give up, I had to swim that day !I then turned to the beautiful rock pool, which fortunately was two to three degrees warmer than the ocean, and dived into it with an immense felicity. I enjoyed the calmness of being alone, the freshness and vitality of the salt water enveloping my body, the shells and algae's shades and textures lining the ground with magnificence. I was free and deliciously alive, present in the moment, and it was mine, only mine. I had waited, jailed in winter clothes, tightening me with unease layer by layer, during six months for this instant: this incredible feeling of being light, supported, loved by Mother Nature. I was home. I found myself again, reunited with my sacred element.

Hemingway envy

Even if I am far from Hemingway's talent, writing short stories, being in one of these moods, I felt the urge to drink one of my favourite cocktails : the Hemingway Daiquiri of course !Although I couldn't find all the ingredients -don't get me wrong, I always have Caribbean rum at home- especially the Maraschino liqueur, I made my own mix which is almost drinkable.But it serves its purpose, getting me drunk, very efficiently.I don't know why Hemingway stuck to me all day, I kept on thinking about him, from my Corona 3 or 4 envy, to this feeling of being rejected and misunderstood by the people I love. So I am going to follow his lead.Although I did write a good half of a food short story today, tonight I am going to vomit on paper all my frustration, my anger, my pain. Today my daughter told me I was the stereotype of a writer, too tormented to be happy and enjoy life fully, maybe it's true. So before bleeding words, as this famous man would say, I leave you with this quote :"The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places." Ernest Hemingway.

Typewriter: every writer's dream?

I always wanted a typewriter. When I was a child, to me it was the ultimate tool. I was hypnotised by the velocity of my grand-mother's fingers dancing on the buttons, the music of the keys' clack when they hit, while she was doing the office work for the family business. It was the ultimate skill, typing without even looking at the keyboard.I may have had one for children in the early 1980's but I am not sure, maybe it was one of my cousins.Starting my writing career quite late, as a result of my middle-life crisis, rushing into doing what I always dreamt of but too scared or busy to do, the idea of getting a typewriter stuck to my mind. My birthday is coming in a little bit more than a month, and since I reached the roaring forties, I treat myself with a nice gift every year.So I started to search on internet, found some shops around Australia refurbishing them, but not they didn't have much choice, and it needed to be the one, love at first sight. I gathered more, hesitating between the 1920's-1930's beautiful antique pieces, great for display or to type just a little bit but not more, and the 1950's-1960's functional manual portables which were performant, versatile and durable.I must admit that the colour and the design were important to me. I was seduced by the Hermes Baby and all the great reviews about it...until I came across the Hermes 300, feminine, rounder with her elegant curves, a beautiful mint green piece of art, compact, with many office features, ideal for a writer.I found this beauty on Etsy, coming from a Spanish shop where they refurbish, lubricate, clean and instal a new ribbon on all their machines. The Hermes 300 is vintage but they also have different repainted models. Of course the price is higher than many others which can be found in attics, markets, etc...but as it is serviced by an experienced former technician, it is in perfect working condition. And now, I just have to wait for it to travel the world.I am so excited, I can already hear the music of the letters appearing on paper, chanting melody boosting my imagination, magical feeling of becoming the kind of writer I always pictured, alone, in an intimate conversation with my typewriter.How do you write? Pen and paper ? Computer? Laptop? Or do you have the same romantic ideal than me, the irreplaceable type writer ?

On words and meaning

[image error]As strange as it seems, when it comes to express accurately my emotions I struggle to find the right words. Firstly, because English is not my native language and I am still learning. Secondly, because even in French I have to add an explanation to describe the nuance I want to show. It feels as if the vocabulary wasn't vast enough to interpret my thoughts. It can be frustrating.Therefore when using text messages, it is even more difficult to communicate. Can I, in a very short paragraph, correctly depict my feelings? And how can I stop being mislead, as I automatically add meaning, right or wrong, to what I receive? Those instant interactions being only an infinitesimal insight of what my interlocutors suggest.In a world of over communication, I suddenly sense a growing gap between me and others, a sea of misunderstandings. And I am wondering if it does affect my writing too. Am I able to depict exactly what I want in my stories, or will there always be an immensity of various perceptions, depending on the imagination, the moods and the responsiveness of my readers?I guess I will never know...

On Procrastination

Let's admit it ! Sometimes I procrastinate a lot. Not because I am lazy, but because I am terrified, and it paralyses me.The text I have in mind doesn't come together yet, I have, well I decided to submit few chapters of my manuscript to a publisher and I must write the cover letter, which is really a hassle for me, as if there is something difficult it is to describe exactly what the book is about and to create a biography of my life (which was so eventful and rich that drafting less than memoirs is a titanic effort).After a year of studying online, my last exam is next week, and I am just finishing catching up with my modules, the house is a mess, we have a guest arriving tomorrow until Sunday, in short : it's life ! And all I could think about is curling up in my bed, reading an adventure book or one about writing, eating chocolate and postponing everything until tomorrow.Instead of that, I started colouring...you know those relieve stress adult colouring books which can be found everywhere ! So I spent a bit of time on it, mixing different tools, from crayons to watercolour , playing with the shades, trying to remember packaging of classic French products ( I picked the Parisian theme ). Then I went back to my studies, wrapped up a full session and waiting to begin on the next one. I did a bit more of colourful relaxation, and my priorities became clear. I must be comfortable and proud of the material I will send to the publishing house (and for once they ask for a hardcopy, it feels so much more real and scary), my mind is busy with other deadlines, if I rush I may leave some spelling or syntax mistakes (my written English is not always very good ), and I want the feedback and the cheering of my loved ones before mailing it. It is as simple as that.So today, procrastinating was good, it wasn't an irrational fear, more a safety cap preventing me to get completely wrong with my goals and how to achieve them. Now I am going to have a nice cup of tea and carry on with my day.

Please reject me!

When reading or listening to successful authors, there is one occurring phrase which keeps coming up :" Be persistent, after twenty, fifty rejection letters I finally got published."Let me walk you through the process. You spend months, years to write a book, and when you think the time is right, you start looking for a publisher. You soon find out that they don't take any unsolicited manuscripts unless submitted by an agent. And agents only represent someone who has already published or has some kind of visibility. It's a big help for a first time writer, isn't it ?Then you're looking at opportunities given by big houses, monthly or weekly submissions. There are many guidelines, in which genre they are interested ( it seems like nobody wants to hear about short stories, so it is still not for everyone), the first few chapters with a breakdown of all the story, the first hundred pages, a synopsis ( separate sometimes, which leads me to think that if the pitch is not catchy enough, the rest won't even be considered ). All of this in a special format, word document, double spaced...and the most important do not send hard copies, only electronic submissions will be considered.Remember what it feels to read on real paper and not on a computer. From my experience, I know that I completely lose interest, whatever the quality of the text is, if it is on a screen. But I reckon it is much easier to scroll down and quickly scan, on a device, although you might miss some important, juicy or interesting parts of the text.So you comply to what is asked and finally press the send button. If you are lucky you will receive an automatic generated email confirming that your work has been received, but not always. The worse part of the process is that dreaded sentence : "If we haven't contacted you within three months, consider we don't want to pursue your manuscript". No rejection letter, nothing ! Just cold silence.I would be thrilled to receive a rejection letter, I am not even asking for feedback, just for acknowledgement. That would mean that what I worked for, the feelings I put on the table, opening my gut, sharing what is deeply within me, has been read and had not been lost in the endless void of the virtual world. To me, it feels liken high form of despise. I am craving to collect a list of No's with my name on it, proving that I am a human being whose toil's existence has been recognised. I am dying to look at an envelop with this hopeful fear. I want to be rejected not ignored, as I think it is an important part of being an author.

Ô Lemon!

Here are two very short paragraphs I wrote about a text I wanted to deliver so much that my stomach twisted. It was an urge, it was the time, but organising my thoughts was a real struggle."I am facing a huge challenge since few weeks trying to write about the love of my life : lemon. It is so versatile and complex that it is difficult to express the sensations that it triggers when touching my tongue. Maybe I take it the wrong way, anyway I asked my daughter to describe what she feels when she's eating it, all she could say or show is something like I tried to describe in those two photos, faces and bliss. Well I am writing a book, I can't add a video in it, therefore there is no other alternative for me than to find a way.""My mind is a weird little thing while forcing myself writing about lemon, I ended up writing about blackberries and raspberries ( as a pastry chef and a master of flavours, they both have a perfect "accord" with lemon...), so connecting slowly, surely I don't know yet."Writing is not just talent or inspiration, it is hard and tedious work, and the answer is not always where I look but hidden from my own perspective, I have to step back and observe from a different point of view.

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 ?