Sunday 26 I started to write my novel. I entered the life of Andrea, my protagonist, while he was on a beach in India, 26 in another Sunday four years ago.
Andrea and I have known for almost three years. Since he came to my house and asked me to tell her story. I sat, and listened. I tried to understand who he was, what emotions would send me, because he had the urge to tell her life. I learned about his wife, his son, his friends, his colleagues, the city where he was born and the countries visited. We talked early in the morning, barely awake. Or in the evening during dinner. O night, in dreams. And little by little I learned to know his thoughts, his views on the world, his love for travel and tennis matches, the exceptional acumen with which he analyzes the people but also the fragility behind the sarcasm. He wanted me to write immediately, I started to tell it from beginning to end. But I explained that I am a writer, not a biographer. I could not confine to copy the story I would tell. I had to rework it, structure it, make it my own. Making a narrative through the use of magic words, what for him was real life. Andrea snorted. He did not understand. The only story that he wrote in his life was a single line. But then he understood when I explained that novels are like wine: they need to ferment, grow in the mind of a writer. They have to take air, oxygen supply experience, rise slowly.
Now the wait is over. Andrea greeted me and was back in his world (there will be a parallel world where people live?), Leaving me alone, facing the blank page, and the writing is wonderful and awful: Chapter 1. Actually I was not abandoned. It 's always next to me, in thought. And he's happy because I'm telling his story. Although no one yet knows, but before I finish writing it will spend several seasons. And I feel like a pregnant woman who has just started nine months of confinement. Inside me there is a potential child that I will have food, week after week, and grow with love and dedication. Until one day, when all parts of the child will be complete, I can finally give birth ... (hopefully in the libraries of Italy), and since then my child will no longer be only mine, but it would mean all those who want to read it. But the road is so long and so hard the way that I can now only dream of. And write to Andrew ... the man who knocked on my door one day and asked me to tell her story.
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