Chronicles of a novel
Retrace the sensory range of emotions appropriate to affect other eyes and other emotions through words.
Those little, seemingly harmless, defenseless: snails, bearing inside piles of rubble, slag of stories that have participated in the creation of sweet or sad words or words that in turn destroy.
But words entirely fertilizing and especially never alone but always in chorus together and never dissociated.
The word does not know apathy, detachment, loneliness that becomes isolating. It is always part of a larger organism.
It is necessarily participatory. So, cheers to the word!
And so word by word, chapter by chapter, end by end: a beginning: the search for a publisher, a suitable editorial office.
And attempts and appanages of truth and attempts and successful; life second always life although silent in it’s written words on unvoiced pages although intimately known within the moment to a special few: writer, publisher; writer, publishers.
The number of attempts progresses, the number of responses, likely successful, comes forward until: the answer but first an answer that forced to groped and even groped before giving up because there are publishers and publishers!
And so publisher by publisher the journey of the unknown words in search of fame extends.
The minimum time for this trip is said done it’s a year. And often indeed more than often we must thank those words that one day began to flourish on the pages up to multiply for an indefinite time; but not, defined to determine a birth: the novel.
Words to thank, therefore, if, in the meantime, waiting they make you able to perform at least a trip, this time true, not in the Italy of your novel, but in real life.
And ‘ so that I discover Palermo….
[To be continued….]
“THE WOMAN WHO GREW THE TREES” Chronicles of a novel 3 will be soon online, bie!