After a long dormant love affair that left me completely blown away by air and force that love can get to take on all things in life, beginning again to feel the urge to write. No, I stopped writing for a year. Even now I'm finishing a new text to mount, I think to begin testing next year. Think they are called "Ostend", and has three characters. What I am saying is that new waters seem to start moving inside me after an accumulation time. Plasma is a new, new forms, which are unlike anything you been writing. Something in the third person, very unusual for me. Sometimes I feel the need to do a writing workshop fiction, plain and simple. As much as is within my intentions to enter the playwriting workshop that opens each EMAD two years and whose teacher is Mauricio Khartoum workshop, I feel it's time to start testing (also) with other drugs literature. I wish I could write a novel, but frankly, how the hell did not do. I might not write any at the moment. I guess writing a novel, it appears without me knowing, as it appeared drama. Still do not know why I was given for writing plays and nothing else, poetry for example. For there was my first workshop of drama, so I started there, simply. When I asked, "What you write?" I doubt I ever say "Theater" And just pronounce that word knowing I wonder why I'll be so sure? "I can assure you I write theater? And finally, I wonder: Why is it that I'm writing theater!
For there is that these mini vacation I am taking before finishing my thesis (which they want to finish in January and February to defend), I read "The Past" by Alan Pauls, a novel long I had promised (the book I bought in April and had not touched because he said "No, first the thesis") and would not let me rest quiet. And when reading a novel that I like, automatically makes me want to write a novel.
So now I'm very engaged with Alan Pauls. I see the brothers on TV. I think her last name is almost the name of my boyfriend. My boyfriend, his father and his father's father named the same. And until two days ago I read the novel by Pauls Pauls surrounded on all sides.
As I said, I was 6 days in Cordoba. I played ping pong all the time. I love ping pong, and did not know. I met the family, we ate a lot, we received gifts. Rested as ever, the house is fresh and green as the shade of a lake. I sat down to read the novel everywhere. I felt very comfortable, I went quiet, serene, ankles bitten by the grass. The day I left I was sad. My romance with P
was fortuitous and passionate. One second, one second later, and could not have happened. A series of chance encounters, daring, both moving forward in a spring mist.
write plays and go out with P, and I'm very happy doing that. But I can not help thinking that led me this chance, violent and inevitable, like the love I feel for my beloved P.
As I said over a year ago in a previous post: I do not spring came, I was struck by a tractor-trailer Cordoba Capital.
(P and I in the thin-Christmas eve.)
