Eliana Camaioni, the Day of a writer
How does the typical day of the work of Italian writers professionals? Eliana Camaioni, tells the story of its own.
The day of a writer is the story that some Italian writers have devoted to Caponata Mechanics on their own typical work day. This book is inspired by the similar one in the Guardian – Review. The authors found in this book have made writing their profession, the main and try to pay rent and bills; it is also a mixture of narrative, fiction, articles, editing, editorial care, conferences and writing courses, games, translations, screenplays, collaborations, songs, ghostwriting, and copywriting... provided that in each case, to sit at the table and write in both their work.
Today we present you...
Technically, me and my work, we're lovers.
You have in mind the romantic idea of the writer who lives isolated from the world in a villa in the countryside, sip on coffee shops at sunrise, and consists in the grip of sacred ravings, in front of windows that look out onto leafy gardens and benches, sweet my from among the rows of flowers?
Here, forget all of this. At least in my case.
Because if it is true that in the morning I get up at dawn, and I sip some coffee shops in the silence of the veranda, which gives onto the garden, it is also true that I have to do it quickly and, above all, in silence: moments stolen from the chaos of three men and a cat to take care of, starting from seven in the morning and sob until ten in the evening.
That's why me and my work, we're lovers. Because we have to meet secretly, and steal time to the life that I runs upon him like a train, enjoy the moments that we are granted, to give the best of ourselves in silence, and quickly, before the daily us away like a tsunami.
Which means waking up two hours before the alarm clock, to do in the dark the first coffee of the morning, raise the shutters of the study, careful not to make noise; wait for the dawn au clair du computer, re-reading the pages written the day before, and planning new ones, crumbling biscuits on the keyboard – the breakfast will be later, now every minute is precious.
And this is the most beautiful moment of my day, where I ideas, and sprouting shoots, I take a break after an hour, I sit on the veranda to enjoy the sun that rises in the silence of the surreal city that has not yet woken up. I consider my real creative space, a connection to the akashic records, and the wonder of creation, a meditative space of silence where I find the centre of gravity of what they are.
I commit myself to the computer for an hour yet, and usually I throw down, the best pages, but like all good things, this ended too quickly: at seven, the alarm sounds that not even the trumpets of judgment, and I have to take on the alert, with the cat not me melts away, the children who don't want to know, go to school, a second coffee to do to wake up a husband in trance, and then folders by prepare (‘But why not the fairies the night before?’), clothes that are not (‘my sweater, light blue!’), breakfast by inventing (‘I told You that they were finished, the biscuits!’).
Between seven and eight are things that you humans can imagine. That end when she finally opens the door of the house: my men come out, the cat goes to spiaggiare in the basket, and I have four (four!) hours of time to dedicate to my lover – who I wait (im)patient in the study, among the cards and cookie crumbs in it, and the unspeakable for the morning.
So I'll have a look to the social – let's take off immediately the itch – and then, full immersion, in the tunnel of the parallel worlds of my novels: in the morning I have the synapses connect, the clear mind, and fast hands on the keys. The only break given is that of the hungry hungry I enter punctually at eleven; and then up to twelve, twelve and thirty at the most: the men are two, and before then I have the beds to be redone and the house to tidy, ironing, do not talk, lunch to prepare, reports on the social, makeup and hair, books to review, emails to send, calls lost call.
The afternoon is off limits: half an hour of abbiocco post prandium, and then the tasks for the children and the games on the carpet, some cardboard to see together with, bags of soccer to prepare, mom make me a sandwich, mom, I repeat the story.
It is the dinner hour, and my lover is there, in the studio, abandoned by too many hours, but knows that he must bring patience: with the sun set my forces, and sparecchiata the table waiting for me plaid, a husband and a sofa, and not always in this order, on which to fall asleep.
But my lover is wise, and knows how to wait: it will rise soon, a new dawn, and will love again.