I mentioned this piece of writing in the post I wrote yesterday as the result of a 7.30am “I don’t know what to do with my life” Google search. It was approved by two awesome friends before being posted, as I figured I have to start getting used to receiving feedback if I want to go somewhere. Feel free to provide critique to my writing whenever you feel like it. Here it goes:
I remember having a laptop when I was probably around 12 years old. I already used the Internet in highschool, so it must be before that. It was an old laptop that my mother probably had used to work, or something like that. I only know it was my mother’s old laptop. It was pretty big and heavy. It had no Internet connection, no cool games, only Microsoft Office and the default games – I only remember Solitaire. My sister didn’t even want to use it, because it was really not fun and its desktop was very sad compared to our computer – few colors, low definition, it could do nothing.
That is, nothing, except writing. I remember writing stories or just thoughts on a Word document and then saving them on a floppy-disk – it didn’t have a CD entrance. I would pretend I was writing for a big newspaper. I loved writing, and I loved the idea of writing. Writing was a thing that made me feel cool. Even at school, I was among the best in my course at writing, already since primary school, and I was extremely proud of it. When I was in secondary school, I had to write an essay on a person that had had an influence in my life. I wrote about my primary school Italian teacher, because she had taught me grammar and she had taught me how to write. Then I visited her to show her my essay and my high grade. She was so proud that some tears fell from her eyes.
And I loved books. I loved reading them, I even loved going to the library just to look at the shelves and admire them – which I still do. In primary school, the same teacher organized a meeting between us students and the woman who had wrote the books we had to read for the summer. I still remember the titles, “Tutta colpa delle nonne” and “Perla di luna porta fortuna”. They still sound so musical to my ear. I don’t remember how the meeting actually went, but I remember my feelings about it. The anticipation was huge: I was about to meet a writer. I felt like my best friend Alberto would have felt if he had had the chance to meet his favorite football player. I was about to have the coolest meeting I could have had. That woman was an example for me, she was my hero. She had written books. Real books. Not even going to my favorite band’s concert had made me so thrilled. And I really loved their music.
Life got in the way – a very hard high school, teachers who did everything but motivating their students, parents telling me to get back to reality… But I never stopped dreaming.
Only one thing I loved as much as writing: Learning English. And I was good at that, too. One day, at the end of an English class, we had to go back to our main classroom. In the crowd, while the teacher led the way, I said out loud “Let’s go!”. The teacher absolutely wanted to know who had said that, and I was afraid she would scold me because I hadn’t been quiet in the corridors. When I timidly admitted it was me who had spoken, she could not refrain a big smile. I’ll never forget that moment. She looked so proud of me, and she paid me such warm compliments, that I felt proud of myself. And trust me, that was a very rare event in my life.
I remember that when I played Pretend with my sister I always wanted to be an English person, and I spoke English the whole time, even though I could only say “Can you open the door, please?” and “What’s your name?”.
So that’s it, I’m putting everything together: I’m writing, in English. I used to write in Italian, at first. It was good. I expressed myself well, I was even selected among the best fifteen writers in a national-scale writing contest for high school students – I was at my second year. Then I read more and more books in English – I started reading in English before high school, then the number of English books increased, and writing in Italian was not enough anymore. The books I was reading set examples for me, and I felt far from them writing in Italian. Plus I had always dreamt of a life abroad, and the Italian language didn’t fit anymore.
Before writing this, I spent more than one hour searching “i don’t know what to do of my life”, “how to become a writer” and similar phrases on Google, and this piece of writing was the spontaneous result of my research. This is the only answer I have to my questions.