To Daniella - “The first draft is just you telling yourself the story.”
It was the last night of my four night visit to Rome.
I'd walked myself to the verge of exhaustion again and was having a final cup of tea in the
bar/restaurant next to my hotel. Some new brick paving was being laid on the street and the bar was
struggling to keep down the dust, even after the builders had finished for the day and the air
conditioner was doing it's best to pump out some cool, moist air onto the tables and customers sitting
outside with food and drinks.
Emerging from the haze of cold air combined with concrete dust, was a woman, glasses hanging
lopsidedly from their cord around her neck, speaking a combination of English and Italian, from
which we customers understood that she had something annoying in her eye. She lurched across to
my table and asked if she could "leave this here a moment" , laying down an A4 notebook, whilst
squinting and protesting about the "something" in her eye as she did so.
"This stupid thing - it keeps coming and going," she announced to everyone.
Someone at the table next to me asked if she would like a mirror and she took it gratefully and
began inspecting the offending eye. After a while she gave up looking, returned the mirror and, still
blinking and squinting, sat down at my table.
The conversation that followed was not unique to me in it's substance. In fact, it seems that the older I get, the more likely I am to meet a woman of "over middle age", who explains to me that she is a writer and we then discuss the ins and outs of writing and publishing, finding that we have much in common, in the process.
In Northumberland, some years ago, I met Sylvia who spent her time between there and the Orkney Islands whilst writing, and we were able to exchange copies of our latest published work.
In Malaga, I met Suzanne who was Swedish and a retired nurse, writing her memoirs and hoping to publish when completed.
And here in Rome was Daniella, a German ex - model and ex - tourist guide living around the corner from the very place where I was sitting. I was clearly "in the right place at the right time" again, as she asked me if I would look at her writing and give her my views on it.
Perhaps, as we discussed, there are some sort of "like souls" at play in these meetings.
Perhaps I - subconsciously or otherwise - attract these people who are kindred spirits, or so it seems.
Or perhaps it is plain and simple coincidence.
Whatever the reason, it pleases me that these meetings occur.
I have written my name, phone number and this blog address in Daniella's little brown notebook, at her request.
Unfortunately her computer had refused to turn on that day and she does not have either the internet or a smart phone at the moment.
So this is for her, just in case she manages to get online soon and can continue telling the very interesting story of her life and her family. I would like to keep my suggestion to her that I will edit her manuscript and help her to publish it.
I'd walked myself to the verge of exhaustion again and was having a final cup of tea in the
bar/restaurant next to my hotel. Some new brick paving was being laid on the street and the bar was
struggling to keep down the dust, even after the builders had finished for the day and the air
conditioner was doing it's best to pump out some cool, moist air onto the tables and customers sitting
outside with food and drinks.
Emerging from the haze of cold air combined with concrete dust, was a woman, glasses hanging
lopsidedly from their cord around her neck, speaking a combination of English and Italian, from
which we customers understood that she had something annoying in her eye. She lurched across to
my table and asked if she could "leave this here a moment" , laying down an A4 notebook, whilst
squinting and protesting about the "something" in her eye as she did so.
"This stupid thing - it keeps coming and going," she announced to everyone.
Someone at the table next to me asked if she would like a mirror and she took it gratefully and
began inspecting the offending eye. After a while she gave up looking, returned the mirror and, still
blinking and squinting, sat down at my table.
The conversation that followed was not unique to me in it's substance. In fact, it seems that the older I get, the more likely I am to meet a woman of "over middle age", who explains to me that she is a writer and we then discuss the ins and outs of writing and publishing, finding that we have much in common, in the process.
In Northumberland, some years ago, I met Sylvia who spent her time between there and the Orkney Islands whilst writing, and we were able to exchange copies of our latest published work.
In Malaga, I met Suzanne who was Swedish and a retired nurse, writing her memoirs and hoping to publish when completed.
And here in Rome was Daniella, a German ex - model and ex - tourist guide living around the corner from the very place where I was sitting. I was clearly "in the right place at the right time" again, as she asked me if I would look at her writing and give her my views on it.
Perhaps, as we discussed, there are some sort of "like souls" at play in these meetings.
Perhaps I - subconsciously or otherwise - attract these people who are kindred spirits, or so it seems.
Or perhaps it is plain and simple coincidence.
Whatever the reason, it pleases me that these meetings occur.
I have written my name, phone number and this blog address in Daniella's little brown notebook, at her request.
Unfortunately her computer had refused to turn on that day and she does not have either the internet or a smart phone at the moment.
So this is for her, just in case she manages to get online soon and can continue telling the very interesting story of her life and her family. I would like to keep my suggestion to her that I will edit her manuscript and help her to publish it.
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