I write to tell stories

Posts tagged ‘L.A.’


Extract Chapter 8 from my book – A blue and red swing – By L.A.

The Poet.

The habit and the exercise of writing awakened in me the perceptions I did not yet know to possess; in my soul there was a Poet, timid and fearful of human beings, whose intrigued gaze allowed me to see the surrounding environment under different aspects. With the arrival of autumn, the hills of the Ferro Monalatto bloom new life; the vineyards arranged disorderly on the slopes of the hills, wear colorful clothes, the palm leaves go from red to intense yellow, from green to brown and communicate, with these nuances worthy of a painter, a warmth that warms the heart. The acacia woods are lit with that yellow that contains all the strength of the sun, the pine woods keep a dark and shady green and the fields, whose borders of wild bushes wear a reddish worthy of royal clothes, they pale, as if they were afraid of the arrival of the harsh winter.

A few days before the start of the school, while I was swinging on the swing that my uncle had built for me after the accident with the Alguco, my eyes rested on a tree in front, a few steps from where I was and with I noticed how much his appearance had changed; I wondered if it had happened all night, suddenly. I remembered the green leaves of that plum tree and I could not understand the beauty that had suddenly reached each other from day to day in red and yellow; those two colors merged into the thick foliage of that tree, giving life to a picture of a beauty that left me breathless. I looked around and saw that even the trees at the end of the driveway had changed, even those on the other side of the hill were suddenly dressed up to celebrate the Autumn. All this moved me, the beauty of that transformation was fantastic, I found it a sort of masked ball to honor the summer and greet her with warmth and liveliness. The need arose in me to sing that show with words; it was an extraordinary fact that deserved to be remembered with appropriate words. I ran to my room, went up four steps at a time the stairs, grabbed my diary and the keys of his lock that I jealously stored in the belly of a stuffed rabbit, then I went back to the garden and sat down on the swing. I began to reflect on how I could praise the wonder of colors that was shown to my eyes and then it happened as if by magic that the words were placed on the white paper by themselves, as if a mysterious recall had brought them to me. At just eight years the poems that you learn at school are very simple, but from those few verses I had studied I had learned to grasp the melody of the words used to describe something, that touched the strings of my heart and made them vibrate. I ran to my mother to decant my cleverness and my compositions; like all the mothers who considered her son a fool and a naive, she showed a false interest in my creatures and after a few minutes she had already forgotten what I had made her read.

My father’s indifference was not far behind; on Sundays, at the table during lunch, absolute silence was imposed on those present in the name of television: once it was sport, once the news, then the film. Even today this unhealthy habit of listening to that blathering box that spits idiocy, silencing the family present, accompanies us every moment of our domestic life. I stayed there, sitting at the table with my head down and whatever I had to say, the television surpassed me, she, that damn box of the cathode ray tube, was more important than me. With the passing of the years, my feeling of being an invisible ghost within the family increased dramatically; my parents were too busy with their chores to dedicate a minute to me. Over time I learned to keep myself company alone and the Poet in this was really an exemplary friend. I spoke alone, I played alone and I had the only comparison with my ideas and my writings. In the morning I spent it in the company of my companions who, after years and days of crying because of bad things I did not understand, had finally become friends; the afternoon I would go back to the fields around the house with my dog and I would run happily in the castles and woods of my imagination, where no human being could reach me.

#Amazon #KindleUnlimted #KindleStore #L.A.


The Book – A blue and red swing – By L.A. – Extract of the third chapter.


Out of the nest.

………From that day the school of the nuns became only a memory of the past, one of the many that with the passing of the years slowly drowned in memory; even the austere face of Angina soldier is an opaque reflection on the bottom of the pond of distant memories of my childhood.

It was also the first time I realized that sooner or later, if hope does not abandon us, things can change.


Extract from 4° chapter – The Book – A red and blue swing – By L.A.


Return to normal.

…….Going forward slowly in this oppressive mechanism with which you will harden the heart with the sole purpose of annihilating the child in you, convincing you that childhood is stupid stuff and that adulthood is your only and unavoidable goal, you will wake up one day of your youth, in a life suffered and never really lived, where the only anchor of salvation is the fantasy, that magical third eye that allowed you to see everything under a different light: childhood would make the ugliest place on the face of the Earth, magical and full of wonders. In the immediate adolescence grow involves an awareness and the acquisition of the consciousness of the sad reality that surrounds us, that with brushstrokes, more and more dipped of a dense ash gray, ash cover up to make it disappear completely the beauty of any place, bringing to light , as in an archaeological excavation, the bones of the raw and ruthless essence of life.


The Book – A blue and red swing – By L.A. – My first book in English.

Exciting! A satisfaction.

I wrote it 12 years ago, I did more than five drafts and in all this time has grown, changed, aged.

It’s my story, my first novel and obviously just finished writing it, I was madly in love with it.

I feel lighter: after 12 years, seeing it translated into English and thrown into the web internationally, it allows me with joy to “let it go to its destiny.”

The creation of the cover has amused me a lot and makes me smile the fact that since two days I continue to find glittering stars scattered around the house.

Now… it’s time to write other stories.

The Book – Un’Altalena blu e rossa (A blue and red swing) – By L.A. – My first book was self-published on Amazon.

It makes me strange to see the cover I’ve designed, besides the book I have written, look me from the immense global Amazon online market.

Today I said, “Really I wrote it and now it is available to the world’s public!”

It is written in Italian, therefore does not have much visibility out of the Italy, but the only fact of having it written, rewritten, revised, rewritten and finally published … has something magical, I admit it.

The beauty of writing is exactly this: magic.


Paper edition:


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