Ever since the very first day I became serious about my writing (about 8 years ago), I’ve been dreaming about a studio. An office, a room of my own, a place exclusively dedicated to my writing work, where only I had access, so I could leave my notebooks lying around without worry that anyone would accidentally read them. In my imagination’s eye, this space is cozy but stylish (in a retro-shabby way), filled with light coming from a large window which offers the additional bonus of an inspiring view. Piles of books, photo albums, bunch of notes cover most of the free surfaces, post-its with summaries of the scenes I’m developing hang in colourful patterns on the walls alongside photos, magazine clippings with articles pertinent to my newest projects. The solid but slim desk is of course the heart of the studio, with its perfect writing chair (ergonomically shaped in Scandinavian wood), but my favourite place secretly is the soft armchair in the corner, with the lamp next to it, the warm plaid draped at its feet, my reading nook. Of course there is also a plant or two, a candle here and there, some nostalgic frames displaying the sheepish smiles of past lovers. Nothing fancy, as you can see.
Well, in my eight years as an on-and-off professional writer, I did not yet manage to make this dream come true. Continue reading →
In the previous episode of this Tale Of Three Guitars, I told you the story of my first band and our first, and only, epic gig. Click this link if you need to catch up. If, on the contrary, you belong to that crowd of 12 people who DID read it already, you may think that I will now finally tell how did that first date with the seedy bartender go and whether it turned out to be a beautiful love story or not.
Well, I won’t.
At least, not now. Because this story is about guitars and not boyfriends. All you need to know for the moment is that the bartender trip was real for about six months, marked an important turning point in my youth and then ended up crashing with a miserably hollow thud in a coffee shop behind the train station, over two cappuccinos and a borrowed copy of Kerouac’s The Dharma Bums.
My adventures in Rock’N’Roll started quite askew and not very early at all: I was eleven when my mother decided I must learn to play the piano.
No-one plays the piano in my family. No one plays any other instrument for that matter or is even remotely able to sing, so I have no idea why my mother came to such conclusion. She probably just assumed that, because I seemed to display the buds of creative inclinations, I needed to hold such skill. In order for this to happen, my parents rented a piano which was delivered by three strong men riding a truck and placed right next to our dining table. I believe their idea was I would eventually be able to entertain their guests with sonatas in B-major while they digested their desserts sipping on Fernets.