DOWNLOAD THE SECOND CHAPTER OF THE BOOK
Over the last two months, five people who populate my daily sphere-friends, relatives or acquaintances-have made the ‘I’m having a baby’ announcement, and that’s only counting half of each couple. By announcement three, I began to get the drift of things. The fourth made me want to check ISTAT stats. There is no way that Italy can still be straddling the 1.2 figli per famiglia child-count.
As for me, I’m not much of a Momma Bear. And at the risk of sounding snaturata (shamefully de-natured), I’ll admit that bolstering nationwide demographics is not something I publicly suffer over. In fact, not having babies is pretty much the only thing I don’t publicly suffer over. That said, I love bambini just as much as the next lady on the bus does, primarily for the way they wave to strangers and for the words they say when interrogated at dinnertime.
All this gestation got me thinking, nonetheless. And once I start the thinking game, I can’t stop until some sort of axiom manages to keep my mind quiet. This week’s universal discovery is that people are made to engender things. And, judging by the looks of it, I seem to make books rather than people.
Marco, my boss and one of the ‘pregnant’ friends I mentioned earlier, has been waiting for me to produce a novel for years now. His initial proposal came as a threat: ‘I’m not publishing anything else by you, unless it’s a novel, so start working.’ At the time, Marco didn’t know that one cannot command people to write novels, and because I actually did what he asked, I believe he has yet to discover this fact.
Now that we’re nearing publication day, he came to me with yet another proposal, ‘For next week, you’ll need to write an article in your column about your book, you know.’
‘What, you mean like pubblicità occulta? I asked, doubtful. ‘I think that’s illegal.’
‘You talk and write about tons of personal things, why not this?’ he replied. ‘Surely, you have something to say about it.’
Oh, darling, you have no idea.
First off: I would never equate real childbirth with producing inanimate publications, yet I do have to say that ‘Moving Days’ sat in the pit of my stomach for a year and a half before I was ready to write it. Thus, perhaps you’ll agree that the word ‘gestation’ is-at least in part-justified. An elephant is born faster, non so se mi spiego. And then consider that once an author’s ready to write, she has to sit down and do it. Fra me e te, that means another anno di sofferenza, if one is at all urgent about it. Only urgent things get done in Italy: there was no other option than to be hell-bent about getting the squawking creature out of my rib-cage.
So, in mid-October, il libro will finally be ‘launched’ into the Realm of Literary Creatures. Certainly, whoever started using the word ‘lancio’ instead of ‘presentation’ did not know that authors are often pathologically neurotic people who dream about perpetrators launching their newborn books off the Ponte Vecchio. As for me, let’s just say that objectivity is not my forte. Fortunately, I have good friends and faithful readers who keep my spirits up. During the recent baby-craze period, I received three wonderful two-sentence emails from this column’s readers. Tony, who found no articles published this summer, wrote to say he hoped I ‘was okay’. Millie, a student who is new in town, invited me to coffee. And Bob Nordvall, who gets his surname written out in full, wrote me a prize-winning email that I can’t help but share.
But let’s premise this by telling you that Bob and I go ‘way back.’ On a sweltering day in central Florence in 2006, he was the sole ‘fan’ who showed up to a book reading I staged. It was one of those times that you decide that selling lemonade is easier than selling literature. And it was one of those times that life forces you to have a startling realization: all one really needs in this world is a single listener.
Since that day, Bob has never failed me. He sends his newsletter with frequency and a line or two at times to keep the friendship going. His email last week was this: Dear Linda, I always viewed you as an original, insightful, delightful writer who, thankfully, was not following that over-worn path of ‘writing a novel.’ Now I see, I may have been premature in my overall judgment. Love, Bob.
Now tell me, have you ever seen such a stunning piece of electronic prose? However many years in Pistoia and the man compliments like a Tuscan! Scalding to the core and still in search of a smile. Complimenti, Bob, sei forte. Anzi, fortissimo. But if I were you, I wouldn’t be too worried-I’m not a born novelist, even if I do love this little book with an uncommon sort of fierceness.
Sadly, Mr. Nordvall will be in Paris, the day ‘Moving Days’ is launched. Those of you who aren’t going with him ought to stop by. In other words, come celebrate on ‘Geese Street.’ And bring all your real babies.
