I’LL BURN ALL MY BOOKS

I gave away my books, to everyone, given away and given to those I thought could at least read them. At least one page, one sentence, but no one has time to read what I write. Friends and acquaintances, people who thanked, because a book has its cost, it's hard work, and a publisher should also get something out of it. I gave them away, I didn't pocket a single cent. But everyone justifies themselves by saying that they haven't had time, that they have been sick, that they recently have health problems. My books end up who knows where and I've only given them away and never asked for anything in return. Shall I call these real friends? No one has an interest in the things I do. I could disappear into thin air and they wouldn't even notice. I will never publish any books again because they don't deserve them. Tomorrow I'll burn everything.

I’M BURNING MY NEW NOVELS

SOME HEALTHY ADVICE

I recommend that you keep all tech items out of the bedroom. All. Whether TV, radio, cell, tablet, and everything in between.

Put caps in the sockets.

Not to use metal mesh for the bed but only wood. 

Keep many plants at home that absorb electromagnetic pollution, such as sansevera, dracena, ivy, ficus benjamin, fern and others.

Also try to turn off the cell from time to time and leave the house without taking it with you.

We must try to avoid any addiction because in the future we will have neither internet nor light, know that. 

Buy your books back and get used to reading again.

UNIVERSE IS STRESSED

I have too many thoughts, too many things that I miss, passages that I am going to look for and that in reality I have no interest in looking for. Paranoia is like a mother who is convinced that you take drugs and looks for the reeds inside every dress you put on, a try, anything and instead you have not touched anything but for some inconclusive reason you have anxiety. There. This is what happens in my head when I try to understand why I have anxiety even if everything is ok. What am I trying to find? Why do I always have to feel guilty? Why does my past affect me so much? I would like to be quiet as I always have been but maybe I just have to force myself and look in the mirror for what I am without veils. Without what there have never been. I have to believe in me.In all these years I have probably experienced too much internal noise, thought too much, I put too many problems, many non-existent ones, I have never actually given myself a moment of peace, of silence. Sometimes it seems that I don’t do anything, that I don’t even move, that I stand motionless in front of books, in front of the screen, in front of a sheet, a canvas, and instead I never stop away from the eyes of others. The only time I stop is when I look at the sky or the sea, when I want to understand what it has to look at, what it is, and why. Because the universe is stressed, because the sea is always pissed off. I just want one of those clear-cut explanations, such as those given to children, those full of imagination and reason. But I have no peace in my soul, I always try not to adapt, not to homologate, not to stay in it too much, I want to look at the world with different eyes, I want to feel free and light. I don’t mind celebrating what is not a goal for me. I never want to celebrate anything because the real event for which to do it has not yet come. I want to be with her and look at the world with different eyes, I want that for once I can decide and celebrate my choice, not that of others, not theirs, not yours. I don’t want to celebrate my achievements, I didn’t choose to participate in the match. This is not what I want. After all, I will just want a moment of silence, have dinner by the sea and be in silence, alone with you.

LISEY’S STORY- STEPHEN KING

I am not a fan of the King. Few novels I really like. I've seen all the films based on her novels but I'm not a fan of her stories but this Lisey got me from the very first pages. I spent halfway through the book to find out what that "Bool" he often refers to was. The fact is, too many people hold so many things inside, about their past, and their pain, and they never talk about it until they are overwhelmed. And then you can go back to a normal life or lose it forever.

MY STORIES ON WATTPAD

All the stories that I publish here in the posts are present in my collection of stories "KIMERA" which is on Wattpad, so if someone wants to browse the other stories or read some other work of mine, I mean novels, they can go to my page of Wattpad and read and comment there. If you are also subscribed to Wattpad please give me your links so I will come and read your works too. Thanks everyone for reading me and have a nice weekend. The link for my stories is this:

https://www.wattpad.com/1121129254-kimera-the-heaviness-of-the-soul

This is my profile where all my works are present. So if you want to read more, look here:

https://www.wattpad.com/user/LEVANIUS

STORY OF A STUDENT

I think: I love your handwriting, who knows where you got that 4 that seems a little wrong to me, but then in reality it's all a bit wrong, so the place we share, you are so messy and you have a lot of vices that basically I would not take away from you

I say: it is absurd that we have known each other for a long time and how is it that we have not seen each other before?

I think: the first time i saw you we were so close and now i know i'm not quiet until you tell me it made you nervous, and i love that you never take it out on me, pout and pretend mad with that muscular giant look and then two minutes later you're already pinching my butt

I say: how nice that we have never argued and neither of us ever wants to find an excuse to do so and we never got angry and we talk a lot and then hey we fucked almost 200 times but you believe it? you know how to do it, that's cool

I think: who knows how he doesn't get mad even when I accidentally break glass glasses or I'm clumsy and dirty something or spill cherries on the table or distract him while he is about to win a game

I say: love put our photo back in the bedside table that is crooked or you always make it fall

I think: I would like to collect your sweatshirts, your papers, your notes, your CDs, your broken pens, your playlists, your books thrown to the ground, your blankets always in very bad shape, your large t-shirts, your funny socks, and I have your sweat on and your smell too, let's go to the shower and I love putting soap in your back and scolding you when you don't dry your hair or put on socks

I say: now I'll make you bed before going out because I don't like how you do it, because you do it badly and eat a little more while we play League so you can show me how to use that character?

I think: come on come closer now that I would like a kiss and you still make me this effect and the shivers more and more I like them very much and when you lock my hands behind my back I don't understand much anymore as when your hands explore, no I don't understand much when you take me by the neck but I feel your breath

I say: close your drawer that there are our things and especially mine

I think: I would like to pierce this bubble of absolute self-sufficiency and tell you that I need you and tell you that all the people I know have always had a habit of comparing and saying 'you are like that, it looks like you' and other bullshit like that, while me instead with you I never had any yardstick and the first times in your house I looked at you and I saw only you, I could not compare you to anything, really to nothing and now I realize that you do not look like anything I have ever seen in my life.

CHILDREN’S FICTION

Someone asks me: “Why don’t you write children’s fiction?” Children’s fiction sells a lot. How come? It is not the children’s fiction writers who are better, but schools simply force parents to buy children’s fiction texts for their pupils. This happens in elementary and middle school, in high school we pass to the classics, because teaching usually involves reading texts of Italian literature up to 900. And therefore everything else is ignored and remains unsold. After the closure of a historic bookshop in Turin, the closure of a historic Venetian publishing house has now been announced. The only surviving bookstores are the ones that sell school books and various stationery for students. Two Feltrinelli stores have closed in Rome. And this is a very bad thing. It means that the giant Amazon is winning the game and that people who say they love books no longer go to bookstores but buy everything online. What can be done?

Writing short stories for children is an ambition of many writers. If you have children or grandchildren, you yourself will surely have read many stories for them and you will have invented others. Indeed, by dint of inventing stories at the request of your children, perhaps it occurred to you that you could write them and turn them into a book. Why not? The sector of children’s literature is constantly growing, because children love to read and because parents are keen to give their children continuous creative stimuli. On the one hand, this means that the market is very competitive, but on the other it means that there is a lot of demand. So, don’t be shy: if you have some compelling stories spinning in your head, if you have invented many stories to make your children fall asleep, or if you simply have a strong creative streak and want to give voice to the child in you. , grab a pen and paper and write your children’s book. Writing a children’s book isn’t easy at all. Who has never read or leafed through a children’s book? Well, turning those pages full of images and often written in very large fonts, many think that writing a children’s book is easy. What does it take to invent a short story that, lined up, takes up a few pages? Then just lay out the text with very large characters, enrich everything with large drawings … et voilà! The children’s book is done. To say it is actually easy, but to do it not so easy, I assure you. Writing a book for children is not easy first of all because children’s imaginations are much richer and more active than ours as adults (fortunately for them and unfortunately for us). Have you ever been assaulted by a barrage of questions from a child? Children are curious, they want to know, they ask spontaneously, but if they don’t receive the answers they expect they are unhappy. So when they read or listen to a story, children need to find all the information in the text to bring their fantasy world to life. Writing books for children and teenagers means being able to think (again) like them.

Writing books for children is therefore not easy because you have to be able to get inside a child’s head and understand what he or she expects to find in a story. But above all, writing children’s stories is not easy because children are not all the same. It’s easy to say childhood! If you want to write a romance novel or a detective novel or any other narrative genre for an adult audience, you will have to ask yourself which characters you want to create, where you want to set the scene and other preparatory questions of this type, but if then your reader will have 20 or 30 years will make little difference. In the world of children’s literature, however, there are many differences depending on the age of the reader. The total length of the story, the linguistic style, the complexity of the sentences, the presence of implications, the linearity or otherwise of the plot, the psychological characteristics of the characters are all elements that must be calibrated according to the target audience. Writing a story for a 3-year-old child, who has his own imagination and who still does not read by himself and who will therefore listen to the story read by an adult, is completely different from writing a story for an 8-year-old boy, than that history if he will read it himself and that he has already developed his own identity and his own role in the peer group.

As you have seen, therefore, writing books for children and teenagers is not as simple as reading them. You need to start with a clear definition of your target audience first. This is actually a piece of advice that applies to anyone who wants to write a book, but if it comes to children’s books, the rule is even more valid, because writing for 5-year-olds is quite another thing compared to writing for kids of 11. If you want to write a children’s book that your (little) readers like and is successful, you have to put yourself not only on their side, but in their shoes. In fact, to write a story for children, it is not enough that the characters are children: the story must be told from the point of view of children and with the language of children. So many times to be creative you have been suggested to “think outside the box”: well, here instead you have to carefully choose a scheme, depending on the age of the readers you want to address, and enter it completely without leaving it. If you want to write a book for 5-year-olds, you have to enter the world of 5-year-olds, understand how they see objects, how they experience emotions, how they deal with new things, what scares them and what reassures them. You have to rekindle the fantasy and wonder that lie dormant somewhere inside you. If you want to write a book for 11-year-olds, you have to enter the world of preteens, speak their language, see the world with their eyes, starting with the world of adults, you have to feel the urge to adventure and independence. You have to ask yourself what you want to do when you grow up, as you did then, and, as then, viscerally believe that you can make your dream come true. This is the hardest part for those who write children’s stories, not so much inventing plots and characters. But precisely this total identification with the world of your readers, the necessary rediscovery of the child in you, is the most compelling and rewarding part of writing books for children and teenagers.

WHAT I DO

When I have negative emotions I start painting or I go to the gym where I swim. Or I’ll put on some music and dance or go out walking with my dog. Sometimes they are very strong and don’t pass right away. But somehow I try to get them out of me and turn them into something beautiful. I have read many books by Osho about tantra and meditation but unfortunately there are no meditation courses in my area, even if I have practiced Tai Chi, which is called “meditation in motion”. In the past I have attended a Hare Krishna temple in London and have had more comfort from singing and dancing with them but also from the silence and peace in the temple. I have also had the opportunity to hear the Ohh sung by the Dalai Lama himself, in a church in London, but all of these things have not solved my history of abuse as a child. Unfortunately, however much I can avoid thinking about it, certain traumas remain in the mind and body

How many sensations do you have? How many demolitions do you do? Heart to heart lined up for a second. If you want a thousand monsters who whisper loves to you. You peel off sheets and be alone. A drop of life instilled in the chest. You want illusory loves. You let yourself be captivated by stupid sirens. I’m not like you. I don’t need illusions to live. I look at the flowers. I look at the trees. I watch my dogs. I need these things. People only know how to deceive and ask for money.

So I stay here, trapped in a life I don’t understand, thinking that those who call me ungrateful are right, yet without the strength to change. It is an illusion to think that memories cannot have form, concreteness. We believe we can bury them in the dark ravines of a cellar where we will never enter, like a clouding of conscience, which makes us continue our miserable lives. Then, one day, without warning, we bump into the analysts of a past so vivid that we can touch it. I found the ticket to Paris in my jacket pocket, exactly what we looked for everywhere, two years ago, on returning home, because you said you wanted to keep everything from that trip, about us, from those days away from the world, where it seemed we could be anything we wanted. I believed it, with every atom. It was a hope, a prayer. I don’t believe in anything, I would have liked there to be a God in my head too. I would not have asked for anything else in life. Your gaze was enough, because it contained everything. And I have seen everything in our days together, in that determined impulse departure. You convinced me with a smile. You were half a woman and half a child, stripped of heels, makeup, clothes that were always so elegant for work days. The world had Geneva in career. I, only me, kept my private Geneva, the one that took off the mask and let its frailties and tenderness caress. I saw you sleep, every night, from the first times you were still on yours, to those when you instinctively looked for my arms, even in sleep, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I heard you sing in the morning, to the rhythm of songs that only you knew, while I, as soon as I woke up, only knew how to spy on you in my silence. I watched you provoke me, without even having to take off your clothes. You had the right words, slow movements like a distant call. I imagined you naked and you felt it, you smiled. You got me drunk

Yet I don’t think about your body as I turn this note around and around in my hands. Something I loved even more is hammering in my head, that is, that strange empathy that allowed you to understand everything I felt. You knew how to read me. Would you ever have thought that one of your greatest qualities would push me away? It is not your fault, of course. I did it all in this strange game of destruction. I was afraid. It seems the classic excuse that we men invent, against which many of you slam, convinced that it is enough to take care of our weaknesses to have a fairytale ending. The truth is that everyone has to fight his demons alone. You knew it when you let me go. You seemed to have always expected this, as if you were born to let me leave you. You said nothing other than tears and I didn’t expect silence to have sharp weapons. You couldn’t know that I was already dead, years before, in front of those who said the same words to me that I repeated to you. When she left me, I convinced myself that I was like her, that I didn’t know how to love. I witnessed the waltz of strangers who approached my life without ever really being part of it. “I don’t feel”, I said. At first they didn’t understand, then over time they gave up and I saw them disappear from my life. I found a thousand excuses, a thousand faults. It was easy to dismiss. The closer I got to someone, the greater was the heat with which I ran away. You really touched me, without my realizing it. You slipped into my head, into my limbs, and when I realized it, it was too late to send you away. I loved, and I couldn’t explain why. But I assure you, for someone like me it burned, like a stake that consumes you. I didn’t want to depend on someone who could potentially deprive me of myself. I made you witness the waltz of ambivalence, split between the desire to keep you and the urge to send you away, to protect me from those ghosts that perhaps were only in my head. The danger I felt and attributed to your presence was the echo of a distant wound, which I was afraid could reopen, with your simple touch, with your presence. I fought with the invisible enemies in my head and gave them your appearance, to the point of giving you this huge emptiness, where before there were a thousand words. But the sin of one’s own silences is paid for with loneliness. I know very well now that in this empty house I no longer hear your laughter and I have no arms to touch me at night. I thought I was defending myself and instead fear exposed me, it shattered everything.

Perhaps it was not yet the time, our time. I didn’t know how to love you without shields. But now that there are no trenches, no curtains, I don’t need weapons … If I wanted to walk in this life with you, would you come? They say that those who love you will not leave you. I say instead, that sometimes we run away thinking that a place is hurting us, but then we understand that no other place is home. So, once again, in this letter, I give you words. However, now, they no longer serve to protect me, but only to love you. I ask you forever: Do you want to be my home?

THE LADY OF SERIAL KILLERS

Maybe some of you know that I don't like reading romance novels but I prefer to read thriller and mystery books. So I wanted to dedicate this post to the Thriller writers I already know and if you know others that are so good, please let me know.

 

Before achieving success with her literary career, she was also a journalist and computer analyst for the Virginia Institute of Forensic Medicine. This assignment allowed her to build with attention to detail and detail her most famous character, the well-known Kay Scarpetta, protagonist of a series that now includes more than twenty titles::

Postmortem is Patricia Cornwell’s first novel, published in 1990. The novel marks the beginning of a new genre of detective stories, where the investigation of the crime scene and the interrogation of the suspects are combined with the scientific and detailed analysis of the victims’ bodies. The heroine Kay Scarpetta, in fact, is not a detective, but a doctor, capable of reconstructing the modus operandi of a serial killer with the imperceptible traces he leaves behind: DNA, fibers, footprints. Science turns into adventure, suspense and fascination. Postmortem is the only novel to have ever won seven US literary prizes dedicated to detective stories in a single year: Edgard Award, Creasey Award, Anthony Award, Macavity Award and the French Prix du Roman d’Aventure.

KAY SCARPETTA is a character inspired by the Italian-born coroner Marcella Farinelli Fierro, born in 1941 and currently retired after being one of the first women to become a legal pathologist in the United States.

Portrait of a Killer (2002) is an investigative book by Patricia Cornwell, the result of years of research. The volume exposes the theory of the author who recognizes in Walter Sickert, a famous English painter of the late nineteenth century, the notorious serial killer Jack the Ripper. The research led Cornwell to spend huge sums to purchase a series of Sickert paintings (later donated to Harvard University) and documents of the time, including letters the “ripper” sent to the police; all in order to find the proofs (in his opinion definitive) that would nail the painter to the role of “ripper”. The book describes the life of slums in late nineteenth-century London, but the writer’s thesis has not met with favor with historians.

Just over six feet tall, blonde, blue eyes, busty, little makeup and only a Breitling B52 as an ornament, charming and aware, Kay Scarpetta was born in 1954 in Miami but has Italian origins, Veronese to be precise: both his parents come from this Italian city. As a young man she lived the experience of seeing her father die of leukemia, which certainly marked her and influenced her choice of work in which she has a close relationship with death. At around forty, when we first meet her, she has just accepted the position of director of the Virginia Institute of Forensic Medicine, and is also the director of the National Forensic Academy in Hollywood, Florida. During the series, after Richmond, he will be in Charleston, Miami, Boston and will occasionally travel for various consultations. She is very competent and scrupulous in her work, which, combined with a high moral caliber, leads her to be appreciated and esteemed in her field. She likes to dress in an elegant but sober way, suitable for her role in society; she has a great passion for cooking – obviously the Italian one – which relaxes her and distracts her from the worries related to her work. A perfectionist in everything, Scarpetta loves to control everything both at work and in the kitchen: she has a professional kitchen and she likes to prepare everything herself, even the most elaborate things. She has a colleague and friend who is a police officer who always accompanies her, Pete Marino, a companion who will later become her husband, Benton Wesley, and a niece she cares particularly much about, Lucy.

Kay Scarpetta, the famous character of Patricia Cornwell becomes cinema – Phyllis Nagy to the script. Fox brings a series of novels by Patricia Cornwell to theaters with Angelina Jolie as the famous detective. Angelina is already talking to producers and writers to bring Kay to the screen, but nothing is known yet about which of the books will be adapted, and when the film will start.