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.

THE REBEL GENIUS- MY NEW NOVEL

I don't know how many years have passed since EL James made his appearance with the fifty shades of red but since that time many women have felt free to write certain BDSM and fetish stories in which they talk about personal perversions and love stories. little details. So, you know that I write something on Wattpad from time to time, but so far I had written works in Italian but today I have decided to translate all my works into English so that more readers can read my stories. Obviously they are not all adult stories but also fictional stories and I hope to finish translating everything in a few days so that you can take a look and tell me what you think.

This is the link to the novel, which is not finished yet:

https://www.wattpad.com/story/270647138-the-rebel-genius

Description of the novel:
Have you ever met a strange person and do not understand what exactly is happening with this person? Situations that are lived in an absolute way, doubts, secrets. You will never know everything until the end.

IF YOU WANT TO HAVE A LOOK TO ALL OF MY NOVELS HERE IS THE LIST:

https://www.wattpad.com/myworks

STORY OF A PINK GIRL

As a child I had a beautiful book, because when I pushed the button set in a hard cardboard page, a sweet melody played.
I always leafed through it and looked at the pictures carefully.
On the last page, the musical one, there were two characters; a boy, kneeling with the guitar in his hand, under the window of a girl always looking out on the balcony, who smiled with red cheeks and bright eyes, who listened.
My grandmother told me that that scene represented the "serenade", and it happens when two people love each other.
Every time I looked at those images I always dreamed that, even when I grew up, I would have a boyfriend who, when he missed me, would run to me with the guitar and that he had begun to sing me a sweet poem in such a way as to get me out of the house and be able to see me.
It had become my fixed thought, my desire.
I scrolled through the pages of the book, and I imagined myself living those fantastic scenes.
When the boy handed me a bouquet of flowers, when he opened the door for me, when he held my hand and we walked near a lake, and then let me get on a boat and enjoy the sunset on the water.
And of course when he came to serenade me in the evening.
It was all so beautiful, so perfect.
Then time passed, I became a girl, my body changed but my thoughts didn't.
I was still hoping to find the "boy from the book", but it seemed impossible as most of the people I met didn't even know that the "serenade" existed.
I don't know where that book ended up, but I didn't find any more like it.Then, one day, as I was walking absently and thoughtfully, my foot got stuck in a crack and I fell to the sidewalk.
Quick, someone rushed to my aid.
He lifted me off the ground and I could see a boy who looked my age, with emerald eyes and black hair, matted on his skull.
I had peeled my knee and he was already begging me.
Her skin was pale and soft, it looked like silk.
While he was healing my wounds he asked me how I was, how I felt ... And we started talking.
Then when he was done he looked me in the eye.
I looked him in the eye.
He smiles at me.
I smiled at him.
And I realized that I didn't want to get lost in other eyes and kiss other smiles.

He didn't have his cell phone with him, so I wrote my phone number in his arm.We went out, he showed up at my door and gave me a bouquet of roses.
He always held my hand, offered me ice cream or hot chocolate, hugged me when I was cold.
For my birthday, I heard pebbles hit the glass of my windows.
I opened them, leaned out of the balcony and found him, kneeling on the ground, with a guitar in his hand, dedicating a poem to me for my birthday.Today I was at his house to do my homework together.
I was looking for a tire, but I couldn't find it anywhere.
I opened a drawer to look for it and widened my eyes when I saw a big old book, with cardboard pages and a button that, as soon as I pressed it, a sweet melody came out.
He entered the room and smiled at me embarrassed, confessing that while he was walking down the street, some time ago, he found that book next to a dumpster.
He picked it up and opened it, and the and he liked it so much that he took it with him.
I didn't say anything, just smiled at him and he kissed me.

I don't know if it was fate, or karma or fate or the forces of the universe… I just know it happened, and I couldn't be happier than now.

MADE BY STARS AND DREAMS

It is literally bad to feel strong and weak to be happy and sad after a few seconds. Dreaming of things that you know that cannot be there and realizing that sooner or later there is an end for everyone, and you can not do anything but accept it. I would like to have no thoughts, have no emotions, be a stone, which with the arrival of the rain everything slips away. But how do you, how can you not think of something bigger than you, you can hide it from your eyes, but after a while it comes back, always there. If the sun hides the wounds, the night brings them back to the surface, and you can do nothing but let yourself be carried away. But what is the meaning of writing, what is the meaning of life, if in the end we are only memories You wonder if it makes sense to spread your own being, or to stay in your own small way, but what life is it if you don’t bring a little of yourself into the world? There is no need to escape, but if everything is rowing against you, where do you find the strength to fight? Let yourself be carried away by life, or take it in hand? It is as if I have understood all the mechanisms, all that remains of life, but then why am I here? Open the windows, let the sun in, listen to the bells ring, listen to the noises, take a breath, don’t think and live in the present
This is what people do not understand about me, I am not satisfied, I dream. Because despite having met false, slimy people, real snakes, I still believe in friendship, the real one, the one that saves you. Because despite having lived through toxic relationships, or not very serene and sometimes almost one-sided, I still believe in love, the one that shakes your heart, that reactivates you, that makes you be born a second time, in that complicit and crazy love. Because despite the falls I still believe in the strength to get up, alone, or holding someone’s hand. Because although the world sucks I still believe in the beauty that is in it, just sit and watch a sunset to find the energy of life. Because although life is hard, I still believe that it is worth living it. And maybe yes, I really dream, but I’m not satisfied either
It hurts me to think that there will be someone else who will wait with the same anxiety with which he was waiting for me. It hurts me to think that his happiness will depend on someone other than me. It hurts to think that that “exaggeration” we always talked about has gradually vanished. To think that there will be another person in your place, to think that he will be able to give her everything you gave her and maybe much more, what she is looking for, what she had always sought in the end, to think that someone will give her that dress that so much she liked it, who knows if she will know the same things she was telling me, maybe she’ll like another dress rather than the white one she fell in love with, and she’ll forget a little bit how that dress, which will come back to her only if she finds the photo she had taken of him scrolling back through the gallery. Yet I know that he will not delete that photo, he will keep it, maybe he will smile when he sees it again and maybe he will keep it a little longer than the other old photos on the screen, after all he wanted it, after all he had dreamed of it in the past. It will hurt when mine is no longer the arm she liked to lean on when she was lying on the bed, it will no longer hurt me the little voice of a child that made her seem smaller and made her so beautiful every time. And it still makes it that way, it’s beautiful yes. There will no longer be a messy bed in my house after coming to see me, there will be no smile that looked at me as if I were her only salvation, and someone else will take my place, take my chair at her kitchen table , she will leave someone else the blue chair in her office where she let no one sit, no one but me, and made me feel important, now she will make someone else feel important. All good things come to an end. But she will be happy, and this is the important thing. And this.
The dream is a defense against the regularity and monotony of life, a recreation of bound fantasy, where it throws all the images of life into the air and interrupts man’s perennial seriousness with a cheerful childish game; without the dream we will age prematurely, and therefore we can consider the dream, if not sent from above, still a pleasant task, a friendly companion on the pilgrimage to the tomb.
Dear ice eyes girl that have nothing celestial,
but however frozen they surpass the ice and they are cold albeit chocolate colored.
Dear sad eyes girl, I wanted to tell you to shine again not to lose yourself in thinking of those who do not think of you not to get lost in order to wait for those who wanted to lose you.
Dear dark eyes girl you will learn to grow to live with fear and make it your strength and your care as well.
You will learn that grownups never cry, but that tears are used to let off steam to regain strength to start over to get up stronger albeit a little stunned.
You will learn to go to fly to fall, and then get up again to turn off only to then return to shine stronger.
Dear hurricane girl that you never stop dreaming that alone you can always do it but you want someone by your side
because together we dance better and together it is better you read a lot and travel too much that music is your world
and books are your place that a beautiful sentence underline it in red with pencil a straight line unlike your life
which is always an infinite curve and also uphill that you change your mood easily according to the steps of your Love based on a smile of hers and his smile that puts a smile on your face.
that you have big eyes and the gorgeous smile that you want to hear your heart beating fast because you want to live strong because you want to live for real.
Dear girl woman, I wanted to tell you to start shining again, because you are not the disappointment of this world but the disappointment is this world which has lost its values which is a meaningless world where now only what is not needed counts – superficiality, of course.
I wanted to tell you to shine again like a shining star to shine alone without needing someone to turn you on, because the real music of this world it’s you, just you and that’s it.
Don’t be discouraged, do not stop do not change do not stop dreaming: go, run, shine take everything you deserve and shine, you always shine,
because they will teach you not to shine they will discourage you because they are envious they will extinguish you
because they are jealous of your light, but you don’t listen to them.
You shine.

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