Some children dream of becoming rock stars, soccer players, austronats or accountants. I dream of becoming a writer. I'd probably be better off with any of the former dreams.
But, anyhow, I keep on dreaming.
One of the hardest things as a wannabe-writer is the lack of pressure to write. The pressure to study for Monday's physics exam, the pressure of spending quality time with my family, the pressure of cleaning up my room, are all vastly more intense than the pressure to finish my story. Yes, I do write because I like to, but when the painful part of the story hits, the one where you actually have to think about what the character's going to do next, or think about how you're going to say that, the pressure of physics test seems more welcome than the lack of pressure to finish the story.
Another hard aspect of being an adolescent wannabe-writer is that school is full of jerks.
No, this is not true. School is varied, school is diverse, and school has you stuck in a group of friends with whom you don't share many interests but they're still your friends. Allow me the benefit of doubting that any school on the planet lacks A SINGLE GOOD SOUL WITHIN THEIR RANKS. He/she might not be the BFF of your lives, but still. Hating school, as with most hatreds, is generally your own fault and not the hated's fault.
Anyhow, combine my authorly frustrations, the lack of writing incentive, and a vast number of unliterary classmates, and you get a nice pie of Me Wanting To Do Something About This. Something as in "a literary workshop."
It was hard to find one, nevertheless a suitable one, but when I did, bingo.
On Monday, I met the woman who led the literary workshop that I found out about at a café.
In the interview with my writer lady friend (her name is Ina), she described to me the group that I would be integrating tardily as a "Santiaguinan and literary Sex & The City." I haven't ever watched Sex and the City, but I get the idea.
And, boy, is this the idea.
Fast forward to Thursday night, and picture me entering an apartment building in downtown Santiago that is flooded with tobacco smoke and jazz music. I find myself in an entrance of pink walls, and a darling plastic chandelier. Small enough to be cozy. The apartment has gorgeous decoration of a very fun inclination (Futurama characters, Fab Ciraolo paintings, Memes decorating the walls), and books. Books everywhere.
Ina is a bedazzling woman with short curly hair, exquisite taste, and a sharp sense of humor. ("Sharp sense of humor" ie, the funniest person I've met.) I'm faintly in love with her. She could have perfectly been the inspiration for the Manic Pixie Dream Girl. As far as I know her.
And she reads and writes and loves to do it. Quote Ina: "GOD, nothing makes me happier than a good book." Scratch the "faintly." I'm in love with her.
The six of us from the literary workshop sat around a small dining table, to talk about life, sex, drugs, and ocassionally about the stories we had writen too. I was drunk on Urbanasia, the name I've given to the condition when city life overwhelms you with EXTASYYYYYY.
I've written a lot for now. More to come next week.
PS. Did any of you understand the title of my new blogging series? I sorta love it. Feel so fucken grown-up.
PPS. Ina cusses a lot and in my aspiration to be as cool as she is someday, I think I might be taking it up too. JK, I've always sworn like a sailor. Defying the patriarchal paradigm and all.