Dear L.,
Walking down the street I saw someone who, from a distance, looked like you. Unbelievable, I thought, after all these years I was going to run into you on some random sidewalk. And as I got closer, me coming from one direction and possible-you from the opposite, the beginning of a smile started to form on my face. I almost raised my hand and waved from afar enthusiastically, but I didn’t. Because it wasn’t you.
In those few seconds, twenty or thirty at most, the time it took for me to realize the person walking toward me was someone else, a million memories poured in, one after another, like a flood, or like a book of frames flipping before my eyes, and I have no idea where you are, but I felt the urge to write this letter to you.
If that had been you, I wouldn’t have wasted much time on greetings and embraces and I-can’t-believe-it’s-you’s. I would have treated the moment as if I had last seen you the day before, and told you all about this writing thing that I have going on. Writing thing? What do you mean, you would have said. Yes, writing thing; what you had been pushing me to do for years, I would have responded. In any event, since I haven’t run into you on the street, I’m telling you here.
At some point I caved in and signed up for a writing course, after much deliberation. I had been planning this move -- doing something about writing -- for a while, because it was what I loved but never really tackled ‘seriously’. To be precise, the course was about online writing, as its objective was to help you overcome the various (mostly psychological) obstacles that keep you from unloading your thoughts onto paper knowing that someone other than yourself will read them, produce a number of pieces off prompts they gave you, publish such pieces on the web, and build a following. At first, I thought it was a course where they taught you how to write better, but I soon learned that it had nothing to do with that. I’d dare say that it had nothing to do with writing, but of course this is my impression.
Let’s face it, writing cannot really be taught. What was I thinking? Nor can it be improved, to me. Also, improved relative to what, exactly? Writing evolves naturally toward one’s innate style, or voice. Something tremendously hard to achieve when you try consciously, but surprisingly easy when you let it flow and accept whatever comes, nonjudgmentally. Was it Miles Davis who famously said that it takes a long time to sound like yourself? I think he was right: it takes a long time. Or rather, it takes the time it takes, as sounding like yourself is something that comes after a process of shedding fear, insecurity, and the feeling of not being enough. When you no longer care, magic happens. And no courses or how-to books or lists of rules or personal advice can accelerate that process. Of course, sounding like yourself is no guarantee of success, if that’s the objective. And by success, most mean popularity and following and readership and, ultimately, money. But at least you sound like yourself, and no one else. Cold comfort? Maybe not.
Anyway, that online writing course did do a few things right. First of all, it helped me unlock something inside, build confidence, and click publish. Second, it catapulted me into a community of like-minded people from all over, where I made friendships that last to this day. Third, and most importantly, it made me realize that my idea of writing was diametrically opposed to theirs. Sometimes you have to cross the driest deserts and climb the highest mountains and navigate the stormiest oceans to finally realize that what you were looking for was in your own backyard, where it had always been.
So I opened a profile on Substack, this online platform supposedly built for writers and readers (but now slowly turning into yet another social network, alas), and started putting pieces out every week. People subscribed, and read, and commented, and I felt good about it. Initially, I’d write pieces on personal reflections and stories. Then, I decided that I wanted to experiment with fiction, without necessarily giving up completely on the other stuff. And that was a turning point: fiction, or auto-fiction, became the raison d’être of my writing. Which is possibly the least lucrative part of the writing spectrum, in a world where people demand content, no matter how packaged. But this is what I like doing, what gives me satisfaction. And I don’t care if I write for an audience of one.
The thing with Substack, though, is that it’s packed with extraordinary writers, and I ended up submerged in an ocean of supremely interesting publications that I wanted to subscribe to, read, and comment on (they call them newsletters, but the mere sound of that word gives me orchitis). The epilogue is that I subscribed to too many of them, most of which I never read. Is it fair, I ask, to subscribe to a publication if you won’t be able to dedicate the desired level of attention to its issues? When you already know, the moment you hit subscribe, that you won’t be able to read them because, you know, life? I guess I will have to cut a number of them, clean up a little, sooner or later. Or maybe not. I don’t know. The fact of the matter is that I have a bunch of them I really look forward to reading whenever they put out something new, and that, sadly, I can’t physically (and mentally) go beyond those. Sadly.
I so vividly remember when you gave me that book by Borges titled Fictions, many years ago. Read it, you wrote behind the cover like a dedication, it will blow your mind. Nobody can write fiction like him. May it be an inspiration for when you start, one day. And then: Milano, April 4th, 1989. Your exact words, with your signature underneath. I have a confession to make: the day you gave it to me, I went home and put it in my bookshelf, and forgot about it. When I thought I saw you on that sidewalk, last week, the very first thing that came to mind was that book. Among all the memories that flashed before my eyes in those twenty or thirty seconds, the Borges book was the first one. I would have told you immediately, if that person had been you. I would have said, the Borges book! Even before uttering any other word. As if, suddenly, I had remembered something that I had to do, but hadn’t for thirty-five years. Like when a pouring rain starts falling and you suddenly remember that you haven’t closed the windows back at home. I went to look for it in my bookshelf, but I couldn’t find it. I looked everywhere, turned the house upside down searching for it. My house is still the one I lived in when you gave me the book; my bookshelf still the same, standing in the same room, on the same wall. I finally went out, bought the first paperback edition I found, and read it in one sitting.
It had two blank pages before the back cover. And when, on one of them, I saw the words you wrote thirty-five years ago, in your calligraphy, with the April date and your signature underneath, my heart skipped a beat.
But I smiled.
"Unsent Letters" is a series released every other week. These are imaginary letters penned (though never dispatched) to individuals who have influenced my life, not always mirroring actual events. Some entries contain elements of autofiction, while others are based on reality. However, I won’t specify which is which.
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My heart just exploded and I’m buried in two tons of red glitter. Thank you for this beautiful piece. (And for your Substack truths, which have me feeling less guilty.) And the orchitis! That made me guffaw.
Love this letter! It made me reflect on my own long ago desire. You stated it perfectly-the reasons not to, and then, finally ,to dedicate time to write, not worrying about what flows from the end of the pencil. Thank you for this Silvio.