Unsent Letters #8

Pensierino

Dear J.,

I’m so glad to hear that you are considering writing. But I think that you should stop considering, and start acting. My proverbial reluctance (and badness) at giving advice keeps me from suggesting what to do, and the only reason I’m writing this letter is that you decided to share your intention and solicit my thoughts. I’ll tell you what I think, then; perhaps you’ll find it intriguing, enticing even. Perhaps useless, or offensive. Your call.

One day, many years ago, while randomly walking in New York City’s Upper East Side and lost in thought, I saw a yellow flyer glued to the shutter of one of those news boxes at street corners where you pick up papers. Something was written on it in large, black letters. It said “Be sexy. Write.” I stopped and stared at it for a while. I’ve always had a tremendous amount of respect for whoever could write, and yes, always found them fascinating, attractive. The ability to pour thoughts on paper gives an aura of mystery and eloquence and depth. And I’m attracted to these things like a moth to a flame.

In elementary school, we called them pensierini. You’d remember them if you were brought up in Italy. Everybody does. That’s Italian for “little thoughts”. “Write a pensierino” on this or that, commanded the teacher. With time, the pensierino turned into a tema, which is the adultish yet still scholarly way of calling an essay. But I loved to write a pensierino. And now that I think of it, it was the correct, appropriate name. A childish word that incorporates everything that happens when turning a thought into words. To write a pensierino, I used to just listen to what I had in mind. That’s what children do, after all. And they do it naturally and fearlessly. Without filters or rules. It was easy to write a pensierino. 

I hardly watch TV. The other night I opened Netflix and there was this documentary on Enzo Jannacci, an Italian singer-songwriter, musician, comedian, actor, and poet that passed away a decade ago. Very well made; I think you’d like it. Among other things, it shows stunning images and footage of Milano in the sixties and seventies. I’m not going to write about Jannacci here, he deserves a letter of his own, a rather long and articulated one. What I loved about him was his direct, immediate connection between brain and mouth. Some use the phrase “They say what they think” to describe those who have no filters, are honest and straightforward. Jannacci was beyond that: his mouth (or hand, when he wrote) was the natural outlet of his brain, in real time. No matter if he was in front of a TV audience of millions or in a theater or in a one on one interview. It was as if his brain could talk. I remember when I was a kid and saw him on TV I couldn’t appreciate his art, except for a few songs that became hits and everybody knew. When he spoke, I wasn’t really equipped to get him. He was funny, but sounded nonsensical. Until I started to understand, and appreciate his being quintessentially authentic.  

Life is a liberating, ever-surprising journey of self-discovery. And if we don’t belong to the camp of those who pay attention, we may not even realize that. We start off pure and spontaneous and careless as kids, then we go through life with the aim to impress others, often unconsciously morphing our personalities to make them fit pre-packaged, socially approved profiles. And so we furiously post on social media and massively invest time and resources to attract attention: we want to be liked, appreciated, seen as smart and considerate. Until our preoccupation to please others gradually tapers off, and we become real, essential, shamelessly nude. We become what we were supposed to be all along. Actually, no, that’s not correct: we find ourselves where we always were. Inside us. I hope it makes sense. 

This process occurs naturally as we age, but I found that, for me, writing helped accelerate it. I started late, well into my fifties. And you would say that, by then, I must have had a pretty good idea of who I was. Well, you’d be wrong: writing made me realize that I didn’t. But the more I wrote, the more it flowed out, and the more it flowed out, the more at ease I was with myself. And the more at ease I was with myself, the more my “self” unveiled and took shape. So surreal, but kind of neat. 

Now, please don’t think that you should start writing in order to find the real you. It doesn’t work like that. It’s something that just happens. Hard to pin down, but it does. I guess the key here is simple: to start writing because it makes you feel good. If it feels like a chore, a duty, a task to complete, or a job, it won't make you feel good. I can pretty much guarantee you that. But if it does make you feel good, a mysterious connection between thoughts and words unfolds, and works in magical ways. It’s like getting into a state where anything is permitted, with no rules or recipes or expectations.   

I thought about starting to write for so many years, but never did. It was always about waiting for the right thing to say, or else no one would read, let alone be interested. But the right thing to say never came. I waited and waited and waited, and sometimes an idea would timidly materialize but, according to my head’s notion of “right thing to say”, it wasn’t “right” enough. I could go on with that narrative in my head forever. Something needed to happen, something needed to unlock. Something needed to place me in front of a mirror and make me repeat “the right thing to say doesn’t exist” to my reflected self as many times as it’d take to convince me.  

In my case, that something has been meeting others with my exact same narrative in their heads. And embarking on a journey together. 

Since then, I’ve been writing pensierini like a child. 

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"Unsent Letters" is a new 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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