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- Herausgeber: Youcanprint
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
A heartfelt investigation into the world of fiction through a series of passionate and captivating short stories, written in a vivid and visionary style. The collection is divided into three sections, each preceded by a quote from the author that anticipates the theme: mystery, love and writing. There is a reason why writing becomes "passion" and vice versa. Like a virus it grips the mind and gives birth to creatures that have a life of their own and move in an imaginary and imagined world. The reader follows them with transport in the adventures, often in medias res and always wrapped in a halo of ambiguity. Reality loses its contours and the inexplicable becomes possible. You just need to know how to "jump", as the homonymous story that gives the title to the collection says. The introduction is a real essay on the interspatial dimension of creativity. To be read in one go, with a charge of enthusiasm always growing, until the final line.
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D. H. LANDOLFI
THE JUMP
A collection of short stories of mystery and passion
Title |The Jump
Author | D. H. Landolfi
ISBN | 979-12-20368-96-4
© 2021 All rights reserved by the Author
No part of this book may be reproduced without the prior permission of the Author.
Youcanprint
Via Marco Biagi 6 - 73100 Lecce
www.youcanprint.it
To all those who have believed in me, who believe and will believe in me.
To those who still think that with words we can change ourselves and the world.
To the power of imagination, of love, of mystery and of writing.
To those who can see beyond reality and facts the magic of living.
INTRODUCTION
Interview with Myself.
I wrote my first short story when I was twelve years old. I still remember it like it was yesterday. I had a best friend at the time, tall, blue-eyed, with long blonde curls. Her name was Gabriella and we often spent long afternoons together. She lived near my house, so it was easy to meet up. It was she who made me discover what would later become my unstoppable and infinite passion. I like to call it that way. It reminds me of Christ's one, between torture and joy.
Gabriella loved to read; she often read stories of mystery, of adventure, of love, and she liked to listen to the crazy explosionsof my imagination.
"Shall we write something together?" she asked me that afternoon of a sultry July many years ago, looking me straight in the eyes. I observed her a little surprised, gazing with utmost intensity into her sky-blue irises. Me write? Come on... And then suddenly I thought "why not?". After all, I'd be able to generate anything if I just concentrated for a moment. I shifted my gaze to what I could see from where I was sitting, on the stuffed chair scratched by the nails of her dog, an adorable Yorkshire named Minnie, in her white and beige kitchen, beyond the glass of the window overlooking the courtyard, and the sight wasn't all that appealing. We definitely needed to give some colour to the dull and opaque reality surrounding us with a little imagination. We picked up the typewriter and began.
I have almost lost all memory of the story and characters of that debut. I can only vaguely recall that one of the main characters in my story was certainly my crush of the moment and that of course I was able to transform him into an amazing adventurer onto his white steed ready to sweep his elusive lady love off of her feet.
While I was doing this Gabriella was smiling and getting more and more excited.
That's how I started, yes, that's exactly how I started, with that euphoria that I felt growing with every joke, with every afternoon spenttogether and with those that I later started to spend alone on the balcony of my house, while I was reading something.
You must read, read a lot before writing, read millions of pages, even boring and apparently useless ones.
When I would sink into silence like this, Gabriella would pass by my yard and whistle loudly for me to come down. And I couldn't resist the breeze of air on my face as we carelessly rode on her scooter or Minnie’s sweet flatteries to me. And so, I would hang around for hours and hours and then at night, in bed, I would fantasise about what I was going to write.
I don't think we ever finished that firststory, but it was certainly the beginning, my beginning.
Gabriella died a few years ago, struck down by a nasty illness that in recent years had taken away her sanity.
I wanted to remember her this way, with her vivid and penetrating blue >eyes. Maybe I didn't show you enough love at that time, nor afterwards, but you were there with me, in my life and you were that smart, brilliant and funny girl I leave in these pages.
On the balcony of my house when she came by to call me, I would read mysteries, how many! Endless countless pages of crimes and mysteries. The seed was already planted of what I would one day finally complete.
They say it takes a lifetime to write your first novel and maybe it does. You first go through many small novels, many incipits, many moments that you then embody in what will one day become a book.
I've been hatching "A Possible Murder" in so many possible stories written before and in some ways even in a few of the ones I'm including in this collection.
The short story is the first form of literature you should try your hand at. You don't need to dwell on it, it doesn't require a strong characterisation but a powerful story, yes, a story that holds up and that you can bring to an end quickly. It doesn't matter how long it is or whether everything is perfectly clear. It can start in the middle, or from an end; it can describe just a moment but it helps you to know how to generate the logic of a discourse, of a narration. It teaches you how to unravel and control it. A Possible Murder also started out as a short story but then gradually became a novel. As I was writing it, the characters seemed to take on a life of their own, autonomously, detached from me. I found them in new, unforeseen situations, in dialogues I had never imagined, while my hand was running rapidly over the keyboard. At a certain point I stopped wanting to control them and just observed them. I wrote down what they were saying out loud and materialised it.
The extraordinary thing about writing is that it makes you feel omnipotent. What you write is no longer invention the moment it takes shape, but a parallel universe that lives a life of its own. Tom Sawyer or Madame Bovary or Romeo and Juliet never lived in reality, yet how can you deny their existence? The two lovers of Verona live in that city even now, and if you close your eyes while you're walking around, you can still hear the Capulets and Montagues’ scuffles echoing in the streets.
When I started composing stories on my two blogs, this was the intention: to train, like an athlete who knows that sooner or later he will have to face an important competition. I didn't know how long it would take me to feel ready. My mind has always been full of so many ideas, sometimes too many that I couldn't tame them, and I often got tired of completing them because something new started buzzing around in my head, so I abandoned the previous one and got into the new one.
Blog posts are the best formula to learn how to master this kind of uncontrolled and short-lived births: concise, immediate and training enough to bring you to a good result in time.
I realised that the time had come when I started to get tired of brevity. I would read what I had created and I felt it empty. The training had paid off: the word demanded more space and was hungrier. I had to feed it with good food.
My detective stories, read as a teenager and then again for a long time afterwards, were all piled up in my ancestral memory, along with many other novels by great writers whose authority made the walls shake at the mere mention of their names and other ideas I had been constantly practicing. I took them up, reshuffled them with brand new flour and churned out my first thriller.
Chance somehow came to my aid, just as it does to Corradi in the novel, but that's another story and I won't tell it here. I will only say that fate is often the unexpected plot of destiny. If you don't move sooner or later, it will do it for you and force you to act.
It took me less than a year to finish A Possible Murder. Five to write the first 50 pages. Fate had come to get me.
You need time to create a literary identity for yourself, even if it doesn't work out and you will never become a Flaubert or a William Shakespeare, but it doesn't matter. What matters is that people like what you write and that the reader believes it. Believing in fiction is a dogma on both sides. The role play. The prerequisite for the game to begin.
Mine started very recently; perhaps too late, but luckily, I am still here playing it and I am not tired yet.
The choice of a penname, if you want to use one, is also a fundamental step in creating your character, that of the writer who moves like the other protagonists in the artificial and crumbling world of fiction. You are never yourself when you compose; you are something else outside of yourself and you have to know how to give this something else a precise shape and contour, otherwise the actors get out of hand. And for me that option was quite tiring. I wanted to keep my surname, as a tribute to my father, a great and incomparable man, and also to my barbaric Langobard origins of which I am proud, but I had an uncontrollable tendency to veil everything under a halo of anonymity.
