sexta-feira, 6 de setembro de 2013

just a simple memory

I have always asked myself, every time I could relate so much to the characters in stories, who were children burried in books, with no friends, who were so in love with all the stories they read,
why, if I could relate to them so deeply, why did I not remember so many story books as a child?
Why did I not even know the smell of the school library, until I was probably ten, when before that I have always remembered myself as a child just like those.

Only today did I realise it. I don't remember so many books, because I didn't need books. I was covered, from head to toes, in my own stories. I walked from one end of the backyard to the other, every day, talking to myself, reading to myself the stories I wrote mentally, and would never actually write.

As a child, I was a writer of children stories. And sometimes it seems like such a betrayal to myself not to be a writer as an adult.

But then I remember that just because one is not a writer, just because one does not "make up things, and writes them down", does not mean one is not a story teller.