I always carry around my little "Chat Noir" notebook. Every time something worth writing strikes me, I write it down. Thoughts, opinions, short stories, anything. I date every entry on my notebook so that I don't forget when I wrote them.
When I get home, I rewrite everything on one of my latest acquisitions, a 1950's Swissa Piccola typewriter -isn't she cute? On it, I change what I don’t like, make the writings shorter, longer, check punctuation, cut off parts, etc.
I then rewrite the re-written on Microsoft’s famous Word. I check my spelling here, just in case. And again I modify the writings.
Finally, I copy it and paste it on the blog. I alter once again what I dislike and hit the PUBLISH button.
I don’t know if this works for me or not…
How do you do it?
PS: You have no idea how many times have i altered this little text...
19 days. That was how long it took him to know she was the one. Nineteen days.
He asked her to marry him.
I’d love to –she said
He promised her a ring. It was settled.
For reasons none of them understood nor believed, they grew apart. They kept dancing through in different directions.
He gave her a key. A key to a lock with a ring on it, locked to the city’s fountain.
-Our love is forever locked, and you have the only key. WHEN you decide to wear that ring, and I know you will, let me know.
He walked away.
He found her ten years later wearing another man's promise, and the key around her neck...
The old man got up everyday around eight o’clock. He showered, made himself breakfast, and put on a shirt he knew she would like. He then went meet with her. He stopped at the flower shop and got her a daisy. She loved the attention. She looked radiant. They chatted for about an hour and then had lunch together. He had brought some wine, intense red wine. They talked and talked for hours. He couldn’t stop smiling. He couldn’t stop laughing…
The gardener asked the watchman who the old man was.
-Ohh, that’s Mr. Hardbroke. He comes everyday around eleven and leaves at six, rains or snows.
-Is that his wife? The gardener asked.
-No, no, no…Mrs. Hardbroke is at home probably waiting for him…
-Whose grave is it then?
-I wish I knew son. The only inscription says “My word is good” …He’s been coming everyday for the past 23 years, and I’ve worked here for 27, so do the math…
The old man left the cemetery crying that day, whispering to himself…
That was the last time Mr. Hardbroke visited that tomb. No one ever saw him again.
Some say he died. Some say he was taken to a mental institution by his family. Some say he finally forgot her….
I’m the only one who knows, he started remembering…
