Post by account_disabled on Dec 30, 2023 7:16:41 GMT 2
Last June I announced the second anthology of short stories created by Serena Bianca De Matteis and self-published on Amazon. And now, in November, here I am to announce the third anthology , the proceeds of which, as always, will be donated to the Italian Red Cross, in favor of the populations of Amatrice and Accumoli. Love doesn't collapse - Christmas StoriesI wanted to participate again and this time too my story was selected. The hard work was then working on the editing. I was supported by Erica Baldaro, who sent me the text full of red writing... Okay, let's not make it too tragic. In reality she had explained what to change, how and why to change it. What an editor basically has to do.
This is why I refused to publish one of my science fiction stories: because there would have been no editing and I wouldn't have learned anything. However, my story went from 1146 words for 6720 characters to 999 words for 5913 characters. Editing always leaves its mark. The theme of the stories If the first anthology had dogs and the earthquake as Special Data protagonists and the second cats and the earthquake, this one has Christmas and the earthquake as its themes . And obviously a message of hope. My story is called “The Tree of the Windy City”, but don't ask me why. The editor asked me too, because she didn't like it, but I didn't like the alternatives. I could interpret it as the constant wind blowing on the mountains of those places affected by the earthquake or even as the seismic wind that swept them away.
Incipit of my story “The tree of the windy city” On the streets of rubble the old man's feet move in a composed silence, and on those streets, without names or faces, walk shadow men like him, wandering souls unmoored from their own world that has fallen to pieces. It's no longer day on those streets, it's no longer night. In the smoky white and ash gray of dilapidated walls and broken window frames, dawn and dusk now fade. A silent city of abandonment where a flower blooms among the junk, where you didn't think that other life would arise. The old man stops his vague walk, picks the flower, smells it and sharp memories tear him apart again. He collapses to the ground. Silent sobs shake his arthritic, exhausted body. His mouth opens to look for air, words to articulate, names to invoke that will not respond. He no longer even remembers his own: whoever called him has gone down along with everything, and now he is part of the dead city and has turned to dust.
This is why I refused to publish one of my science fiction stories: because there would have been no editing and I wouldn't have learned anything. However, my story went from 1146 words for 6720 characters to 999 words for 5913 characters. Editing always leaves its mark. The theme of the stories If the first anthology had dogs and the earthquake as Special Data protagonists and the second cats and the earthquake, this one has Christmas and the earthquake as its themes . And obviously a message of hope. My story is called “The Tree of the Windy City”, but don't ask me why. The editor asked me too, because she didn't like it, but I didn't like the alternatives. I could interpret it as the constant wind blowing on the mountains of those places affected by the earthquake or even as the seismic wind that swept them away.
Incipit of my story “The tree of the windy city” On the streets of rubble the old man's feet move in a composed silence, and on those streets, without names or faces, walk shadow men like him, wandering souls unmoored from their own world that has fallen to pieces. It's no longer day on those streets, it's no longer night. In the smoky white and ash gray of dilapidated walls and broken window frames, dawn and dusk now fade. A silent city of abandonment where a flower blooms among the junk, where you didn't think that other life would arise. The old man stops his vague walk, picks the flower, smells it and sharp memories tear him apart again. He collapses to the ground. Silent sobs shake his arthritic, exhausted body. His mouth opens to look for air, words to articulate, names to invoke that will not respond. He no longer even remembers his own: whoever called him has gone down along with everything, and now he is part of the dead city and has turned to dust.