What else is out there, what lies beyond the train window, but swift rows of white poplar trees and sown fields of January unfolded, with catenary masts regularly interspersed, even the many fleeting faces which it dart a glance along the way on railroad crossings, and crowded platforms, while this reverie it is lulling me into sleep, on the seat of the train, thanks to the clickety-clack sound of the wheels on the railroad track.
It is quite simple be a ghostwriter. It takes a fortnight to churn out a pulp fiction product but it is quite simple. First, I have an idea, this idea it generates me a domino effect, and from that moment, I take notes and elaborate specifics about that idea, to think about passages and settings that could complement it. Later, I begin to create a structure, a scaffold to write a first draft, which is the most difficult part because it is pretty emotional. Then I proceed to dismount the aforementioned scaffold step by step as a bricklayer. I became some kind of a craftman more than an artist, because I leave my heart behind in that. That’s pulp fiction. This is all I really do. Quite simple.
Talent is the criteria of originality,
originality is the criteria of sincerity,
for the one who narrates,
bliss perhaps is the criteria of true talent.
In the garden, as she got closer to them, the piled up boxes looked very large. They were rectangular with greased ends to aid in their transport. She was impressed by the odorous teak wood, the oily essences to protect the contents from the bad weather ― handmade work that was rare. She wanted to touch the boxes. They were not smooth to the touch, but solid. For a second, Johanna forgot why Daniel had brought them there. She seemed crazy, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She got a little bit closer and tried to put her ear to the boxes.
She wasn’t able to do it, but she heard something. It could have been the wood cracking. There were nine boxes, and the weight that some put on others could well explain this.
She knocked on the door.
A man with very delicate hands, that he hid, who hardly looked her in the eyes came to half open the other bungalow door. It was, without a doubt, Daniel Plaza. This type of shyness was an invitation to speak, because he hardly did. His hello was barely a broken sigh.
It wasn’t easy to approach him; he was an aloof and indirect person. He demonstrated a type of courtesy found in an old manual of politeness. He didn’t address her on familiar terms even though Johanna gave him about ten years more than her, about fifty or a little over fifty. Because of those eyes that didn’t return her look, she knew that they belonged to a person of great strength and perceptiveness. She could tell by the rhythm of his words, neither casual nor reckless, that he followed the conversation. Nonetheless, she was decided to cross his doorway, which is why she bluntly asked him about the nine boxes that he brought with him.
“It’s a very long story. I’m sure it would bore you.”
“What do you mean?”
“They are an inheritance. How do you like your coffee?”
“With just a little milk please…are they things from your family?”