A postcard to you, from the place I am right now

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I haven’t published an article for over a month.

Yet, I have plenty of (more or less) complete drafts that can potentially become great articles.
What’s happening?

Writer’s Block?
No, not again, please.

There is an article I have been around for a long time. I insist on thinking of it as my next article.
I invested too much in it to throw it away and think about something else. I know it could be a good article, but right now, it’s very far from my standards.
I invested time and energy in it, but the more time passes, the less satisfied I am.
What to do then?
Publish it anyway? …

Is it right to continue editing an already published text? Considerations about a practice with many pros and cons.

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Imagine buying a book and reading it. Let’s say it’s a novel. You liked it so much that you recommend it to a friend of yours, who reads it and appreciates it.
The first time you meet at dinner, you talk about it.

I find brilliant the idea of ​​the virus that infects the protagonist’s car autonomous driving system, making it autistic and unable to communicate with the driver — You say with enthusiasm.

What are you talking about? The protagonist’s car is equipped with an equine artificial intelligence system, which leads it to deviate from the highways to run in the prairies! Very funny. …

A very subtle way to avoid the real thing

Ernest Hemingway writing on a desk
Ernest Hemingway writing on a desk

It has already happened too many times. I can no longer pretend that the problem doesn’t exist.

I open medium to work on a story, but immediately my eyes are drawn to a damn interesting title: I can’t help but click on it.

Just a look, I tell myself.

Maybe this article contains some interesting advice, an inspiring phrase…

Then one line leads to another; other titles spark my curiosity. As in a time warp, I find myself immediately projected to a couple of hours later, or even beyond. I have minimal left of what I have read. …

Is it possible to view a work of art as if it were the first time?

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When I am faced with a classic, such as the one illustrated in this article, it can happen that a semi-transparent layer showing captions, explanations, highlights, and countless other information, overlaps the original painting, almost obscuring it completely.
This happens automatically, in my mind. It’s the information overload afflicting every masterpiece that has defied the centuries (paintings, but also novels, philosophical and architectural works, music). A web of references to other works, comments, criticisms, and explanations creates a monstrously enlarged and distorted work of art.

Intertextual interferences

This phenomenon is what semiologists call intertextuality. The meaning of a text (in the broad sense) is influenced by other texts. The reader plays a crucial role in this. The more cultured he is, the more relationships he can detect between the work he is reading and other text. And it doesn’t really matter if the author was aware of these relationships. …

Considerations on my adventure on this platform

A black and white print of old writing toolss
A black and white print of old writing toolss

A year has passed since 12 October 2019, the day I published my first article on Medium (and my first personal post ever). It took me 25 years to post something of my own on the web.

It was a self-essay about my relationship with writing, smoking, and the smoking-caused disease that changed my life in many ways:

My first post ever

In a year, it has been viewed 765 times (to date) and received 102 applause. Some readers still find and read this article today. Not big numbers, but they are of great value to me.

A year in numbers

22 This year, I have published 22 posts, including personal essays, book reviews, and poetry. This is a much lower number than I originally proposed: I would have liked to write one post a day, or at least two or three a week. But, at the same time, that’s a lot more posts than I thought I was going to write.
The extreme care I put into writing and the long editing process to which I submit my pieces (editing that continues after publication) have drastically reduced the number of articles published. …

What if…

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Imagine entering a room and finding a man there, sitting on a chair, hands on his lap, his head slightly reclined forward.

You greet him, but he doesn’t respond to your greeting.

You let some time pass,

then you say something about the weather, just to fill the void.

But he doesn’t even look up at you.

You notice by the movements of his abdomen that he is breathing heavily. He appears concentrated on something from which he cannot take his thoughts away.

Everything is alright? — You ask him a little embarrassed.
The man still doesn’t answer. …

Considerations about the quest of a normal life

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I once knew a woman whose highest aspiration was to be a normal person — At least, so she claimed.

Whenever someone uses the word “normal” in a conversation, I wonder what exactly they are trying to say. For a long time, I believed that others had a life manual that, for some reason, had not been delivered to me. One of the more substantial chapters of this manual should cover what is normal and what’s not.

It means to be like everyone else. She said.

Here’s another generic concept: everyone else. It includes the Pope, the pusher in the neighborhood park, the victims of violence, the murderers, Donald Trump, Joe Biden, Kim Jong-un, Bill Gates, Gioacchino Difazio, the children forced to work, the stranger whose gaze we met in the subway, the beggar on the street corner, the astronaut in the space station, to list a few. …

Where is God when you don’t remember his name?

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Now I can’t remember the name of the Old Testament God.

On the screen of my memory, indecipherable letters tangle in a cautious dance.

Then the name Allah resounds repeatedly.

Or maybe was Buddha the name I heard.

The old God, indignant, must have abandoned me because of my sins.

Or he is just taking a break from his continuous creation.

In a tangle of lines, flashes and veins I now distinguish a “g” and a capital “D”, but just as I try to decipher them, these signs vanish.

Yes, he’s blanky taking a break.

Now I see four letters, white on a black granite background: YAVE. …


Gioacchino Difazio

A Renaissance man, a little late. More on my publication gmeditations (https://medium.com/gmeditations)

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