Rejoice, because this blog is re-opened!
My script finally came to being and left me exhausted as one who has just given birth. Intellectual parenthood is some fucked up stuff. I registered my child and gave it a name. It was no longer a hundred pages, it was now officially a literary screenplay *humbly* named The Wing Country (El País de las Alas). It sounds better in English so if I go crazy enough I may even send it to the Warner or the Fox. I am now the proud owner of some totally useless moral and fiscal property! I am now an official writer! Rejoice! I’m 23, I’m a writer, I have no money, life is beautiful!
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And so it was done. So it was painfully written, word after word, idea upon idea, blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, dream of my dreams and insanity of my, oh yeah, insanity. A very long sort of therapy, so to speak. All my demons took off and were set free to creep off the rest of the world. Hundreds of hours that landed me into total, official and public incomprehension. As I set the last line, I knew it was worth very little, yet of course, it was my child and how could I not love it? Darkness exploded with a sudden cherry-flavoured crash, an uncountable amount of moments released all at once. It was something warm, something tender, like freshly baked bread. Yet joy could not last long. I took my newborn child, kissed him goodbye and went to university, to the deliverance room. There I signed the contract and left the kid. That was my very signature. It was my child, but they would keep it. I had had a baby and I had handed it to the beasts so it could be slaughtered. Such a lousy mother I would make. Now as I imagine my dreadful teachers dismembering every single character, every emotion, every fact, I fear not for my qualifications, but for my little world, which is about to be shamed and discarded. Oh my poor child! Ay, mis hijos! My poor red-haired Aurore, with her wondrous wings and magic touch, flying over the dreadful sea-storm to save her beloved ones. And the one-handed lighthouse-keeper, so wise and bold, fighting for those he cared about. And Aurore’s brother, coming to understand real human-nature, coming to see that not all that looks human is so, and vice versa. And Aurore’s beloved Victor, the wood-carver and world watcher, who would do anything for her, even leave his family behind. And Joris the dutch sailor, who had fallen into the trap and dwelled now in the cave of the beast, and was ready to run for his life. And Rita the wild and her gang, who couldn’t understand. And the Macbeth witches, who were blind but could see further. And God, ever watching everything. And the lighthouse on top, ever so magnificent, ever so white, and so high! Ever so magic to see all my craziness released, so wild the feeling. That was my story. You didn’t like it: I didn’t care. I had written it. It was mine. Now the ghosts are gone and I can fly, free of my ponies and oedipal traumas, like my alter-ego Aurore does, fly beyond acceptance. Or so I want to think. Now, my love, we’re taking the boat back to the Wing Country. Now you pack your words and I pack mine and we’re off to tell stories. I am not ashamed anymore. I don’t mind being a hopeless romantic as long as I can make fun of myself. And all of you who don’t or won’t like my story, I just have one thing to tell you: write your own tale, or shut the fuck up! Truly yours,Aurora Euh, I mean, Altea
