HE, SHE AND I ON f*******:

One of my friends asks me what the difference is between the stories I write and the texts I post on f*******:. He thinks they are the same; there is no difference between them. Yes, between these two types, maybe there is no distinction, I write them the same, but surely the time they reach the reader makes all the difference. The published text goes through many hands: the proofreader, the editor, the techno-editor who makes his printing product, the printer, the driver who loads the volumes into the car that distributes them, the bookseller... only then do they get somewhere where readers can buy them. From me to the reader, it’s a long way, months or years. The book in someone’s hands for me is somewhere on a memory shelf; I write something else, I’m in another story. I feel something else. Thoughts in books are removed, sometimes even forgotten, and when someone tells me or writes something about a book, written a long time ago, I have to think first, to bring it from memory to what I feel, sometimes I can’t even turn it into the experience I had when I wrote it, and that’s why what I hear is lacking in the consistency of the present. Whereas a text posted on f*******: instantly reaches someone’s page, it is read warm, felt as soon as I thought it and so many times it comes immediately with some answers—-cheerful or nostalgic or angry, but they, the answers, whatever nuance they have are proof that the text arrived and was read and between us, there is no barrier. I can also feel the fresh feeling that strangers around me are covered in, which no longer seem unknown to me because I have been able to invite them into my universe. The text is still full of me as the bed remains warm a few seconds after you rise from it. Such determination does not remain the same while writing a novel; a text posted on f*******: is incredibly intimate. I’m excited sometimes; I wait for the reactions. I’m glad, I get upset; I want to shut up or fight back... They’re like a premiere where the audience applauds or not as soon as the play is over. That’s why I’m on f*******:, I like this feeling of closeness, of immediate relationship, of distance cancelled, in time and space. But why are you on f*******: every day, millions? If you answered me this question, it could come out a f*******: novel. I would just write the words of the link and then, because some verbs that I like, such as “to love”, I would write between her page and his: she on f*******: loves him, from there I would continue the rest part. How many times should I repeat that? We could draw a map with love on f*******:. Big cities, he and her, between their roads, sometimes interrupted. But f*******: is precisely the state of these links. I’d dare to write this novel. Seriously! Sharing Is Caring Written by : Sadhin Kumar SK