alexandrarosa-writing - Tumblr blog

[alexandrarosa-writing]

I’m constantly swinging between “the story my imagination came up with is interesting enough to tell it to the world” and “do I really have anything important to say about the world to write a book?”

[alexandrarosa-writing]

a woman can be pretty to others

never herself

if she knows her own worth

she’s suddenly vain

[alexandrarosa-writing]

@ stayhereforu

See more like this.

[alexandrarosa-writing]

[alexandrarosa-writing]

I feel like so many books are overrated.

I’ll be reading books that had great reviews or were widely discussed as great ones… and actually not find them that good at all. Some are moderately okay. Some are completely disappointing. But none of them are actually the level they are sold under on the internet.

Why can’t I actually find a good book to read?

[alexandrarosa-writing]

Seems like there is something almost perverse about writing in public. Creating worlds, being sort of a god, deciding whether people are going to live or die. And at the same time the strangers are taking notes on the lecture, sipping coffee or texting having no idea in another universe something key just happened.

[alexandrarosa-writing]

Hi!

This is an idea that was following me for such a long time and I finally decided to embrace it.

I would love the ‘Our Collective Book Club’ project to be a virtual book club for all of us, readers. My problem with actual book clubs was always that I had to actually meet with other people and as an introvert I didn’t love it. Additionally I could never find a book club to join, for lots of reasons.

So I figured out a way to participate in a fun book project - by making it completely virtual.

My idea: this could be the place to post reviews and host discussions regarding books. I will be posting my own reviews and I would love to encourage You all to join in.

How would it work? Anytime You post a book review You can mention (@) Our Collective Book Club and Your review will be reblogged here - so that anybody following this project could comment, post their opinion and discuss the given book.

Welcome to Our Collective Book Club and enjoy Your stay 💙

Our Collective Book Club founder, Alexandra Rosa

Community guidelines (that I’m thinking of now, I will be adjusting them accordingly)

Everybody is welcome here.

Every comment and repost needs to be respectful of other people’s opinions.

Hate speech and hate symbols are forbidden and comments that include them will be deleted.

Fic recommendations are welcome in the comments, but their reviews will not be reblogged here.

[alexandrarosa-writing]

I’ve recently finished the book. I have to admit that I did judge it for its cover at first - I loved the cover (the white one with polish title) and decided it’s worth to take the book from the shelf. And I was right.

The whole plot is so…. calm. It’s like floating on the river covered with flower petals. Even though the book tells the story of a tragic condition of the human mind.

But the characters are so well developed and multidimensional it feels like a reader is a part of the plot.

The beauty of maths and people’s love for it is beautifully described as well.

Despite the difficult topic I feel like that book has hugged me. And I definitely reciprocated.

[alexandrarosa-writing]

[alexandrarosa-writing]

Seeing this makes me instantly think about Ray Bradbury’s ‘Fahrenheit 451’ and how scary it is that it’s not always politicians who make those decisions. Sometimes it’s just people vs people and that’s like way more frightening

A cartoon about #bannedbooks or the @guardian

[alexandrarosa-writing]

Long books (500+) are starting to piss me off.

You can read 100 pages and still nothing really happens although it seems there should have already. And it’s not my first read like that.

Some say that if a book is not interesting after 20 pages it’s not worth reading. I try nevertheless. Books that are overly well rated recently tend to seem kind of boring at the beginning.

But why do I have to suffer so many pages to get to the good stuff. What is the point of writing a 500+ pages book if you can cut out half of it.

[alexandrarosa-writing]

The Grape Lady

While most people tend to think that elves have but completely disappeared, the truth is a bit different. The elves today had to find themselves a new niche to survive. They got back to the mundane and started doing the jobs nobody thought could be necessary.

The big people got lazy in their ways. They don't mind wasting or throwing things out. The elves, however, destined themselves to put an end to it. Silently but surely.

Everybody got their job they'd do relentlessly every day, without fail. Even the most popular hard workers - bees - started to call them lame behind their backs.

But elves didn't care. They did what had to be done. Let's look at The Grape Lady, shall we? Her real name was forgotten and succumbed to the name her neighbors had given her.

She would wake up early in the morning, put on her robe and her hood and go back to the place she occupied every day.

At that said place a hand pump awaited her.

You may wonder by now, why she was called The Grape Lady. Let's back up a little bit to the place in the past when people liked raisins. They would add them to cakes and pastries or just eat them like that. But then the popularity faded and the companies producing raisins forgot to notice. They would still make raisins that were thrown out quite often now.

The Grape Lady's job was to reverse the process. Her hand pump was plugged into the raisin and the air she pumped into it filled the grape. Imagine balloons, just much smaller.

When the fruit was ripe enough again The Grape Lady attached it to the bunch, only to plug the pump into another raisin. When the sun set she would go back home only to wake up the next morning and repeat the routine.

You may ask, what the purpose of it really was or if it wasn't boring for The Grape Lady to live a life like that.

But she wouldn't answer you. She has never thought about it.

[alexandrarosa-writing]

The internet is actually an amazing place for writers. And I mean it’s mindblowingly amazing. I know that being actually published must feel great. But on the other hand internet is a void that you can try (and fail) to fill with your works. Any kinds of works.

Fanfiction? Check

Short stories? Check

Anything you want? Check

You can just write it and put it on the internet. Maybe somebody will read it. Maybe not. But it’s out there. Ready to be discovered.

The internet is never tired of the works. And it never complains you changed the trajectory of your writing completely over a night.

It just exist. Waiting to be filled with art. And forever ready to receive more.

[alexandrarosa-writing]

Me fantasizing about publishing and being an author for about 90% of the time and actually writing for the remaining 10% is what I call the writer’s experience

[alexandrarosa-writing]

Part 1 of “Proserpina and Pluto”

‘Theodora Whitford, Downtown Gallery’ a woman sitting on a black chair picked up a phone. ‘As we discussed last time’ she said standing up. She was tall and wearing high heeled shoes that made her even taller.

She quickly finished the phone call and walked to the other room. The flat she was staying in was of average size but seemed much smaller. The walls were covered with paintings and full bookcases. While passing by them her fingers lingered on the covers.

Her phone rang again. ‘Theodora Whitford,’ she felt silent listening to the voice on the other side. ’No, he’s not home, but I will give him the message as soon as I reach him. He probably left in a hurry.’ She picked up a pack of Malboro. ‘He didin’t even take his cigaretts.’

Her husband’s secretary thanked her and hung up. Theodora Whitford was not a smoker, although she took one of the cigarettes out of the package. In the key bowl she found an old lighter with Mona Lisa on it. Her husband had bought it for her in Louvre as a souvenir from his trip to Paris. With a cig between her lips she slowly paced through the flat moving her belongings slightly to make them look neater. She fixed the wrinkles on the tablecloth and pulled the flower vase a bit closer to the centre of the table. Slowly breathing out smoke, she glanced through the window. It looked almost like she was waiting for something.

Her phone rang for the third time that morning. A cheerful melody filled the rooms. The number on the screen was listed as unknown. She exhaled and answered it.

‘Theodora Whitford.’

***

A white SUV stopped near police cars on a provisional parking lot in the middle of the woods. A tall, elegant woman got

out of the vehicle and approached the closest person. The young policeman pointed at another woman in a uniform.

‘Mrs. Theodora Whitford? Sargent Nuan Yates, crime division, it was me who called.’

Theodora Whitford shook her hand. The heels of her shoes were uncomfortably dipping in the mud as the ground was still wet from the rain that had passed during the night.

‘Is he really… dead?’ she asked reluctantly. After the phone call she smoked three more cigarettes and now every word tasted bitterly like tabacco.

‘Our expercts confirmed it. I’m so sorry, mrs. Whitford’ Nuan Yates took out a small notebook form one of her pockets. ‘Would you mind if I asked you some questions?’

‘Proceed’ Theodora replied looking numbly at the hut surrounded by striped police tape.

‘When was the last time you saw your husband?’

‘I… don’t know, honestly. Our jobs don’t leave us a lot of free time, and there are weeks we barely see each other at home.’ Theodra wrapped herself in a coat more tightly. ‘Yesterday I came back quite late, but he was out. Today I thought he must have gone out pretty early, if he even came back during the night. Before that, I think, I talked to him on the phone on Wednesday, so two days ago. We thought about getting some dinner form the restaurant we like. But then he texted me and said he can’t make it.’ a tear rolled down her cheek.

‘Did he contact you yesterday?’

‘No. Yes’ she shook her head. ‘He tried. I couldn’t answer. He called me two or three times but I had some important meetings. I texted him after asking what it was about but he didn’t reply.’

‘Is that your husband’s car?’ sargent Nuan Yates pointed at the black mercedes parked inside the area surrounded by the tapes.

‘It is. It’s a company car, Robert got it like three months ago.’

‘Did Robert Whitford have any enemies that you know of?’

‘No, not really. He worked as a hedger. I wouldn’t say it’s a dangerous job. He rarely talked about it, anyway. We had a mutual understanding - we don’t discuss our work life.’

‘I see’ Nuan Yates looked weirdly at Theodora Whitford. Could she know her from somewhere? Why did that woman looked familiar? ‘Have you ever been here before?’ she finally asked.

‘Not that I recall. I lost my way two times while driving. Besides, that house does not look like anybody has been there for some time.’

The wooden hut was looking rather unkempt with moss covering the rotting logs. The steps leading to the front porch were destroyed and most windows didn’t have panes.

‘Did your husband ever mentioned that place or a place that might resemble it?’

‘He wanted us to go for a trip to some lake house his colleague offered to him for a weekend’ Theodora sighed and measured the hut with her glance. ‘I don’t think this is the place.’

Sargent Nuan Yates asked some more questions and let her go asking if they could meet later to talk about some more delicate matters.

Theodora gave her her card and quickly drove away.

‘Margaret, I need you to cancel my meeting today’ she said passing through the woods. Her GPS told her she’ll need half an hour to get to the gallery and the meeting was supposed to take place in ten minutes.

‘Mr. Johnson is already here’ her secretary whispered but it was clearly heard thanks to the car sound system.

‘Well, I’m not’ Theodora growled speeding up. ‘And I’m in no mood to listen to that guy whine. I told him last time, we will never buy his pathetic joke of a painting and no proof will convince me he’s a descendant of Fabritius. Just send him away.’

She hung up and focused on the open road again.

Robert was dead.

Her husband was found dead.

She will have to organize a funeral for him. She’ll have to take a few days off work to take care of the formalities. She ground her teeth. An art dealer who disappears for some time is as good as a dead one.

‘Fucking Robert’ she thought.

***

‘I’m a little surprised you wanted to meet here’ sargent Nuan Yates sat beside Theodora Whitford on a wide museum bench. She was wearing casual clothes, a pair of jeans and a woolen sweater.

‘The exhibition is going to be removed soon and I try to spend as much time here as I can, while it’s still here.’

‘Do you like him? Van Gogh I mean?’ Nuan asked glancing at the woman next to her.

‘My mother named me after his brother. She said she didn’t want me to be a Vincent, but still a Van Gogh. Hence, compromise. I’m Theo.’

‘Do people actually call you that?’

‘No. Even Robert called me Theodora’ she smoothed out the wrinkles of her skirt. ‘It’s weird to use the past tense.’

‘I know. My husband killed himself.’ Nuan crossed her legs and messed with her fringe. ‘I think it actually took me a couple of months to understand it all and even more to accept it.’

‘I’m sorry. You know, Robert and I were not very… affectionate, but I still miss him like crazy. I can’t even imagine how hard it would be if we actually behaved like a real couple.’

‘Did you really use to not see each other for days?’

‘Both our jobs take a lot of time. We need to be ready to work literally in the middle of the night.’

‘And you seem to be spending a lot of your time in the museums.’

‘And I spend a lot of time in the museums.’

‘I actually wanted to ask you if your husband had something of a notebook or a private laptop or something’ Nuan shifted to see Theodora better. ‘Maybe he had a meeting that he had put in his calendar that might help us with this case.’

‘He had a company laptop but he usually left if in his car if he wasn’t at work. He also had a private iPad but I don’t know if he had it with him. It may still be at home just as well.’

‘We did find the laptop in the trunk of his car, but it didn’t contain any useful information.’

‘I’ll look for the iPad when I get back.’

‘You are amazingly collected, emotionally, I mean’ Nuan messed with her fringe again. Theodora thought it might be a sign of her nervousness. ‘I mean you seem to be so rational about it all. And I mean it as a campliment.’

‘When you’re a person like me, occupying a job like mine, you have to keep up the composture’ Theodora said looking directly at the policewoman. ‘All the time’, she added in her mind.

(I published this chapter on Wattpad if You prefer to follow the story there)

[alexandrarosa-writing]

There is a song that keeps me going every time I want to give up writing. The song in question is not about writing nor is it very inspirational.

But it was my favorite song when I was little. And when I say favorite I mean I went bonkers every time I heard it.

It was before streaming music was available so my parents had to buy the whole album on a CD and I refused to listen to any song from that album except for the one.

And it still inspires me because this album was not very good and the song is not very popular. I have never heard it being performed by the band on any festival.

But I love it. I can sing it any time I want because the lyrics are imprinted on my brain. We were watching a New Year’s Eve music festival and the band performed (of course they didn’t do my song). My mom just played the song for me so I could sing it.

What I’m trying to say is even if your work is not very recognizable or popular it doesn’t mean it’s impactless. Maybe for the few people who got the honor to read/watch/see/listen to your work, it’s the most important thing in the world.

And even if my writing is going to reach only a small group of people, maybe for one of them it will be like that particular song for my three year old self. And that’s enough for me as a creator.

If You want to listen to the song:

[alexandrarosa-writing]

Does writing about people in love equal having a boyfriend? Asking for a friend