When I Decided to Become a Writer

At times, I envision the short life of the writer who inhabits my mind as that of a superhero, a fool in tights chasing a dream. And, like any self-respecting masked buffoon, he also has a captivating origin story. I have often found myself recounting it because I believe it explains how words began to matter in my life.

It was 2009, the day of my First Communion; for those unaware, it's a ceremony in Catholic culture, the second of the sacraments. In Italy it's a big deal, with lots of relatives you've never seen (and probably will never see again) all gathered to watch you consume the communion host for the first time—a ritual you'll repeat approximately every Sunday during mass until you reach adulthood. Later on, I realized that most of those relatives probably came for the post-ceremony meal, but back then I was a child about to receive a mountain of gifts, and that was enough for me.

To provide some context, I already loved reading back then, thanks to my sister who, at the age of five, had taught me to decipher the symbols accompanying the images in those big books we had on the shelf. And if, by some unfortunate circumstance, someone asked me the customary question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" let's just say I improvised a bit. I borrowed from my father's occupation or sometimes found myself answering, "A writer." After all, back then, those folks who managed to keep me glued to the pages of Geronimo Stilton seemed pretty cool, so why not aspire to be one of them? But I said it more for the sake of saying it, so let's skip over that part. Even Spider-Man must have climbed over a few fences before being bitten by that spider.

Returning to my First Communion, I arrived at the event without any clear idea or direction for my life—understandable since I was only seven years old. Ah, here it is, the moment arrives, I'm handed the host, put it in my mouth, and swallow eagerly, waiting for the Holy Spirit (which, by the way, would be a great name for a superhero) to descend upon me and... oh, it's time to eat. Oh, here are the gifts!

It took a couple of days before I revisited the supreme moment of enlightenment. It was thanks to my catechism teacher, who, unsatisfied with the fact that the party organized by my parents had completely distracted me from the fact that no higher power had touched my shoulder, asked all of us to write a short essay on what our First Communion represented to us. And there it was, my brain was suddenly in motion, faster than it had ever been, analyzing various factors for one purpose: to outdo the others. Yes, I was quite competitive. At that time, "outdoing the others" essentially meant distinguishing myself from them. I knew it instantly: any other child in that room would write about the spiritual wonder that had overwhelmed them, whether true or false.

And even though a few minutes later, I would ardently defend my words, claiming I had only wanted to speak the truth, I knew very well what I was doing. I wanted to outrage them. And I went overboard, as much as a seven-year-old can. No common sense. I even had the guts to recite my dissertation on the terrible taste of the host and the boredom during religious ceremonies out loud. Oh boy, ouch.

And there it was, a seven-year-old boy, proud of his first piece of investigative journalism, being dragged by the ears to present it to his mother. Yes, boy, ouch.

And here's the event you've all been waiting for: the beginning. The origin of the writer. Not the scolding, which did happen and was quite severe... but what followed next: my essay, written on a piece of paper torn from the very center of my graph paper notebook, was torn to pieces.

Many thoughts flooded my mind at that moment, but at the top of the list was one: the church had just censored me! Yes, I was also quite dramatic.

But hey, I couldn't think of anything else but the fact that they had just censored a seven-year-old who, albeit with provocative language, had attempted to speak the truth. And how long would it be before they came to get me? Had the Pope already received the news? I hated the heat, was I destined for the stake? Slowly, all those little paper shreds fell onto the asphalt of the parking lot, where my mother's red Fiat was parked.

That day, I decided two things: religion was fundamentally nonsense, much to my mother's dismay, and my life would be devoutly dedicated to writing.

Words had incredible power, not the ones spoken impulsively and uttered from the mouth, which you can later claim to regret. No, I was talking about the ones thought over for ten long minutes before they became indelible on a sheet of paper, or what remains of it. The writer was born. I was born. And to dismantle that kryptonite called tearing up paper, I thought it best to equip myself with a keyboard.