a kid his parents encouraged their stories written on small sheets of paper, with its outline somewhat shaky and sloppy. And it was the constant support that motivated him to become a writer. First, writing plays for his father. Then, jumping into the wonderful world of detective stories, intrigue and suspense. Armand was considered
always a new light in the local literature. But still felt that no written to date, would be able to match you had in mind. The idea haunted him head for a long time, but was not sure how to move it to a couple of A4 pages.
One night I could not sleep, took courage and looked for his Parker pen, which his mother had given the thirties and early that morning said he would, write that story for which he would win the immortality literature.
In light of a candle, as well as he liked to work, went to his right hand a dozen sheets of paper and scribbled on the top of the first of them, the title Mandarkarina. There stood his argument for a gypsy imaginary city of that name. Even the title seemed unique landmark.
Without wasting a second, began to write. He details in his head, had imagined sequences again and again. But as they arrived to a scene that he knew in advance, some other event stood and lines should be extended in order to rediscover the original path. Understood, the fifth written page, the story could not be summarized in a few pages at first thought.
Still, he said, would be a story. Therefore, he continued. The leaves are piling up on your right, in a pile ever higher. Several times he had to go over the desk drawer in the next room. When the light of dawn struck the window, carrying more than fifty pages written. She noticed the time and said I should get some rest.
But hardly could be ten minutes in bed. The story called it. He returned hurriedly to the desktop. No longer needed in the candle flame, which was just a blob on a plate melted white porcelain. He kept moving his hand and with it the pen, at the mercy of your imagination. Slave was wonderful to see that argument with growing excitement sentence by sentence.
At noon managed to stop and sleep for a few accounts hours. For evening, after dinner quickly, counted more than one hundred and eighty pages written. He thought that perhaps he had turned the story into a novel, but opposed the idea. It was a story long, but story.
continued to write at night, now if, with the help of a new wing. Rested in the morning, to continue in the afternoon. In the evening he was called by telephone, but was short on dialogue, not wanting to lose the plot of what was written. At night his parents called him to remind the dinner they had planned. He excused himself citing a last-minute compromise. No sleep. A morning, when the eyes felt overcome with fatigue, he learned to take a look at the stack, there were more than five hundred.
In the afternoon, more rested, returned to the ring. And still writing.
There are days when his parents visited him and carry groceries. Sometimes your friends are. Whenever someone needs to remind you to wash or at least do not miss the timing of meals, which can get sick. Many have tried in vain to convince him to go for a walk, leaving the enclosure. But good manners, he refuses. Reluctantly, they all accept the excuses of Armand. Is that nobody can say it's wrong. He looks happy, always writing, collecting leaves and leaves in every corner of the house, writing what he says, is the story that will make you immortal.
The last I heard of this talented writer is that he has rented the apartment next door, as in yours, there is no room for so many pages written.
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