The dream of being a writer


At the end of my first year in primary school, Miss Anna called me and said:


            -One day, you will still be a writer!


Happy, I laughed with joy. However, as a boy who was curious and enchanted by Science, I decided that I would be an engineer keeping in my heart the promise of my first teacher.


Then the time, absolute lord, and owner of all watches brought the days of high school, and I, even though determined to study engineering, always excelled in writing classes, to the point of doing the homework for my colleagues who didn’t know how to create characters and invent stories.


The time that doesn’t know how to stop brought the day of enrollment at the University of Agronomic Engineering; and surprised I heard a man, who was also a radio broadcaster in the city, say:


            -Nice to meet you, because you did the best essay on the entrance exam and with your permission, I would like to read it on my radio show.


Happy, I laughed again, but in those four years that followed, the only books I opened were those on mathematics and physics, microscopic slides of plant cytology and the colourful books on Zoology, Genetics, and Botany applied to agronomic knowledge.


Graduation day arrived, and I was chosen to plant the tree for the 20th class of Agronomists, and watering the little one, I thought silently:


            -Plant a tree, have kids, and write a book!


Time imposed its routine, and I graduated while calculating and fertilising the fields; I fell in love with the teacher who had arrived to teach elementary school children. Our children were born, and whenever I planted another tree, I remembered the words of my first teacher, Miss Anna.


The time that never stops, memories that never die, time to take flowers to the graves of those who returned to the stars, time to fly from Brazil to the United Kingdom.


It was in London, the 2,000-year-old Roman city, that I found my space to rescue what I had kept in my heart since I was a boy. Time to walk in the city’s parks museums, to attend lectures in Oxford and Cambridge, and to plough and fertilise the abstract fields of my consciousness, time to write.


Being a writer was more than a dream; it was the talent I couldn’t bury in the sand, rescuing the promises of my first teacher.


I invite everyone to read The Observer, a philosophical novel to make you smile, cry, and think.

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