There may be a compelling reason for wait a while before you dare to explain the most crucial what has happened to you in life. Above all, if you have dedicated yourself to writing precisely to overcome it, to seek alternative lives when yours has become uninhabitable.
The reason I think sometimes it’s better to wait is this: During those years that you let go, you explain that story a thousand times. You tell it to others, but mostly you tell yourself. You often do it to forget her and you don’t get it. Or not to forget it, but you forget details that you invent. You adorn that trauma over and over again, with each new reaction, updating it to dialogue with what is happening to you and what you feel at all times. Trauma is increasingly exciting for the listener and less painful for you, who explains it, in the same way that a joke is perfected with each new role. And what happens in the end is that you neither forget it nor remember it as it was, but you write it as if it were the first time, but with the accumulated experience of having been counted a thousand times and also as if it were the last thing you are going to count before you are hit by a truck. This usually happens with everything that you do not want to explain, so as not to relive it, but that you cannot stop explaining if you want to move on with your life.
Perhaps for this reason, filmmakers not necessarily autobiographical such as Almodóvar, with ‘Pain and Glory’, Cuarón, with ‘Roma’, or, above all and now, Paolo Sorrentino with ‘It was the hand of God’, have waited so long (to overcome seventy, sixty, fifty years) to count almost literally your first steps in life.
Of all of them, I was especially excited about the third one on this list. The adolescence of an alter ego of the director in Naples, at that time when Maradona, who could imminently arrive from Barcelona to his city, was capable of anything and he had everything to do. The film has a part of Italian magical neorealism, with a very Mediterranean euphoric and joking bustle that, despite its cohort, manages to enchant us with each of its lunatic protagonists. In the second, trauma, the peach pit, where everything breaks. As it happened in reality, his charismatic parents die of carbon monoxide poisoning from a stove defective, and he must consider where to put all that pain and change your life as you change a city when you can no longer bear it on your skin.
The protagonist, like his creator, saved his life because that day he went to see Maradona play with his team, a chance that in a fiction would be almost implausible, Although it is the most real thing (I myself had a friend who saved hers for something similar: the day before the attack on the Twin Towers, where she was working then, she went to a Michael Jackson concert, so the next day she fell asleep hangover and avoided the attack).
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Lately I have read many novels by authors under 40 years old such as jury of an award. They all had a thousand virtues and some were truly exciting. But she couldn’t help but fantasize about those same stories told a few decades later.
Sorrentino does, in his latest film. And it is very similar to the Goal of the Century, when Maradona reached out to mark, in an almost political act, England in the World Cup in Mexico. If that goal is the Goal of the Century, it is precisely because of that trap and that trap is fiction, what we invent to better explain what has really happened to us and what we feel.
Reference-www.elperiodico.com