The joy of reading brought me back to my childhood, and how those stories inspired me to create in different ways, some times acting, other times writing or painting, even playing with my brother and neighbour.
I think I was a very lucky child having my father reading me stories that filled my imagination and my mother telling me about her life as a child. Stories that I keep secret near my heart
I remember spending hours fantasizing about what I had read and writing my own stories. When I was a child, my father uses to read me fables, mostly from our indigenous Venezuelans, but also from around the world. My favorites were the fables from the Venezuelan editorial Ekare and those from the Danish author Hans Christian Andersen
Right now writing about these memories has drawn a big smile on my face! I also remember creating my own comic books. I even considered myself a professional in that matter!
I used to live in a fairy tale place, imagine coming to a home where the first view was a wall covered by books, it was like a version of the secret garden, I should say the secret library!
I also used to use the space to lie on the floor every time I needed time for myself, I remember the comfort that being there looking at the books gave me, it was like if I was waiting for them to talk to me.
That space was full of surprises to discover, such as when I managed to sneak into the forbidden books, or when I found the first cigarette I ever smoked, in a box left by one of my father’s colleagues. I found them on the high shelf where my father tried to hide them.
Being around books became a big part of my childhood, there was always a reminder, either because my dad used to leave the dining room table full of disorganized books, magazines and newspapers, or just hearing my mom’s voice telling dad
Victor, why do you always have to leave a mess?
Then threatening my father without fulfilling the threat,
I’ll throw all your books in the trash the next time you leave them on the table
My parents used writing as a way to express themselves in their own unique way. My mother used to write about her emotions on a journal when she wanted to tell my father something that was not easy for her to talk, and my father always wrote for academic purposes.