Marinella - The nights that became noons

"You should write a book about mom." A conversation from Tzortina on Marinella's birthday, years ago.
I heard it, I forgot it. I didn't take it lightly, but I knew I was unfit to be a biographer, because of the style I write in. For better or worse.
I start somewhere else and find myself somewhere else, my emotions intervene, I get angry with my heroes, I do what I do so as not to be included among the current giants of literature.
I am not crazy about the accepted "politically correct" and de facto unanswerable major issues.
With such a character, how could I take on a Marinella, with whom we are connected for a few interesting decades, but I wouldn't come up with halos and wondrous crowns for the melodic world of the night.
“You know, I…” I objected, knowing my character. The other side insisted: “You’re wrong…” “But I’m all a moving mistake,” I replied. Finally, the biographer “sighed”…
"You know me" - Marinella.
"I love you, but I'm afraid you don't know me," I replied.
It took a while with "I know you", "you don't know me", until we made a decision and the lunchtime symposia in memory of Plato and other similar symposia experiences began.
And so we proceeded, illuminating with midday light the nights or even days of a life of soil, voice, love, toil and much love. And a book was created that, without being a priori a biography, began to resemble a novel of mine.
G. X.