As an exercise for the workshop this past week the teacher suggested we talk about how and why we write. A recurring theme and classic among classics, but the more complicated when one gets down to work to flail his soul.
my business card: CRAZY WHO LIKES TO WRITE. Leave me alone!
I knew I wanted to be a writer, if it ever reaches such honorary title, nine years.
At school I had just moved from the comfortable sheets and holy books and especially the handling of the pen. With him on the hand could not fail to show off my little letter flea, just as each large grid graph notebook, brand Anchor Blue, which I had given my mother. I suspect that she made that purchase with the intent to do my homework there language, I change my rebellious spirit in the making (just say she white, black for me to say) I decided to make a sketch of a book never published, but more proud than I am.
Writing for me is with a drug: the more I write more I'm obsessed. In the bag simultaneously writing the best and worst of me. My dark side in dark stories intended to inspire fear, my desire for perfection for myself and everything I undertake (that's why I read and reread a million times my stories and poems without ever feeling a hundred percent satisfied). And also hinted, with some openly, my most timid, innocent and naive, that compels me to utter ostracism before allowing me to travel freely between my ideas and thoughts and then translate them on paper and bare my soul. Writing gives me all this freedom. Manuscripts could pass my handwriting in handwriting and find in me a kind of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (when they managed to decipher my intricate notes). guess my glasses and acne that continues to pay even my treintaicuatro years, and should be relegated to a trunk of memories under lock and key in a deep dungeon of my skin, helping my image of being weird and somewhat antisocial. I do not care! And thus I have an alibi for play to be a poet without verse, to slay dragons, to be a serial murderer or a loving old woman who dreams of bringing life-porn star.
Who knows? Someday I might decide to resurrect my dear "Manitas de cristal" (mouse pianist of that first story) and get my dream of considering it entirely perfect, without retouching. Meanwhile, I will continue testing in the laboratory of my house in the library, during my many sleepless nights, and of course in my few moments of sleep (because I'm thinking of those who sleep in a story and characters).
, I often think I'm like Obelix and as he fell into some sort of creative pot whose spell I can not get away until I die. I know, I'm escritodependiente .
If you like what you read here, please enjoy it from the blog, but not copy it. You can read my writings on my other blog: www.mimundomiburbuja.blogspot.com Respect my intellectual property. Thanks. Writer
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