After years of mastering this craft, my mind has finally fallen into the trap; writing has become my lifestyle, there’s a monster inside me that feeds from my stories. I’ve tried, with a lot of effort, to spend entire days without writing; my mind gets chased by unexpected torments. Even sleeping becomes inconceivable, closing my eyes only feeds my imagination.
I embraced the long journey one must endure to write a first novel.
The only way to have peace to write, long months have passed since I hid from the world to create a new one. But even the creature within me has grown, now I work everyday on a new chapter. However, I’ve discovered there’s a limit on my daily imagination for the same subject; I had to look for alternatives.
Among literary genres I found the solution, the short story was the nutrition I was lacking. Everything began when I first read Edgar Allan Poe, and I think the same creature was living inside of him; the beast that feeds on your ideas.
Now I’m here, along with my sickness, enslaved by my own creation, forced to work until exhaustion and enjoy every second of it. It gives me strength to see you’re here; knowing my work is not just for the beast, knowing you can get an advantage out of my efforts.
I hope you’re able to understand my predicament. Sometimes I wish I knew all of this before it began, stopping the creature before its conception. It’s too late now, the only thing I can do is feed it; get away from the people I love, live the life of a slave; paying my due with words.
A writer deeply feels that writing is for him the best thing that has happened or could happen, as writing for him is the best possible way to live.
—Mario Vargas Llosa