Writing a novel is an exercise in self-destruction. First you surrender to the thought. Next, let’s move on to the structure. Continue developing the characters that live inside your head. It outlines his character, the plot, his comings and goings. Thinking about a novel before typing the first syllable is an exercise in obsession. You cannot find rest in real life because it follows you wherever you go and never leaves you, ruling everything day and night. This novel is a selfish genre, an executioner who sits at the pipe and smokes it, consuming each of your moments while you try to understand that wonderful world that is all yours, that only you know because you are creating it from a blank page.
Then, dear Juan, “criticism” appears in the subtle and sometimes not-so-subtle regime of “experts” who have never invented a phrase of their own who can walk without crutches, but who have spent years collecting the corpses of other people’s novels in glass cases like a person who collects butterflies with a pin. They have a trained eye, but often the only thing they’ve trained for is an expression of disdain, a professional lictus that lingers on their face as if they smell vinegar once they know they can’t do what you’re doing.
And of course you gave them a reason to feast. You have committed the unforgivable sin of winning an award like Planet. What’s worse is the dream of every letter writer: selling a book and getting an advance. It hurts the hidden places in their chests, the organs that store the articles and grievances no one reads.
The great thing, Juan, is that you believe they are attacking you for your moral, aesthetic, artistic purity, but in reality they are attacking you for a very human emotion: envy disguised as virtue. An anthropological wonder that now haunts you as the winner of such an important award. Let the Earth do whatever it wants with that money. There will be more missing. And here comes the irony, dear Juan, the people who are getting under your skin the most are the ones who are secretly wondering how the hell you did it. How can you write, publish, make money, and most seriously, love it? They won’t allow that.
The world of literature is full of souls who find comfort in being as bitter and mired as we are. But Juan, you took bold steps to succeed. And that is considered an act of violence in certain circles. Every time I feel pain, I check my account balance and move on to the next idea.
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