Third rule: Always write Lately I sit down to write on the blog and the page turns black. The darker Facebook, a message that touches my Blackberry, fatigue, Google and its endless temptations, lack of discipline, and other blogs better than this. term then giving up the post or, worse, dissatisfied with what appears to be. And it is that this office is to humble, because as he once said Roberto Echeto in creative writing classes of UNIMET, one almost never writes what he wants, but what he can.
is also a courageous profession. And then it daunted me a very intimate post I published recently and apparently awakened the voyeuristic that more than one taken inside (judging by the private comments of several readers). I reckon it was standing in front of a window in lingerie, and therefore may not have shot way to do it without fuss. That does not mean that security will not be gaining as they are across the field. All I'm saying is that made me doubt even more that can actually write something that is not goofy and class "A".
But above all things this Earth, writing is a laborious profession. The Muses do not go around in his underwear, hovering over the heads of mocking those of us with amazement and stared for a long time the screen of a PC, sticking his hands on a QWERTY keyboard. It turns out that there is no other inspiration than the work alone, stark and paste the log back to the chair and write as much as possible. And this is the gospel according to the major of Literature, not an improvised like me.
only thing that gives me some hope as a storyteller is that I keep passing things. I can still hear voices, are sometimes of a character and other times it's own. And then I start to imagine how that person speaks, while I'm in Caracas dodging motorized traffic.
And as the little boy in the movie Sixth Sense confesses that he is dead, I see stories. I'm going Sabas Nieves (out of breath and, therefore, no oxygen in the brain) and suddenly heard a scathing review of a boy who goes down in a group of Scouts and wham! I have the germ of a story (but not write). Or am I having lunch at my friend Nathan, and I have a lamb in choripan mouth, just at the time that my friend Susan begins to tell a beautiful story about his childhood and an aunt nun. Loose the choripan, pour a glass of wine, grab the cell and begin to note details: I want names, dates, faces of the characters, streets of Madrid. I realize that I stand before my next potential post ; I left the desert for a while and maybe this time they managed to write something round, decent. I get excited again. I cheated again. I play I write. And the muses wet with laughter.
