Writing a novel is an exercise in self-destruction. First you surrender to the idea; Then to the temple; You continue to develop the characters that live in your head. You determine his character, his plot, his comings and goings. Thinking about a novel before writing the first section is an exercise in obsession; He follows you wherever you go, never leaves you, and you find no comfort in real life because he controls everything, day and night. The novel is a selfish genre, an executioner that consumes your every moment and smokes it while you sit on your pipe while you try to understand this wonderful world that belongs to you alone, and that no one knows except you because you create it from a blank page.
Then, my dear Juan, when “criticism” appears, that hidden – and sometimes not so hidden – system of “experts” who never gave birth to a phrase of their own that can walk without crutches, but have spent years collecting the corpses of other people’s novels in their glass box like someone collects butterflies with a pin. They have trained eyes, though the only thing they’ve often trained is an expression of contempt, that professionalism that leaves their faces as if they’ve smelled of vinegar ever since they discovered they couldn’t do what you do.
And of course I gave them reasons to have a banquet. You have committed the unforgivable sin of winning a prize like the planet. Worse still: selling books and getting a cash advance is something any letter writer dreams of. It hurts them in a hidden place in their chest, that device in which they keep frustrations and articles that no one reads.
The great thing, Juan, is that they think they’re attacking you for morality, beauty, and artistic purity, when in fact they’re doing it for that same human emotion: envy with pretensions to virtue. An anthropological marvel that will now haunt you for being a winner of this important award. Let the planet do what it wants with its money. He will be missing more. And here comes the irony, my dear Juan: The people who skin you the most are the ones who secretly wonder how the hell you did it. How dare you write, publish, make money, and most importantly, like it? They won’t forgive you for that.
The literary world is full of souls who don’t feel comfortable unless everyone else is as bitter and stuck-up as they are. But you, Juan, have committed to the courage to succeed. In some circles, this is considered an act of violence. Every time it hurts, look at your account balance and move on to the next idea.
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