In the literary realm, I proved my worth as an article writer and a translator. I was paid for this work, which meant that in both fields I achieved a level of “professionalism”—and I achieved it quickly. Almost as quickly as I left both fields behind. I felt a lack of freedom.
After eighteen years spent in the world of
novels, I have yet to prove my creative merit as a novelist. And, objectively
speaking, at 61 years of age, I consider myself too old to be a budding storyteller.
Compounding this—along with a body of older work (I have self-published 15
books on Amazon)—is the realization that my creative approach has been
iterative.
Proof of this iteration is this simple blog,
where I disguise my repetitive singing of my own praises as a form of
“neither-here-nor-there” detachment. Essentially, I remain the same person I
was when I launched “Ven y enloquece”: a madman who goes largely unnoticed,
save for a handful of cats—a few toms and a few females—who have the good taste
to frequent the rooftop of LibrElena.
