There aren’t many writers or aspiring writers that I know that hadn’t dreamed with a cabin in witch they can hide and write. The one in the picture is Neil Gaiman’s. (He call it a Gazebo). A cabin where to sit and share hours, where no one interrupted the conversations that we had and hadn’t with our stories. (in many cases without internet and cellphone signal.)
Should had been the combination of a horrible winter and the presence of all the mentioned elements that make Mark Twain said that famous phrase: “”The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.”
The rumors of mine had been exaggerated also. The reality is that I have been busy with a series of projects that will begin showing up soon. The translation and edit of my first two novels into spanish, plus I the third one that it is planned to be released to the market in spanish and english at the same time (the tentative tittle is: Quarry) and another project that I am not ready to reveal, but that I will be talking about soon.
At some moment in the first six months of this year something happened that wasn’t unexpected. As a writer, there is a moment when things changed, a moment when you stop being an aspiring writer and you stop aspiring and begin to simply be a writer. In that moment the things changed from: I hope to someday be a writer to be one. In that moment I understood that I wasn’t aspiring anymore, after many years I had finally arrived.
It was then, when I shut myself into the mystical cabin, leaved the excuses outside and I sit and write. I write as like honestly I hadn’t written in many years.
The fact is that something had changed. I hope that soon all those projects that had me shut in the mystical cabin began to show up, until then, it is time to return and continue writing in my mystical cabin.
Until next time.