After endless hours of preparation, my mind has fallen in the trap, writing became a fundamental part of my life—somehow, I woke up a creature that feeds on my creativity. I’ve tried, in vain, to spend entire days not writing, only managing to be haunted by unexpected torments. Even sleeping became impossible, closing my eyes gives strength to the creature that now lives within me.
That’s how the long journey to create a novel began—the only way to silence the creature. However, it’s difficult to stay focused on a single plot, but the hunger of the monster doesn’t rest between chapters. I had to find an alternative.
In a sea of literary narratives, I found the solution—a fiction blog was the food the creature craved. I read the works of Edgar Allan Poe, his stories reached a part of me that I hadn’t discovered. I began to think that I woke up the same thing that lived inside Poe—the creature that forces you to create—the monster that feeds on your stories.
After all this time, I’m still here with my illness—a slave to the literary creation, forced to work to exhaustion. It gives me strength to know that you’re reading this, to have the certainty that my work doesn’t only feeds the creature, to know that you can also take advantage of my efforts.
I hope these words are enough for you to understand my dilemma. I wish I had known this before waking this beast—before it took control of me. It’s too late for me, I have no choice but to keep creating. I had to lose touch with the world, got away from all those who were important. Live the existence of a slave; pay my sentence with words.
A writer deeply feels that writing is for him the best thing that has happened or could happen, as writing for him is the best possible way to live.
—Mario Vargas Llosa