Why Do We Write?

 

One writes, among other things, because you have so much inside and need to make space, because your characters desperately need air, because there are worlds you've seen that others haven't noticed.

One writes because that story you caught just with the corner of your eye deserves a sequel, or because you're sitting on a train, and that glimpse of landscape, smudged by the window glass, has connected a couple of rather distant synapses in your mind.

One writes because everyone has already written that story, but in your opinion, that's not how they should have written it, because the world is full of stories just waiting for someone to make them presentable, and because, for once, you want to be the one pulling the strings of destiny. One writes because you want to begin where another would have ended, or because you want to end where another would have begun.

One writes because nobody cares about that thing, but you went down there and saw it up close. What a surprise that commotion was, the dust, the shouts, and that smell of healthy sweat, like a cloud of overexcited kids chasing after a ball.

One writes, I think, because there are many interesting people out there who never existed, like Madame Bovary, Captain Ahab, or Thérèse Raquin. Years go by, and you keep hearing about Renzo and Lucia, José Arcadio Buendía, or Dona Flor with her two husbands. There must be a parallel dimension where they've become immortal, and they don't even age anymore, not beyond that mischievous pen stroke that had drawn a wrinkle on their forehead, a gigantic nose, or a wooden leg. I wonder how Lieutenant Drogo, that Montag, or that Jean-Baptiste Grenouille are doing?

Carol Gerber. I, for instance, would like to meet Carol Gerber, but also Frannie Goldsmith or Beverly Marsh, for that matter. It wouldn't be bad if some of my characters could send me news, bring them my greetings.

One writes because one envies those who get rich by writing. Sure, they use languages different from ours, bouncing from one continent to another, and eventually materializing into images, comics, and songs.

One writes because it's impossible to do without it, and because every time someone starts reading your book or begins your story, the lights come back on in those places and on those characters. The latter wake up, emerge from the suspended animation that had forced them to sleep, stretch out, and begin to recompose the story that concerns them. Each time slightly different, they dress in the clothes that the reader sees fit for them and change their face a little, their height, and the tone of their voice, then they look around and no longer recognize the place, flooded by that ray of sunshine that wasn't there last time, or by that cold breeze that makes you want to cover up.

That's why one writes, because the seed of the world you've buried will germinate each time with a slightly different plant, and the miracle will be performed anew.