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If there is something I had an abundance of growing up—amongst many other things—it was books.
Both my mum and dad have always been avid readers, and from a young age, I began to devour novels and other literature. From Catalan and Spanish authors like Eduardo Mendoza, Manuel de Pedrolo and Mercè Rodoreda to the great Anne Rice, Ken Follett, and John Irving to name a few, I developed a love for words, languages, and narratives.
When I was eight or nine years old, I received a diary as my first communion gift. It was pink with a hard cover and drawings of greenery and a stone house, and if I recall correctly, it said Mi Primer Diario in big letters. The pages were thick and with lines—a clear attempt from my mum to correct my chronic habit of writing on an upward diagonal. This diary also came with a fountain pen, but my obsession with those is a story for another day.
I still have that first little pink journal as well as all the others that came after it collecting dust in a drawer in the Barcelona flat where I grew up.
With my journaling as a stepping stone, I began to explore creative writing. I wrote short stories, poems, and songs. I partook in every literary contest that my school offered, and even won several times. I wrote, and I wrote, and I wrote, until I didn’t.
I wrote, and I wrote, and I wrote, until I didn’t.
Maybe it was adolescence, or perhaps it was when I left my home country of Catalunya to pursue a career as a professional figure skater; to be honest, I do not recall.
Sure, I still had a diary and I journaled and doodled in it every once in a while, yet my passion for storytelling dimmed down.
Life swerved and turned for several years, and so did I, and a couple of years ago, I found myself writing once again. First, I was blessed with the opportunity to publish several articles on yoga, wellness, and mindfulness for an online platform. Thanks to the seed that had been planted and the encouragement of several friends, I once again felt inspired to explore fiction and creative writing.
I felt the spark again last Autumn, over coffee with my friend—an incredible writer and editor—when she told me about NaNoWriMo. I began to entertain the idea that maybe I could write a novel, and after a few days, I made the decision to create more space in my schedule for writing, because if I wanted to be a writer, I needed to write.
If I wanted to be a writer, I needed to write.
I procrastinated for a few more weeks, and on November 4, 2021, I finally sat down at my favourite coffee shop with no plot, no theme, no characters—just a blank page on my laptop, three hours of free time, and nothing to write about.
The funny thing is there was no doubt in my mind that when I was 10 years old, I was born to be an author. Yet here I was, sitting in front of a blank page, with no inspiration, and a mind that all of a sudden felt rather empty, yet I had the clear intention and desire to begin my first draft.
An hour into sitting down and sipping coffee, the gates of my creativity opened and words, characters, and stories began to form, and I have been writing pretty much every day since then.
As I began the draft of my novel and let my friends and family know, at least six people mentioned how they’ve always wanted to write a book as well. The common thread is that they don’t feel like they have the time, or the knowledge, or enough things to say that matter.
Well, I hear you, I feel the same way…yet I’m doing it anyway. Maybe by sharing the process, it will inspire you to write, too.
It’s only been a few weeks, yet it’s certainly been quite the journey, and that is why I have decided to start writing…well, about writing. It’s in my essence, yet writing a fiction novel certainly feels brand new.
In this space, I want to share what inspires me to keep writing, the rocks, and the gifts that I find along the way.
Whether you’re here to read, to support, or to maybe, soon enough, write, welcome!
Let’s have some fun.
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