My grandfather was a writer, a playwright mostly, who chose to live with the basic just to devote to writing full time. He was member of the most rebellious literary movements and friend with the most talented artists of his time, and he won many prizes. Unfortunatly, he died when I was just 11 years old, and for a long time I had to struggle with my own inner voice and how to handle and channel it. But he saw through me, even when I was just a child. He wrote a letter for me which was misteriously misplaced and only reached me when I was already a writer by choice. Amazingly, his words seemed to come from beyond the grave confirming what I already suspected. He said; “You´ve got the virus of literature in your soul and that you won´t be able to elude. Don´t ever betray your calling”.
I couldn´t. Literature is my true faith, my shelter, my language, my country and my family and every time I find it a hard path, to pour out my soul onto the paper, and try to quit, destiny sends a signal impossible to be ignored, and I resume my work, replenished and reinvigorated, I go back to the “room of my own” and write like crazy.