This afternoon, while writing

I will delete this, as soon as I return to my character.

I’m working on a short story. I’m working on many, actually, but I’m adding the most lines to one in which I didn’t really believe, until a few paragraphs ago. I wouldn’t have laid a single sentence on paper, hadn’t I thought it’d be interesting. But, just a while ago, I began to believe in it in a professional way, so to speak. I began to think of it as fit for publication. I began to consider sending it to a contest or a magazine. I’ve never been published on paper. I’ve only had unpaid articles published on little websites ran by friends of mine, but never have I been acknowledged as a writer. A writer differs from a “content creator”, or someone who, every once in a while, publishes little political complains online, for no money.

I’m frightened. My happiness depends upon taking a horrid risk that I don’t really want to take, but I want better for myself, so I’m screwed. I will soothe my mediocrity, by stealing from Cormac McCarthy: I don’t want to be here, and I don’t want to leave. At four a.m., half drunk– 3/4 drunk, I may think of myself as a great writer. I may lay my astigmatism-blurry sight on the columns of books that I have before my bed, and reading their spines, celebrate that I belong there, that someday, among the many admired names, will be mine; but when it comes to sending a fiction piece, not to some minor publisher, but to the institutions where I want to send it, I can’t.

I should stop wasting feelings on blog pieces, and go back to writing fiction. I fear that I might be two sentences away from nauseating self-empowering slogans. Whatever.

Big zurdo. Edito Nada Respetable y escribo en Domestic Affairs.

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