I grew up in a society where my future was decided years before I was born. Following in the footsteps of my family was the expected thing to do and so I studied math, physics, chemistry and, later, engineering. The only one I was remotely good at was math. The rest — especially physics — still mystify me.
My first experience with the writing craft came at a tender age of three when I stuck a pen refill into an electric outlet. Sparks flew in more ways than one but didn’t ignite a full writing career until many years later when the elixir of parental guilt and expectations lost its power. That’s when I discovered that putting words on a page and spreading paints on a canvas beat all of my previous endeavors in terms of being fulfilling and agonizing at the same time.
Over the last few years I’ve received enough rejections to build a nice fire if those rejection letters were still paper. But I’ve also been published. I’ve finished two novels — with one of them out in June 2015 and effectively forcing me to give up all tea drinking (you’ll understand the reference when you read the book). I am working on a memoir which, when printed, will most certainly require a third-party-brokered reconciliation effort with my parents. And I’ve been painting enough to replace the smell of Madrid’s smog with a smell of oil in my apartment.
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