When the Creative Process Begins

Often I have asked myself, repeatedly why and so that I write.

 In addition, I speak to the fact to most of dedicate my life to this office that is so rewarding and that so many satisfactions have given me.

 However, there are moments, when I face the page in target,

when I am in search of verses, of prose, poetry, ghosts, of personages, in short,

when I want to write and the words are not born, do not arise. It is then when I have asked myself why I write.

The answer always has been the same one gets passionate to me.

And it would not know to explain it of another way, to write is one of the things that to more leave me satisfactions in the life, and is that I not only can reflect my mood, but also it gives the possibility of telling histories me.

If, to count histories of men, women, of beings who are needing that somebody listens to them, personages who want to be made hear. In addition, I, I am I orchestrate that they need. Often I have been watching towards the anything, with the lost glance in some place of the universe, and am very possible that the people who surround to me think that I am crazy. In addition, they are not very far from the reality, I am crazy, if, but to write. Crazy person to count histories that they want that she counts.

 There are moments in which I am not, but are they. They, those mysterious beings who nobody knows, those beings who live in the shade. Some call angels to them, other demons, muse, and inspiration. Whoever they are his names, they exist and they have chosen to me so that I am that I count its life, their loves, their fears. All that torments to them and thus asks to live, to exist, to occur to know and to be able some way to leave their confinement. I have always thought that without them I am not anything. It is a work of equipment, they need to me so that I bring to light, and I need them to them to be able to create. In order to be able to live and to be able to give the life them. Often those personages do not appear by my life, and then fodder that am lost the inspiration. At the outset, he was hopeless to me and he filled to me of rage, broke whichever paper had in front of me. In addition, often I doubted my capacity like writer. Soon I learned that the best thing is to rest, to keep the pencils, to close the notebooks by a time, and to think more neither about writing nor about creating.

The moment will arrive when without looking for it, they come to look for to me, would touch door. They would seize of my thoughts, and without as much efforts the words will flow, will come out ahead. My eyes will be lost again in the anything, my smile will become mysterious. And I will again spend hour after hour writing, letting take, letting to me to me drag by that superior force that seizes of me and who makes me fly, if, to fly with the imagination. It is then when I move away absolutely and I give myself to the nothing, knowing that after hours of effort the reward will be reflected. The creative process has begun; the rest is question to hope. Of knowing how to hope. The personages arrive; histories are born in the moment at which we learn to fight with our ghosts.