-And then?
-Then… nothing. Nothing happens. I don’t smoke (anymore), I rarely drink. I don’t even write anymore.
-Why do you think that is?
-I don’t know, lack of inspiration, maybe? I used to write more when I was in college. My mind was set off by all those books we read back then. Just like a child when he copies the way his father talks, or like when you meet someone with a strong accent and start speaking like them, I would try to sort of copy the style of the writer we were reading. I tried some stream of consciousness when reading Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway; postmodernism and hyper-reality while reading Salman Rushdie’s Shalimar the Clown… Even before college, when I first started writing, I was so moved by Isabel Allende and Márquez’s Magical Realism.
-So, what are you reading right now?
-Nothing, really. A lot of things, actually. It’s been a while since I finished reading a whole book. I start reading one, then another, and never finish reading. A lot of beginnings, not so much for endings. I’ve actually always had a problem with endings; that’s why, most of the time, I would rather write poetry than fiction. Poems, free-style poems, that is, are easier to finish than a whole story. There’s this “novel” I started writing like 4 years ago, and I’ve no idea where the characters are going. I believe my writing reflects my life a lot. I’ve no idea where I’m going. Again.
-Let’s go back. So, you’re in front of the typewriter, cigarette in one hand, drink in the other; what else?
-What do you mean “what else”? I already told you, nothing happens.
-Yeah but, where are you? What does the place look like, how do you feel? Are you by yourself? Is it at night or during the day?
-Well… I’m in this room, a room which only has a bed, a wardrobe, a wooden table and the chair I’m sitting on. The walls are white… no, they’re not white, but the color is really soft. There’s a window on my right, with curtains made of a really light fabric; they’re the color of the wall. The wind comes in, making the curtains dance. It is not a cold wind, it’s just fresh. I can hear the ocean. But I cannot see outside the window because the sunlight is too bright. It’s like in that movie, have you seen that movie? What’s the name? Salma Hayek is in it, and this guy, the guy who played Alexander the Great is in it; what’s his name? Colin Farrel! And the movie’s called “Ask the Dust”; it’s based on John Fante’s book.
-How do you feel in that room?
-I feel… good. Frustrated, but good. And yes, I am all by myself.
-“Frustrated, but good”. Would you mind explaining that?
-Ok, I’m frustrated because there’s nothing but a sentence on that piece of paper in the typewriter; but I feel good because… well, who wouldn’t feel good near the beach? The beach is good.
-What does that sentence say?
-The sentence says, “I shouldn’t talk to you anymore.”
-To me?
-No, not you, it just says, “I shouldn’t talk to you anymore.”
-Ok, so you are alone. How does that make you feel?
-It makes me feel… powerless, scared. Reminds me of when my mom used to leave me alone for days.
-Interesting…
-I’m actually joking. You people always try to relate our fucked up lives with some shit we went through with our parents.
-Well, it’s usually how it is.
-I like being alone.
-Do you, really?
-Yes.
-I don’t think so.
-Why?
-For starters, you’re here with me, talking about your fucked up life. Second, you’ve had more girlfriends than I can count.
-Huh… you may have a point there. I dreamt of her, by the way.
-Whom?
-My ex.
-Yes, I know, but which one?
-Second to last. The one who’s leaving the country in a few days.
-What was the dream about?
-I don’t remember. You know I never remember my dreams.
-Let’s go back to the room.
-What about the room?
-Tell me more about it. Do you stand up, do you walk around?
-It is just an image. I’m sitting there, smoking, barely touching my drink. I love the typewriter, you know? I love vintage stuff. And this typewriter is orange, and it’s got those big round keys. It’s even got its own suitcase to carry it around. It’s lying right there besides the table. So I’m there, breathing in this mix of pure air coming from the sea and tobacco, trying to figure out what comes after that first sentence. I don’t stand up. In this image, I can’t really see the bed or the wardrobe; I just know they’re there. Maybe I see just a little bit of them, but mostly I just know they´re right behind me. What I can see real clear is the table, the typewriter, the chair and the window.
-And loneliness…
-Well, in this image, I like being alone. Maybe because it’s not really me, but my alter ego. And I’m not really alone, you see? There are all of these voices inside my head. The character’s voices, my own voice, people I’ve met.
-And what are they telling you?
-They’re not telling me to kill anybody, if that’s what worries you.
-Funny.
-They’re telling me a bunch of fantastic shit that I just can’t put onto paper. They always do that. They talk so fast, and so much, and all at the same time… I just can’t keep up with them. Is that what writer’s block looks like?
-Perhaps. How does it make you feel?
-How does what make me feel?
-Not being able to write what the voices are saying.
-It makes me feel… like I’ve lost something, something that made me special. I used to be able to translate, to interpret what they were saying. And I feel trapped, because I’m those voices too, and I can’t get out of myself.
-Do you think that room can help?
-I don’t see how; it’s in my mind as well.
-I’m in your mind. Am I helping?
-Hmm…
-You’re time is up. See you next week?
-Sure.
-I don’t know, lack of inspiration, maybe? I used to write more when I was in college. My mind was set off by all those books we read back then. Just like a child when he copies the way his father talks, or like when you meet someone with a strong accent and start speaking like them, I would try to sort of copy the style of the writer we were reading. I tried some stream of consciousness when reading Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway; postmodernism and hyper-reality while reading Salman Rushdie’s Shalimar the Clown… Even before college, when I first started writing, I was so moved by Isabel Allende and Márquez’s Magical Realism.
-So, what are you reading right now?
-Nothing, really. A lot of things, actually. It’s been a while since I finished reading a whole book. I start reading one, then another, and never finish reading. A lot of beginnings, not so much for endings. I’ve actually always had a problem with endings; that’s why, most of the time, I would rather write poetry than fiction. Poems, free-style poems, that is, are easier to finish than a whole story. There’s this “novel” I started writing like 4 years ago, and I’ve no idea where the characters are going. I believe my writing reflects my life a lot. I’ve no idea where I’m going. Again.
-Let’s go back. So, you’re in front of the typewriter, cigarette in one hand, drink in the other; what else?
-What do you mean “what else”? I already told you, nothing happens.
-Yeah but, where are you? What does the place look like, how do you feel? Are you by yourself? Is it at night or during the day?
-Well… I’m in this room, a room which only has a bed, a wardrobe, a wooden table and the chair I’m sitting on. The walls are white… no, they’re not white, but the color is really soft. There’s a window on my right, with curtains made of a really light fabric; they’re the color of the wall. The wind comes in, making the curtains dance. It is not a cold wind, it’s just fresh. I can hear the ocean. But I cannot see outside the window because the sunlight is too bright. It’s like in that movie, have you seen that movie? What’s the name? Salma Hayek is in it, and this guy, the guy who played Alexander the Great is in it; what’s his name? Colin Farrel! And the movie’s called “Ask the Dust”; it’s based on John Fante’s book.
-How do you feel in that room?
-I feel… good. Frustrated, but good. And yes, I am all by myself.
-“Frustrated, but good”. Would you mind explaining that?
-Ok, I’m frustrated because there’s nothing but a sentence on that piece of paper in the typewriter; but I feel good because… well, who wouldn’t feel good near the beach? The beach is good.
-What does that sentence say?
-The sentence says, “I shouldn’t talk to you anymore.”
-To me?
-No, not you, it just says, “I shouldn’t talk to you anymore.”
-Ok, so you are alone. How does that make you feel?
-It makes me feel… powerless, scared. Reminds me of when my mom used to leave me alone for days.
-Interesting…
-I’m actually joking. You people always try to relate our fucked up lives with some shit we went through with our parents.
-Well, it’s usually how it is.
-I like being alone.
-Do you, really?
-Yes.
-I don’t think so.
-Why?
-For starters, you’re here with me, talking about your fucked up life. Second, you’ve had more girlfriends than I can count.
-Huh… you may have a point there. I dreamt of her, by the way.
-Whom?
-My ex.
-Yes, I know, but which one?
-Second to last. The one who’s leaving the country in a few days.
-What was the dream about?
-I don’t remember. You know I never remember my dreams.
-Let’s go back to the room.
-What about the room?
-Tell me more about it. Do you stand up, do you walk around?
-It is just an image. I’m sitting there, smoking, barely touching my drink. I love the typewriter, you know? I love vintage stuff. And this typewriter is orange, and it’s got those big round keys. It’s even got its own suitcase to carry it around. It’s lying right there besides the table. So I’m there, breathing in this mix of pure air coming from the sea and tobacco, trying to figure out what comes after that first sentence. I don’t stand up. In this image, I can’t really see the bed or the wardrobe; I just know they’re there. Maybe I see just a little bit of them, but mostly I just know they´re right behind me. What I can see real clear is the table, the typewriter, the chair and the window.
-And loneliness…
-Well, in this image, I like being alone. Maybe because it’s not really me, but my alter ego. And I’m not really alone, you see? There are all of these voices inside my head. The character’s voices, my own voice, people I’ve met.
-And what are they telling you?
-They’re not telling me to kill anybody, if that’s what worries you.
-Funny.
-They’re telling me a bunch of fantastic shit that I just can’t put onto paper. They always do that. They talk so fast, and so much, and all at the same time… I just can’t keep up with them. Is that what writer’s block looks like?
-Perhaps. How does it make you feel?
-How does what make me feel?
-Not being able to write what the voices are saying.
-It makes me feel… like I’ve lost something, something that made me special. I used to be able to translate, to interpret what they were saying. And I feel trapped, because I’m those voices too, and I can’t get out of myself.
-Do you think that room can help?
-I don’t see how; it’s in my mind as well.
-I’m in your mind. Am I helping?
-Hmm…
-You’re time is up. See you next week?
-Sure.
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