I write because I’ve always liked it. It doesn’t matter in what language I do it.
I love Spanish and its words, but I love words more than any language.
So now I write in English because it reaches more people;
because writing gives me comfort, a sense of relief and accomplishment,
the accomplishment of what? It doesn’t matter.
And of course, I write because it’s a pretentious thing.
Long ago, the owner of the coffee shop where I used to sit down and write, called me a writer. Back then I told him that I wasn’t a writer, but he insisted that clearly, I was. Nobody else has ever called me a writer.
I didn’t grow-up in Canada, and my parents are not baby boomers, so I was never encouraged to pursue an artistic activity in which I didn’t have any talent (and of course, I wasn’t made believe that I could make a living out of it!). I secretly admire those untalented people who try to make a living out of their talent, but most of the times, I feel a ravenous need to stop them (This is the subject of a different post, you have no idea all the thoughts I have about this topic).
But going back to my writing, I don’t even think I’m a creative person.
Writing doesn’t define me,
but at the same time, I’m not defined by a single category,
but by an intersection of many (yes, you can tell I was trained by overeducated white feminists): race, colour, religion, gender, age, class, immigration, ability.
I’ve been writing for years, and I love it. It is one of the few things that motivates me when I’m sad.