At Coyoacan
This is a good place even if only to talk to myself and talk loudly. There is very little furniture, for I use this place to pace and pace and walk myself into a different reality. The madman knows, and I am learning, how the one voice becomes two voices. You are talking to yourself and then to another person. Suddenly you are gone and you are a witness. Two people are talking and they are talking through you. And out of two a whole cast.
And then you are telling a story.
We write yes. We are writers but before that we are storytellers and this is how we tell our tales—through the pen. We offer our bodies and our imaginations up the same way the earth offers up her flesh: to be habitations for these people and their stories.
I go on to finish and take up the galley of the second White Life book. This is an act of courage seeing as no one I know had read the first or even bothered to so much tell me about it. I think writing always requires this courage. It takes you so to the edge and sometimes there is precious little left of you. Given the fact that even a well received writers is read wrongly if at all writing for other people is a small reward for the great price it exacts. You must do it for the doing of it and for yourself, who is the doer and could do nothing else
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