The power of writing:

We are with my wife on a transatlantic cruise, spending many days at sea with no shore in sight. There are hundreds of activities to entertain us, including movies, shows, the gym, games, sports, music, reading, and many others. But of all, the best entertainment is interacting. Every breakfast, lunch, snack, or dinner, we end up talking to people who have stories to tell. 

The last conversation was with a 90-year-old woman and her 91-year-old husband. After 29 moves around different military bases, they live in Ocala, Florida. He, Jim, was a former B-52 bomber base commander. He traveled through several wars, the kind you suffer through in documentaries and enjoy in movies.

Fascinated by his stories, wars, and lives on 29 military bases with several children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, I asked him if he had them written down. Surprised, He looked at me as if he didn't realize how the time slipped away. "We travel a lot," was his excuse. "You could still write them down; maybe no one will do it for you," I replied. He looked at me again with regretful eyes as if grateful to be told that his life had been worthwhile.

I didn't motivate Jim by chance. A few days ago, I read a note about the poet Andrea Cote-Botero, who won the XXIV Casa de America Prize for American Poetry. She won with "Querida Beth," her aunt's migratory nightmare in the United States, to return to Colombia to die. When asked why she had written about her aunt, the poet replied: "(She) knew that her life would come to nothing, and she wanted to be remembered. I was touched that she had such confidence in the power of writing."

I hope I have conveyed to Jim what Cote-Botero refers to as "the power of writing," not allowing time to erase our traces.

 

Democracia: responsabilidad individual

¿Por qué insisto en la verdad y la libertad? Porque no son meras palabras, sino los pilares que sostienen la democracia. En un momento en que su estructura parece tambalearse bajo el peso de quienes ostentan el poder, es crucial recordar que la solidez de estos pilares depende de cada uno de nosotros, de nuestras acciones diarias.

El poder a menudo nos seduce con eslóganes grandilocuentes: "¡Viva la libertad, carajo!" o "¡La verdad prevalecerá!". Estas frases pueden encender el entusiasmo, pero son solo chispas momentáneas. La verdadera libertad y la verdad se forjan con el martillo de la acción constante, individual, sostenida en el tiempo.

En una democracia viva, la verdad no es un concepto abstracto, sino una práctica: la honestidad intelectual que nos impulsa a reconocer la realidad, incluso cuando su reflejo nos incomoda. Es el coraje de mirar de frente a los hechos, sin importar cuán incómodos sean.

La libertad, por su parte, va más allá de la simple ausencia de cadenas. Es la capacidad de alzar la voz en disenso, de participar activamente en la vida pública sin que el miedo a represalias nos paralice. Es la valentía de expresar nuestras ideas, de cuestionar el status quo, de exigir rendición de cuentas.

Estos dos valores, verdad y libertad, están intrínsecamente entrelazados. La construcción de una democracia robusta exige la voluntad de escuchar diversas perspectivas, de debatir ideas con pasión y respeto, y la valentía de denunciar la injusticia y la falsedad, incluso cuando el camino se torna peligroso.

Imaginemos una sociedad donde la libertad se sofoca. La búsqueda de la verdad se oscurece, las voces críticas se silencian, y la información se manipula. En contraste, una sociedad donde la verdad se ignora, donde la desinformación campa a sus anchas, la libertad se erosiona, dejando paso a la manipulación y el caos.

Por lo tanto, la democracia no es un regalo que recibimos, sino un jardín que cultivamos y cuidamos cada día.

 

Democracy: individual responsibility

Why do I insist on truth and freedom? Because they are not mere words but the pillars that support democracy. At a time when its structure is tottering under the weight of those in power, it is crucial to remember that the solidity of these pillars depends on each of us and our daily actions.

Power often seduces us with grandiloquent slogans: “Long fucking live freedom!” or ‘Truth will prevail!’. These phrases may ignite enthusiasm, but they are only momentary sparks. True freedom and truth are forged with the hammer of constant, individual action, sustained over time.

In a living democracy, truth is not an abstract concept but a practice: the intellectual honesty that drives us to recognize reality, even when its reflection makes us uncomfortable. It is the courage to look the facts squarely in the face, no matter how painful.

Freedom, on the other hand, goes beyond the simple absence of chains. It is the ability to speak out in dissent and to participate actively in public life without being paralyzed by fear of reprisals. It is the courage to express our ideas, question the status quo, and demand accountability.

These two values, truth and freedom, are intrinsically intertwined. Building a robust democracy requires a willingness to listen to diverse perspectives, debate ideas with passion and respect, and speak out against injustice and falsehood, even when the path becomes perilous.

Imagine a society where freedom is stifled. The search for truth is obscured, critical voices are silenced, and information is manipulated. In contrast, in a society where truth is ignored, where misinformation runs rampant, freedom is eroded, giving way to manipulation and chaos.

Therefore, democracy is not a gift we receive but a garden we cultivate and care for daily.

 

El desafío de enganchar a las audiencias

Me preguntaron -como si supiera- qué se necesita para escribir una novela. Me siento demasiado arrogante e incómodo para enseñar sobre un oficio en el que apenas estoy despuntando y aprendiendo. Hubiera preferido que me pregunten sobre cómo escribir una nota periodística que enganche al lector, en una época en la que la competencia por la atención es el gran desafío.

No tengo mucha experiencia en novelas, pero esto es lo que aprendí en un par de años intentándolo. Talento, poco. Coraje, mucho. Crear (y creer en) una historia, esencial. Aprender, siempre. Leer, toneladas. Escribir, más toneladas y perseverancia. Editar, corregir, reescribir y revisar, sin miedo y con audacia.

Tiempo atrás, después de escribir verdades sobre sobre periodistas y libertades en varios libros de no-ficción, quise contar historias ficticias. Como cualquier mortal, sin talento innato para la disciplina y con mi mentalidad siempre orientada a los hechos debido a mi oficio de periodista, me puse a buscar y aprender sobre la nueva disciplina. Me harté consumiendo cursos por YouTube, podcasts, webinarios, manuales sobre cómo escribir novelas, cómo crear el concepto, la estructura, la trama, los personajes, los diálogos, los dilemas morales, las ironías y decenas de técnicas sobre el fascinante mundo de la ficción. Todo fue muy útil, pero un libro, más que otros, me desafió y me sigue desafiando: “The Secrets of Story”, de Matt Bird. Me hubiera gustado que Bird hubiera sido más indulgente con mis sueños de cómo escribir novelas o contar historias. Pero Bird se metió de lleno a pelear en contra de mis ideas y prejuicios. Lo sentí tosco, amoral, sinsentido. Sin embargo, poco a poco, tras releerlo, y escucharlo en Spotify, fui descubriendo sus enseñanzas.

En esencia, "The Secrets of Story" enseña que una historia solo funciona si presenta un personaje (héroe o antihéroe) con el que la audiencia pueda identificarse o por el que sienta algún tipo de conexión emocional, hasta el punto de tomar partido en su viaje.

Suena simple, pero es muy difícil mantener la cabeza en la audiencia cuando uno se concentra en la historia. Más allá de su definición, me envalentó al descubrir que un novelista, así como un periodista, debe narrar una historia con significado, que sea útil y relevante para enganchar a la audiencia. García Márquez, periodista y novelista, supo hacerlo mágicamente con perfección.

 

The Challenge of Hooking the Audience

I was asked - as if I knew - what it takes to write a novel. I feel too arrogant and uncomfortable to teach about a craft in which I am just getting started and learning. I preferred to be asked about how to write a news story that engages the reader in an age when competition for attention is a great challenge.

I don't have much experience writing novels, but this is what I learned in a couple of years of trying: Talent, not much. Courage, a lot. Creating (and believing in) a story is essential. Learning, always. Reading, tons. Writing, more tons, and perseverance. Editing, correcting, rewriting, and revising fearlessly and boldly.

Some time ago, after writing truths about journalists and freedoms in several non-fiction books, I wanted to tell fictional stories. Like any mortal, with no innate talent for the discipline and with my mindset always oriented to facts due to my profession as a journalist, I set out to search and learn about the new discipline. I got fed up consuming YouTube courses, podcasts, webinars, manuals on how to write novels, how to create the concept, the structure, the plot, the characters, the dialogues, the moral dilemmas, the ironies, and dozens of techniques about the fascinating world of fiction. It was all beneficial, but one book, more than others, challenged and continues to challenge me: "The Secrets of Story" by Matt Bird. I wish Bird had been more forgiving of my dreams of how to write novels or tell stories. But Bird jumped right in to fight against my ideas and prejudices. It felt crude, amoral, nonsensical. After rereading it and listening to it on Spotify, I gradually discovered its lessons.

In essence, "The Secrets of Story" teaches that a story only works if it presents a character (hero or anti-hero) that the audience can identify with or feel some emotional connection for, to the point of taking sides in their journey.

It sounds simple, but keeping your head in the audience is very hard when you're focused on the story. Beyond its definition, I was emboldened to discover that a novelist and journalist must tell a meaningful, valuable, and relevant story to engage the audience. García Márquez, journalist and novelist, magically knew how to do this with perfection.

 

"Lleno de vacío"

No escribo estas líneas para promocionar una novela, sino para reiniciar. Tras sumergirme por completo en la creación de “Robots con Alma: atrapados entre la verdad y la libertad”, me encontré de repente "lleno de vacío". Una paradoja que viví tras sentirme lleno de ideas, energía y propósito, solo para caer en un profundo vacío interior.

No es una resaca fácil de afrontar. Les ocurre a muchos: el maratonista que cruza la meta tras meses de entrenamiento o el periodista que expone un gran caso de corrupción tras una investigación arriesgada. Leila Guerriero lo confiesa dolorosamente en una columna reciente de El País: “Mientras escribo un libro renuncio a una notable porción de vida, pero cuando lo termino, la vida renuncia a mí”.

Es una sensación desconcertante que trasciende la fuerza de voluntad o la disciplina. Es química pura: durante el proceso creativo, el cerebro libera un torrente de sustancias que, al terminar, cae en picada, dejándonos vacíos. A esta paradoja de sentirse "lleno de vacío" se suman otras tensiones que ocurren durante el proceso creativo: la parálisis ante infinitas opciones, el bloqueo del perfeccionismo o la espera de una inspiración repentina. Picasso encaró esta última con mucha astucia: “que la inspiración me encuentre trabajando”.

Siguiendo aquel consejo, me he obligado a escribir, aunque sin un rumbo claro, como antídoto para convocar la creatividad. Porque escribir, aún en el vacío, es volver a llenarse.

"Full of Emptiness"

I am not writing these lines to promote a novel but to reboot. After fully immersing myself in the creation of "Robots with Soul: Trapped between Truth and Freedom," I suddenly found myself "full of emptiness." A paradox I experienced after feeling full of ideas, energy, and purpose, only to fall into a deep inner emptiness.

It's not a manageable hangover to deal with. It happens to many: the marathon runner who crosses the finish line after months of training or the journalist who exposes a significant corruption case after a risky investigation. Leila Guerriero painfully confesses it in a recent column in El País: "While I write a book, I renounce a notable portion of life, but when I finish it, life renounces me."

It is a disconcerting sensation that transcends willpower or discipline. It is pure chemistry: during the creative process, the brain releases a torrent of substances that, when finished, plummets, leaving us empty. In addition to this paradox of feeling "full of emptiness," other tensions occur during the creative process: paralysis in the face of infinite options, the blockage of perfectionism, or the wait for a sudden inspiration. Picasso faced the latter with great astuteness: "May inspiration find me at work."

Following that advice, I have forced myself to write, albeit without a clear direction, as an antidote to summon creativity. Because to write, even in a vacuum, is to fill oneself up again.