If I tell you what I do to write... I'd have to kill you.
If I tell you what I do to write... I'd have to kill you. I confine myself in my house for hours, entire days, and don't go out at all. I don't talk to friends, I forget about acquaintances, and I don't even say "Hello... How are you?" to my family; I disconnect the internet, the TV cable, and turn off everything that makes noise. Then, in the stillness of my living room, in complete calm, when all the sounds of the world have faded away, I take a dozen blank sheets of paper, my pen that writes in soft red lines, and I start to write. I don't need anything or anyone. Perhaps some cello music coming from a nearby CD player, and if possible, a slightly chilled glass of red wine. Then I spread my beetle wings and embark on an imaginary journey to fly the world—today's world, the world of now, the world of years or centuries ago, or the world of futures yet to come and amaze us. I fear no confinement, if it is the confinement of my own choosing; fo...