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; for in it I find myself, and in it I am at peace. In that gentle retreat I delight; in it I find the love I have lost and the love I am yet to discover; in it there are also sorrows and hatreds, acts of revenge I thought I had forgotten, even trifles that once brought me a faint joy or sadness, but which now, upon recalling them, make me smile or weep uncontrollably when I put them into words.

In writing, I am also a Magellan, a Columbus, a Viking, and I sail oceans, seas, bays, and the mouths of great rivers; and when my oars tire, when they can go no further, then I become a passenger among those other navigators who dwell in the books on my bookshelf, those I left forgotten on my bedside table, or those beside the toilet. And I let myself be lulled by the gentle sway of her prose, by the way they weave the words; and I am no longer alone.

If the world is crumbling outside, I don't care; when I leave here in a few days or months, I'll know if it has changed.

Then I'll decide whether to stay here, or go out for a walk to say to my neighbor, "Hello, how are you?", to go see my friends, my beloved family.

But I'll only do it to gather strength, so I can immerse myself in my writing again.