ME? WRITER? LET ME THINK...

Many pages full vowels or consonants. Meaningless sentences through the notebooks: Mi-ma-má-me-mi-ma, la-pi-pa-de-mi-pa-pá. My teacher dictates and we -second grade students- repeat the words while writing them. My teacher writes on the board, we -fourth grade students- write from the board. There are letters, however: I love them, I feel good writing them; they are girls and mom. I like letters.

That was the beginning and then came secondary school. I can see workshops, questionnaires, true or false lists, nothing to create through writing. I can see novels, short tales, Blacaman -the good one- is over there, here blood on the snow, Big Mamma has died: just summaries, characters description. I can see letters again: I still like letters. I can see a notebook, a very especial one: it is full of sentences, ideas I come up with, feelings. I can see I have things to say, to write. I can see a teacher, a very especial one: she asks me to read and write... and I like it. I can see I make an effort when I write... and I like it. Of course, there are letters.

Let me think of university. There are books, writers, papers, lots of them. There are questions: they are complex, easy, boring, beautiful, shocking, stupid, accurate, ambiguous, interesting, inspiring, cruel. I answer, I write. There are writing classes: write, reflect on writing, how to write, write again, write every day. I like it. I like a good sentence, short but meaningful. I like a good paragraph, strong and accurate. I like a text when its sound is beautiful. There are foreign languages: new sounds, rhythms, structures, stresses, new worlds, meanings, visions. Now I switch my mind and write. I like it.

PD.: There are letters, I still like letters.