I guess that everything began that Friday afternoon over two decades ago when all the students of Ciudad Libertad interested in the arts were told that that particular day we wouldn’t have classes of our specific fields because we had to participate in a writing contest. Ciudad Libertad being the biggest school in the country, we were a lot of kids in one single room. Those in the theatre department (me among them) were put in one corner, lying in the floor, next to the ballet dancers and not far from the painters, with a single sheet of paper and the exaggerated time limit of one hour. Those studying writing were nowhere to be seen; they were probably on the upper floor comfortably seated and with their usual professor analyzing all their grammar moves. My mates from the theatre department, currently tramps and hobos of my native Marianao, didn’t do a thing other than write down their names and maybe add something like “Once upon a time...” I, always a very dedicated student, wrote a story about a messy little boy that all the sudden discovered the necessity to be conscientious with the world. Of course, I didn’t use the word “conscientious” at the time.
And then, a month later, or maybe more, in another congregational meeting Friday afternoon, they announced that the winner of the compulsory municipal writing contest was no other than me. I remember my excitement when I heard my name followed by the last name of my father and that of my mother. Even though I don’t longer have that flaw, I was a very modest child. So me and my distinctive big teeth got there to get my presents. They gave me a lot of things (small but a lot) that I shared with all the kids in the theatre department, who were even happier than I was. I need to say that even though currently unemployed or prison material, they used to be very nice kids. That was a happy day.
I would love to tell you that it was the beginning of a beautiful love story between me and literature, but it was not. It was the only incursion of my life in that genre, even though I consider it as the biggest of all arts. I went somewhere else, I vanished, I considered I had the talent for other things and I let writing for others. Always a reader (of absolutely everything) but not a writer. Some monologues I wrote later, when I believe I was an actor, and in college I did more than one good essay in both English and French. But that was it, nothing more than trying to earn some applause or get an A.
And then the blog era arrived. At some point in our lives, writing a blog became one of the basic duties of the human being, alongside marrying a good woman, not stealing and having a job. Everybody seems to have a blog. Even in Cuba where no one has Internet access. According to Wikipedia, there are currently 156 million blogs in the world. That’s a lot of blogs. So I said to myself, after reading some and doing some research that why not? I could put together mi good sense of humour, my bad temper and my lack of Spanish grammar mistakes and make one.
But what would I be writing about? Languages? Movies? Sex? Myself? A lot of things get my attention, that’s for sure. And finally, one day the decision came along by itself: I’d write about anything I want. Anything, anytime, anywhere, anyhow. Actually, I think that all blogs are the same, but I needed to establish some ground rules. That’s how “El estúpido escribir” was born last May. And since then, I haven’t been able to stop writing. I have no complaints about my blog: it exorcises my demons; it’s kinda popular and has given me the impulse to begin writing more “serious” stuff.
And then one day, I decided that I wanted that people from other countries would be able to read my thoughts and anecdotes as well. Of course, this is another kind of blog. It might be the same stories and the same person, but the way to address foreigners can never be the same as that of address the people who live (or has lived, giving the fact that a lot of my Cuban readers no longer live in the island) near you. But I still could say a lot, so I think it might be interesting. Will it be as popular as the Spanish version? I don’t know. And being honest, I don’t care. Writing is like oxygen to me now, so between one post and any other novel, I could write some posts in English, or translate some of my Spanish ones. Anyway, I just quit my job two weeks ago, so I have free time.
However this wonderful idea has a major problem: language. Sure I can speak, understand, read and even write in English, but what about being witty, passionate, delicate, offensive, and harsh in the language of Shakespeare as I am in that of Cervantes? But what the hell, I have nothing to lose. You are warned, though: sure I’m going to make mistakes and maybe not reached the high moments I do in Spanish, but the promise is this: it’s really me who’s writing (and not a born and raised in Washington D.C translator) so you need to see through that and let yourself get carried away.
Why “stupid”? Well, I’m a perfectionist, that’s why I never do anything. So by calling it “stupid” I allow myself to write a lot without having the necessity to think it has to be perfect (what could take me three months to make a single post). If you add that English is not my mother tongue this could be easily renamed “the VERY stupid writing”. But I’m not going to have someone to revise it for me before posting it, because in that case we should name it “the very tiring (and still stupid) writing”. So I’d prefer the risk to make some mistake every now and then.
So it’s official: the boy from 20 years ago it’s back. Now sitting in front of a computer, a little bit more cynic, in a foreign language and with a lot of stories to be told about messy little boys who all the sudden discover the necessity to be conscientious with the world. I don’t expect to win any award now (as I didn’t expect it back then) and I don’t even expect you to read it (even though I’d love to). I promise to be myself and not to change a single word in order to gain some random readers. I want to prove to myself that I can write in other languages, as I already proved to myself that I could write at all.
I’ve written this and I’m already convinced of keep on doing it. Maybe having a blog is one of the duties of the human being that I could actually perform (since the others…), maybe it could help me to be a little less cynic (but not that much) and maybe it could make someone laugh, cry or think, and by that this writing wouldn’t be that stupid after all.
PS: I dedicate this first post to all my friends from the theatre department of twenty years ago, whom I never saw again, and whom I discovered, by writing this, how much I loved them.
