I don’t remember myself as a child without anecdotes and fantasy heroes to life with tales away from prying eyes. I am a woman who lives in a place that doesn’t belong to books, so I think she specifically chose me to be my friend. Yes, books are my friend.
I tell her what I can’t tell others. I’m a woman born among the charms of ancient Egyptian temples whose ancient grandmother imagined how she was living whether she liked to write papyrus.
I’m from the East and I am living with the magic that drives me to write new stories of the same characters every day. I imagine if books hadn’t chosen me to be their friend how I’d spend my life.
Although writing here is one of the hardest things: first, writing cannot be a clear source of income. Second, it cannot be understood how a woman decides that books are the main part of her life, not the husband.
Eastern women, especially writers, struggle every day not to escape words. In the end, they want to scream that it is not a matter of choice, but something for which they were made.
Despite the pressure, I still dream every night about their stories, and I find them very exciting. There is a fantasy and adventure where everything I can simply change.
I am creating a new life, perhaps a woman or a man from other worlds.
They are trying to steal my dreams, but they live entirely inside my little head.
Nothing will succeed in making me stay away from the books. I feel myself as the hero of the forgotten truth bookstore, that Carlos Zavon was telling my story. Am I absolutely crazy?
The fantasy world has given me the ability to dream and in my dream, books are the best hero who can change the world.