The question that is repeated to the authors as if it hid the secret of success

There is a question that is often repeated to writers; it is asked by journalists good and bad (even in The Paris Review), it is asked by readers, it is asked by aspiring writers, it is asked by other writers, it is also asked by the writer's friends; it is a question that appears again and again as if it hid the secret of the author's or a work's success (or failure). I can understand it, of course; just as, if we want to lose weight, we ask the friend who has lost ten kilos how they did it, we imagine that if we want to write, we can do the same: imitate a formula, a method. I admit that the question also interests me; although I don't believe in formulas or methods, sometimes you can take advantage of or adapt some of the ideas of others. The question is: when and where do you write?There are writers who write in the morning, others in the evening – although there are fewer who write in the early afternoon – some at odd hours (apparently Murakami gets up at four in the morning to write, which is more or less the time they say Dostoevsky finished writing and went to sleep). Regarding the place where one writes, there is also something for everyone: secluded cottages (Woolf), rooms lined with cork (Proust), desks with rotten apples (Schiller), bars (J. K. Rowling), hotels (Nabokov and the Fairmont Le Montreux Palace), libraries (Borges), squares (Perec and Place Saint-Sulpice). Some writers write sitting down, others lying down, a few standing up. Some need silence, others want continuous noise (which is another kind of silence). There are devotees of handwriting (and here we would enter into the fetishes of writing tools: pens, pencils, specific brand and color pens, etc.) and those who cannot do without a computer (and then: font, size, spacing, software, and company).Although the answers could not be more varied, The Method continues to be pursued. Writers themselves encapsulate themselves in their rituals (aka quirks), with an almost superstitious faith: perhaps they are afraid that if they alter what has worked for them until then, the result will suffer. This is why myths end up being created around this topic. Writing then becomes a ceremonial with a specific liturgy: one enters the chosen sanctuary and performs the established rites. Writing, in effect, is an act of faith.Writing is like sleeping

When they ask me –where and how do you write?–, I answer that I write when I can (almost never, but, if necessary, at the most convenient time, although for practical, not superstitious, reasons, it ends up being during standard working hours), that I write on the computer sitting on a 65 cm diameter ball (because instability helps prevent my muscles from atrophying and who knows if ideas too). But I always repeat that writing is like sleeping: obviously there are certain more optimal spaces and conditions for sleeping – a bed, an environment without harshness – but if you are truly sleepy you will end up sleeping anywhere: on the floor, on the subway, in class. The same happens with writing; whoever has the need to write will end up writing wherever and however they can. Therefore, I rebel against the fetishism of ritual and sanctuary. Liturgy does not make writers, it makes fanatics.There is another question that published writers or those who want to become one are repeatedly asked, it is a question that students from the institute where you have given a talk ask, as well as adults attending a conference or asking you to sign a book. The question is usually preceded by an introduction: I like to write, I would like to be a writer, I am writing a novel, I don't know how to get started, so: how do I do it to be a writer? The answer is very simple. To be a writer you have to do only one thing, only one thing that has nothing to do with having rotten apples on your desk and sitting there at three in the morning with a Remington Victor T. I always tell them that to write the only thing you need is: to write. What an obvious thing, right? True, but I often feel that there are people who get so caught up in the scenery that they lose perspective. If you want to write, you just have to write. Repetition is the best (the only?) method: just as a creature when it starts drawing makes horses that look like dogs and it is only thanks to perseverance and paying attention to mistakes that the technique is polished, in writing there is also an important part of practice and critical review. This method, however, is not very popular. Miraculous methods that promise a masterpiece with little effort – losing ten kilos in a week – are always preferred. Another day we will talk about the third (absurd) recurring question: inspiration.