Aquest article no està traduït al català; es mostra la seva versió en anglès
(CATALONIA TODAY – SECTION: LONG-TERM RESIDENT - ARTICLE THIRTY-FOUR)
If you decide to make a writer of yourself, the chances are your family will suspect you are not only hopelessly unrealistic but deluded to boot, and your friends will look on you with the pity they normally reserve for sect victims. Nobody, in fact, will believe you really are a writer except you, until you manage to publish something.
In my case, this took some fifteen years. So when my first novel finally came out, in 1996, I was determined that it would not be drowned, kitten-fashion, in that whirlpool of disinterest which ensnares so many novice authors. To this end, I desperately scrounged whatever interviews I could get from the media. It seemed to work, in the sense that not only was there a second edition, but I also managed to establish myself as a small but visible hamlet on the Catalan literary map.
Thereafter, I continued to court the broadcasters until it dawned on me that something was going very wrong. The strangers who occasionally greeted me on the street made it clear they had seen my head talking on the telly, but hadn't so much as glimpsed my name in print. In short, my modicum of fame, far from helping to establish my credentials as a writer, had turned me into a minor local figurine and little more. Therefore it was a pleasant shock when, last Saturday, someone introduced herself as a reader of mine. Indeed, I was so surprised I couldn't utter a word of the gratitude that was bubbling up inside me. So: if she happens to read this and sends me a postal address, I'd be more than happy to defy the usual Spanish boycott and send her a bottle of cava, by way of a belated but genuine thank-you.