Log: Publication

This is a celebratory log, despite the titular allusion to the Greek underworld. What I wrote about back in September has happened, I've been published.

Today, the second issue of The Madrid Review was released, which marks my poetry debut, and in Spanish! Three little poems, that's it, but it's a fulfilment of bookish childhood dreams. As I've mentioned before, books always seemed like such authoritative items, and it did not fit into my mind that my words could actually be printed inside "official" books. All the while, I was constantly creating magazines and books from colored construction paper, notebook pages, Word Documents and anything else I could get ahold of.

What makes October 2024 doubly special is that it was also my short fiction debut in English with The Good Life Review.

These milestones have been made possible by two amazing teams of editors who recently started their own literary magazines (The Madrid Review was founded just a few months ago), who don't make a profit and volunteer their time enliven the arts, life. It's inspiring to see them do this work, and it makes me think that one day I would like to do this too. For now, I will continue to write and do my best to support their work (go subscribe and follow!).

I've fulfilled a dream, and yet I've really struggled to celebrate.

Time for the boulder section of this masonry-themed post. Just at the moment I thought I had settled into Cyprus, life hit me like a ton of bricks. I spent almost half of October with a nasty cold, that left me feeling very behind. I became so focused on all things I failed to do, that little room was left for recognition of what I had worked so hard to accomplish. Two weeks of illness was followed by two weeks of mounting stress.

I fell into a trap that I was well aware of, an inherited one. Guilt of being sick, of failing to do, as if illness is a personal failure. It's deeply imbedded into the extreme work cultures of a lot of Colombians. Contrary to the racist stereotypes about "lazy" and "fiesta" Latin Americans, we work some of the longest hours on the planet, and it's killing us (among many other things). I've seen the damage this has done to close family. I've always tried to avoid this outlook, but it caught up to me this month.

This week I've needed to snap out it, slow down again and go back to the basics.

I don't want writing, creating, learning, reading, to just be a rat race, always reaching for something that we imagine to be better. I want to be anchored in the present to observe and live where I've moored, rather than always focusing on that "next" destination. It's a privilege to be able to do so. And ultimately, one day there won't be a next destination.

« Il faut imaginer Sisyphe heureux ».

- Andrea

As of today, I have publications forthcoming in Hypertext Review, The Good Life Review and The Madrid Review. In the past two years, I have published at Americas Quarterly, Periódico de Libros, Pie de Página, and for Artists at Risk Connection.

I am not just listing this out as a way of self-recognition (which I struggle with), it is also a way to try to understand where I am at as a writer. I marvel at it still, that the texts that I spent hours drafting and tweaking and dialoguing with others about are out there, whatever that means. In a sense, I still don't really truly believe it.

From childhood, language and writing has always been a safe haven. I gravitated towards storytelling in the moments of most uncertainty. It was fun. Libraries were there no matter how many times I moved. I always knew I wanted to write, to be able to share images, thoughts, impressions, dilemmas with others.

However, a writing career never seemed like an option. Of course, a career involving writing, yes. But it was out of the question that I would just write. That wasn’t a real career, and most importantly, it was unsustainable for someone who had grown up at the cusp of poverty. Even when I majored in languages, literature, and the humanities--I imagined I needed to enter academia or do something else. And I did, I did do something else, and I found many additional passions in the social sciences, in anthropology, in film, in science.

I continued to write, but for myself. Other responsibilities quickly took up my time, responsibilities that I genuinely enjoyed tackling and that were within the fixed path laid out by my studies (which involved academic writing). But when the studies ended, or paused (who knows), and I had to think closely about what I really wanted to do, the urge to write, creatively, made itself known. But about what? And who would read it?

It turns out that I had published before, as a student. But I never took those achievements seriously. I downplayed the writing itself, for some reason, “it didn’t count”.

The first creative text that I published appeared a decade ago in the quarterly magazine, Just Poetry!!! This poem, “Fruit Salad is Heterogenous”, was just a faint memory in the back of my mind until I rediscovered the printed issue earlier this year. I didn’t even remember it had been printed. I certainly didn’t remember it had been one of the nominees for best of issue. And when I re-read it, I realized it was not half-bad for a high school student publishing and writing poetry for the first time. I surprised myself with those words, and they evoked feelings and memories that were valuable.

Exactly ten years later, my first creative English narrative pieces and Spanish-language poetry are forthcoming, and it feels a bit unreal.

I am definitely no expert, far from it, and I am aware of all the ethical issues with the publishing industry, as with any industry, especially as journalism and print struggle financially. And yet, the efforts of small presses that I see here in Bogotá and online internationally are exciting (Hypertext and The Good Life, are non-for-profits; The Madrid Review is a volunteer effort). And even in more traditional media, there are people passionate about storytelling and I can discern (or a better word, vislumbrar) a way of breaking through and sharing stories and histories that matter with a variety of people. That prospect excites me.

Not to say I haven’t been discouraged by rejection (part and parcel of the process) or by a perceived shortage of time or disappointment in myself (self-doubt, or perfectionism). It has felt impossible at times. That feeling of failing to communicate something important, essential or the essential nature of that which I am trying to communicate. The hegemony of English also makes publishing in Spanish challenging--and I don’t want to feel pressured to write in English because of it. I want to write in English because I feel like it. And I want to be able to write in Spanish (or any other language) when I feel like it too.

In those times my friends and family have been essential, as well as the kind words of the readers who have found something worthwhile in my writing. But also, diving into the written works of others has been so important. Those books, poems, and articles that speak to me motivate me and give me courage. More on that next time.

- Andrea