Cada historia (novela) es diferente.

Una vez que termines tu primera novela, el resto es fácil, me dijeron. La difícil es la primera. Luego ya la agarras el gusto al asunto. Todo se vuelve más sencillo.

HA.

Mentira podrida. En serio. La mentira más grande que me han dicho jamás. Llevo ya dos novelas completas (una en ingles que escribí hace mucho tiempo, mas como práctica que cualquier otra cosa y nunca más he volteado a ver, y una en español a la que le acabo de poner el punto final hace poco),  la mitad de otra que abandone porque la historia se me salió de las manos, y otra más, en inglés, en la que estoy trabajando en este momento, y si algo he aprendido es que todas las historias son diferentes. Todos los procesos son diferentes.

Algo así como los hijos. No te salen dos iguales. 

Y no digo solo que los procesos difieren de escritor a escritor, no. A veces difieren hasta de novela a novela. (La mayor parte de las veces, pero ser honestos) Algunas necesitas planearlas más o llegas al capítulo trece y te das cuenta que vas a tener que volver a escribir todo. Otras medio que te van saliendo con una planeación básica. Hay unas que escribes a cuentagotas. Otras en la que no puedes parar de escribir.

Es que, en el fondo, escribir es una cosa medio mágica. Nunca se aprende a escribir. Mucho menos se descubre los pasos para escribir una novela. No hay una receta a seguir: una pizca de esto, una cucharadita de aquello, y ya está. 

Ya sé que esta no es una opinión popular. A mí me gusta pensar que se mejora. Pero, que aburrido seria aprenderlo todo. No habría razón para escribir. No habría experimentos. Y creo que tampoco habría novelas buenas. Todas serian iguales. De A a B y de B a C, siempre de la misma manera.

Ah, no. Así ni juego. A mi déjenme con mis problemas. Con mis sufrimientos. Con mis historias. Y si cada una quiere ser diferente, torturarme de una manera  disímil, pues, so be it. Mejor así.

Jaime Lannister, or how to love a bad guy.

Let me start by saying there are SPOILERS all over this post, because, frankly, you cannot really talk about Jaime Lannister’s transformation without spoiling the books a little bit. The series just hasn’t given us enough yet. It starts with the hand, yes, but it’s so much more than that. There’s just so much more to Jamie, stuff we only get to really see when we finally get a POV from him, from Book 3 onwards. Stuff that made him go from one of the most hated characters in the books to a definite fan favorite, as we wait for Book 6. So, bear with me as I try to explain why Jaime Lannister is the perfect example of redemption done right in literature. 

I have many issues with George R.R Martin, and I’m still convinced that we won’t get anything that resembles a happy ending at the end of this saga. He’s got, in my humble opinion, too many characters and a plot that’s so encompassing it’s hard to keep track of. But the guy also has his strengths, and, despite the fact that the “redemption” trope has been done to death, I think that the character of Jaime Lannister is one of them.

He’s nothing but a token bad guy when we first meet him. His family, after all, comprises many of the stories “bad guys.” Tyrion has, at least, the advantage of being amusing. Jaime is just there. He’s not as smart as his father, not as manipulative as his sister, and not nearly as entertaining as his brother. He’s just another bad guy.

Well, at least until Bran catches him with Cersei. 

He becomes more than a token bad guy then, more than the Kingslayer, more than the guy sleeping with his sister, more than the ever-confident knight with the snide remarks. He dispenses with the theory that this book will be just another fantasy novel, and he becomes someone you hate.

Which is why Jaime Lannister ends up being such a surprise. 

It starts out slowly. In every interaction with Brienne. In his obvious respect for her. In the way that he lies to make sure she is not harmed. Later, after his hand is lost, it gets harder to conjure up the hate. A part of you wants him to just die, but Brienne doesn’t want that, and you end up agreeing with her. You root for him. You want him to get to King’s Landing, help free Sansa. He’s still not a hero, but he’s not at the top of your villains list, not anymore.

And then, he jumps into a bear-pit. And you can’t help but look at him the same way Brienne is looking at him. With wonder. With a twinge of affection. Because this man, who you’ve been hating for so long, has turned out to be nothing like what you thought he was. He’s turned out to be much more honorable.

And, yes, he’s still got issues. He still makes the wrong choices. But, in a way, that makes you like him more. Because now he realizes it. Now he wants to change. And, by the time Book 5 rolls around and Brienne is back, standing there, in front of him, you’re rooting for him. For the guy he’s become. The one who turned his back on Cersei. The one who tried, as best as he could, to keep his oaths.  

Some people see the relationship between Jaime and Brienne as a romantic one. Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. In the end, what no one can deny is that, sometimes, the right person can change you. And, though, that, is a tried and true concept in fantasy, the way George R.R Martin gives us Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer and what he ends up becoming (and what he still has a chance to become), feels right. Feels new. It feels like, maybe, Jaime was right when he said: “There are no men like me. There’s only me.”

You say weird, I say ORIGINAL

We’re all different. That’s not exactly ground-breaking news. Life would be boring if we weren’t. We like different things. We don’t believe in the same stuff. Behavior is usually as dissimilar as it can be. That’s just the way it is. It’s the way it should be, also. 

And, we all have our little quirks. They might be silly things, but they’re truly important to us. It’s part of what makes us who we are. Me, for example? I like to drink tea. Straight. No sugar. No milk. Nothing. Just tea. Green tea, if possible. I drink 3-4 cups a day (and they’re large cups, trust me. My mug is legendary around my office). I don’t do it to lose weight, I don’t do it for the caffeine. I do it because I got used to it when I lived in colder climates, and now I just can’t seem to stop.

I also take the strawberries out of the Special K with strawberries.  I’ve been told I should just buy the normal Special K, but I swear, it doesn’t taste the same. So I take the strawberries out. Every last one of them.

Have I mentioned I love strawberries? And blueberries, and raspberries, and honestly, most fruits. I just don’t like them in my cereal.

Ultimate comfort food? Vanilla ice cream and French fries. Don’t ask me why, don’t ask me how, but I swear, it works. At least, it works for me. 

And, just so you don’t think all my weird habits have to do with food: I hate it when my purse and shoes match. Truly. I hate it. Can’t go out of the house like that. I also can’t go to bed if there’s something in my room that’s not in the exactly place I like to keep it. I’m not saying everything had to be in perfect order, I’m just saying things need to be where I like them. My sneakers beside the mirror, so I can put them on even if I’m too asleep to think, a glass of water by my bedside table, the laptop securely stowed in its bag.

Finally, there’s this: I like to write in complete silence. Music bothers me, people bothers me, even the sound of my own breathing bothers me, sometimes. When I’m writing, I’m writing. Nothing more. Nothing else.

So, any weird habits you want to share?

Game of thrones: the good, the bad, and the downright ugly.

GOOD	BAD
An interesting and expansive world	You don’t need almost 2 MILLION FREAKING words (and counting) to create a new world. And, even if you feel like you have to write all of them, leave only the essential for the story and make the rest of it an appendix, or something. You’ll make more money that way. Ask Tolkien.
Dragons!	Who take forever to grow the hell up.
Compelling and relatable characters.	The fact that there are so MANY of them you can’t even remember all of their names and Houses, much less pick a favorite.
Jaime Lannister	Jaime Lannister
The sense that bad things can happen to good characters. (In other words, there’s no way for you to guess what’s coming)	The sense that ONLY bad things happen to good characters. (In other words, some happiness would be nice, kthanx)
Moral complexity. Not everything is black and white. People can change.	Some payoff for all this moral complexity would be good. You know, one of those characters that does a good thing, for a change, actually ACHIEVING SOMETHING.
Great villains.	Despicable characters. Honestly. Either they’re rotten to the core or they’re all too noble, in a way that makes them seem idiots. Is it too much to ask for a character, you know, in the middle?
There’s never a dull moment.	But, is anything actually happening? Some characters seem to be going in circles, never getting anywhere (For example, Bran. And Arya)
Willingness to break old story-telling tropes.	KILLING EVERY DAMN CHARACTER TO DO IT.

And the downright ugly: The fact that you (Yes, I’m looking at YOU George R.R Martin) make me fall in love with characters and then SLAUGHTER THEM like it’s nothing, like they were just a new toy you got and now you’re sick of, and then I get over it, suck it up, keep reading, and then you DO IT AGAIN, AND AGAIN, AND AGAIN.

::deep breaths::

¿Hay vida después del final?

Acabo de poner el punto final en mi novela. Así, el punto final final final. No creo que haya más que decir. Quizás necesite algo más de edición, a lo mejor se me hayan olvidado trescientas tildes, todas mis comas estén mal puestas o Word no me haya corregido alguna palabra inventada, pero…terminé. It’s done. C'est fini. La historia se acabó.  

No hay más que contar.

Me cuesta admitirlo, eh. Más de lo que se imaginan. Siete meses con esta historia y los personajes se han vuelto mis amigos. Durante meses he pensado en ellos en los momentos más extraños (justo cuando me voy a dormir, en la ducha, en medio de leer otro libro),  he sufrido sus penas, me he regocijado con sus dichas.  Se lo que piensan, siento lo que sienten. Son parte de mí. Diría que son como mis hijos, pero, de alguna forma, me imagino que son más que eso.  Los hijos se van. Descubren su propia vida y nos abandonan, para vivirla. Los personajes, pase lo que pase, se quedan con uno para siempre.

Tal vez por eso la sensación es algo bittersweet.  Por un lado, estoy tan feliz de haber terminado que tengo ganas de ir a tomarme un trago de whisky (Odio el whisky). Y, por otro, quiero inventarme otro problema, introducir otra situación,  hacerlos que se queden conmigo. Al fin y al cabo, son míos. Nadie los va a querer como yo. Nadie los va a apreciar como yo.

A nadie le van a dejar un hueco en el alma como a mí.

Yo, que pasé meses de meses investigando para que caminaran por los lugares donde debían caminar, se vistieran como debían vestirse. Para que fueran los personajes que debían ser. Yo, que me invente nuevas formas de decir lo mismo solo para ellos. Yo, que debatí conmigo misma sobre ese final, incontables veces.

Pero ya se han ido. Puedo sentirlo. Ya no son míos. Todavía no son de alguien más, porque nadie los ha leído, pero ya no son simplemente míos. Se van. Me dejan un hueco que solo se una forma de llenar.

Seguir escribiendo.