I write books not with the purpose of making money (creating a product, as it’s commonly heard), though I welcome the opportunity to eke out a living with my words. Neither do I write books hoping to be acknowledged for my literary achievements, for that’s a trivial and ephemeral objective of the ego. No, I don’t even write books because I love to write or have to. I write books because I love them so much that my bibliophilic love can only be fulfilled by giving birth to books.
It starts out as a courtship with a subject matter that lassos my interest. After a period of pondering, my mind is impregnated with an idea for a book project. Soon, the creative embryo develops in the bosom of my passion as I nurture it into being. Then, after much labor, I squeeze it out of me and a book is born. Once the umbilical cord with the progenitor is cut asunder, the book has a life of its own.
In the end, regardless of how well or not the books will fair in an overcrowded marketplace where “book products” spread like weeds, I’ll always have a special and unconditional bibliophilic love for the books I give birth to. In return, they reward me with the closest experience a man can ever have of motherhood.
I am a mother of books.
