Leila Guerriero
Leila Guerriero is an Argentinian journalist and writer. Recently, I listened to an interview (99% la disciplina del éxito 1) in which Leila read an article she had written called “Writing” (“Escribir” 2). I have translated it here as it is an excellent piece of writing.
Leila explained during the interview what writing actually entails, how much persistence and patience is required and that the idea we have of a writer suddenly getting a moment of inspiration and writing freely is rare and short lived. The reality is that successful writing takes dedication and a system where time is specifically set aside each day to work on writing. Leila finds purpose and identity in writing. She also loves making bread. What follows below is a simile she created between writing and making bread. She explains that they are both activities that are an art and it is something we can create to share with other people, we don´t create just for ourselves. There is a clear message in her work that we can keep producing art despite adversity or even the outcome because it gives us identity. For Leila Guerriero we have to approach art with intention and in return art gives us meaning:
Writing
You have to knead dough without humility, with persistence, with hatred, with contempt, with fierceness, with fury
By Leila Guerriero
You have to knead dough. You have to knead dough with enthusiasm, with indifference, with anger, with ambition, thinking about other things. You have to knead dough on cold days and on summer days, with sun, with humidity, with freezing rain. You have to knead dough when there is no desire to knead dough. You have to knead dough with your hands, with your fingertips, with your forearms, with your shoulders, with strength and with weakness and with a cold. You have to knead dough with resentment, with sadness, with memories, with your heart broken into pieces, with your memory of the dead. You have to knead dough while thinking about what you are going to do later on. You have to knead dough as if you were never going to do anything, ever again, afterwards. You have to knead dough with flour, with water, with salt, with yeast, with butter, with sesame, with poppy. You have to knead dough with courage, with a recipe, while improvising, with doubts. When you know it will turn out badly. When you know you it will turn out well. You have to knead dough even while panicking that you´ll never be able to do it again, that it will burn, that it will end up undercooked, that no one will like it. You have to knead dough every week, every month, every year, without thinking that you will have to knead dough every week of every month of every year: you have to knead dough as if it was the first time. You will have to knead dough when she dies, you had to knead dough when she died, you have to knead dough before going on a trip, when you return, and during the trip you have to think about kneading dough: that you will need to knead dough when you return home. You have to knead dough while tired, because you’re tired, against being tired. You have to knead dough without humility, with persistence, with hatred, with contempt, with fierceness, with fury. As if everything was at last about to begin. You have to knead dough in order to live, because you live, in order to keep living. Writing. Kneading dough. There is no difference.
1. The original interview in Spanish. Hugo Alconada Mon entrevista a Leila Guerriero - 99%
2. “Escribir” - “El País”: Original text in Spanish, own translation:
https://elpais.com/elpais/2016/06/07/opinion/1465310501_943283.html