Everyone’s going mad at the publisher. Even Gabriela called –a sign that it’s getting bloody serious–. I’m not surprised though. As of lately, my business is more about performing vanishing tricks, rather than writing. I’ve put up countless excuses to cancel catch-up meetings just to buy some time. I’ve spent all my savings and three advances on pomp and, sadly, I still owe them a draft of my novel. May I clarify: there is no such paper –and it is not expected–.
So what if I’m finished? At least, I have experienced the sweet smell of success. I owe it all to Officer Gutiérrez, a coarse, worldly and sagacious cop. A sort of local hero promoted to the top detectives’ league. Who would have thought he’d connect with so many readers? It has provided me with enough literature for two entire books –selling extremely well–; an unbeatable apotheosis of the…
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