I just remembered that about one year ago, I started writing The Manicheans. I was working on the second chapter of the book, not really sure where the story was going, but I felt deep inside my characters were calling for my attention and wanted me to give them as much depth as possible. So I let them speak to me. I listened to their story, and I grew with them. I still don’t really know how it all happened; what I know for a fact however, is that they led me to where I am now. Their struggles, their infatuations, their sorrows, their thoughts, their hesitations, their anger, and their happiness, they were all mine. I projected myself in each and everyone of them, and I started digging into my memories, recalling all the times I felt good or bad, and putting it down in writing. It was not difficult to use my personal experiences to give more richness to my story. It actually felt very natural.
Now one year later, I’m at the beginning of the second volume of The Manicheans, and my characters need to evolve. The changes they’re going through are going to reflect the same changes I’m going through myself. I’m in the middle of the road right now, and I don’t really know exactly where I’m going to take them all, whether I’m going to let them live or die, make them heroes or cowards. All I know is that they will show me the way. I read somewhere that writing was a sociably accepted form of schizophrenia…. You get my point.
I like to be that crazy though. It makes my life interesting.