If not a writer...
We asked the following six writers what they would've liked to be (in this life or another) had they not been writers. This is what they answered.
Imagen de Claudia Menéndez
Liliana Blum:
Had I not been a writer, I would’ve liked to be a criminologist, specializing in serial killers’ psychiatry. Of course, since we’re already in the field of fantasy and can choose alternate lives instead of our own real ones, to practice that alternate profession well I would have to live in the United States and not in Mexico. After narrative, my second passion is “true crime,” the lives of serial killers and the books of psychiatrists who study them. I didn’t have to think twice to decide that had I not been a writer, I would’ve been a criminologist. And perhaps a bit taller, with a turned-up nose and a lot less shy.
Giovanna Rivero:
If I hadn’t been a writer I would’ve liked to be a singer or a jeweler. I admire and envy the direct corporeal relationship that exists between the voice, which is invisible body, and the creation of a world, no matter how brief. To open your mouth and have images or affects spring up from there seems marvelous to me. And a jeweler exactly for the opposite reason: as in writing, it’s necessary to tilt the neck to deal with stones, pliers, little screws, files, cuts, little mirrors, miniature scales and a particular sense of authenticity.
Enrique Vila-Matas:
I would have liked to be a bullfighter, tight-rope walker, carpenter, scientist, mechanic, marble cutter, doctor, boxer, judiciary secretary, gravedigger, auctioneer, pharmacist, plumber, chess player, soccer talent scout, supporting actor in a hundred Hollywood films, dance teacher, psychologist, radiophysicist, sleepwalker, lawyer, spy, airfield fireman. And all this just for starters.
Héctor Abad Faciolince:
I would’ve liked to be capable of making music: of playing an instrument (piano, violin, cello, guitar) with authority, of inventing melodies in my head. I would’ve also liked to be a swimmer and be capable of crossing a long stretch of sea: to go from the San Andrés island to Providencia island, swimming. Both activities have something in common: the music, the silence, and the rhythmic movement of hands and arms. What interests me in literature is something similar: silence, rhythm and music. Connected with resistance.
Francisco Díaz Klaassen:
I would’ve liked to live in the south of Chile, specifically in Valdivia, a city where it rains close to three hundred days a year and the smell of the world gets confused with that of ashes. To live on González Bustamante street, almost at Bulnes, and have a tire repair shop in the garage of a house with tin roof and gate. To sit every afternoon in front of a round wooden table and wait beside a bottle of wine. People would come in, rolling their punctured tires, and I would give them a cup of wine after submerging the tire in a barrel of dirty water. As I patched up the hole in the tire we’d exchange short lines about the garage and pleasantries about the weather. They would perhaps smoke a cigarette. I might take one or two drinks of wine. When they left I’d close the gate and go into the house. I’d turn on the stove and stay watching the fire consume the logs and break them into pieces. I would eat in the kitchen watching the news on some national channel. I’d go to sleep early hearing the rain against the roof. The cats fighting on the street.
Jacinta Escudos:
I would’ve liked to be a singer. I like the idea of using the body, and in particular the voice, as an instrument in order to transmit all kinds of emotions. I even find it to be a much more valuable and unique work that that of writing a book. The book is revised, corrected, the text changes. But a singer executes a song in a unique manner, once, each time in a different way, with another emotion, with other movements. Every time is the first time for a singer. And the last. And the only.
Imagen de Claudia Menéndez
Liliana Blum:
Had I not been a writer, I would’ve liked to be a criminologist, specializing in serial killers’ psychiatry. Of course, since we’re already in the field of fantasy and can choose alternate lives instead of our own real ones, to practice that alternate profession well I would have to live in the United States and not in Mexico. After narrative, my second passion is “true crime,” the lives of serial killers and the books of psychiatrists who study them. I didn’t have to think twice to decide that had I not been a writer, I would’ve been a criminologist. And perhaps a bit taller, with a turned-up nose and a lot less shy.
Giovanna Rivero:
If I hadn’t been a writer I would’ve liked to be a singer or a jeweler. I admire and envy the direct corporeal relationship that exists between the voice, which is invisible body, and the creation of a world, no matter how brief. To open your mouth and have images or affects spring up from there seems marvelous to me. And a jeweler exactly for the opposite reason: as in writing, it’s necessary to tilt the neck to deal with stones, pliers, little screws, files, cuts, little mirrors, miniature scales and a particular sense of authenticity.
Enrique Vila-Matas:
I would have liked to be a bullfighter, tight-rope walker, carpenter, scientist, mechanic, marble cutter, doctor, boxer, judiciary secretary, gravedigger, auctioneer, pharmacist, plumber, chess player, soccer talent scout, supporting actor in a hundred Hollywood films, dance teacher, psychologist, radiophysicist, sleepwalker, lawyer, spy, airfield fireman. And all this just for starters.
Héctor Abad Faciolince:
I would’ve liked to be capable of making music: of playing an instrument (piano, violin, cello, guitar) with authority, of inventing melodies in my head. I would’ve also liked to be a swimmer and be capable of crossing a long stretch of sea: to go from the San Andrés island to Providencia island, swimming. Both activities have something in common: the music, the silence, and the rhythmic movement of hands and arms. What interests me in literature is something similar: silence, rhythm and music. Connected with resistance.
Francisco Díaz Klaassen:
I would’ve liked to live in the south of Chile, specifically in Valdivia, a city where it rains close to three hundred days a year and the smell of the world gets confused with that of ashes. To live on González Bustamante street, almost at Bulnes, and have a tire repair shop in the garage of a house with tin roof and gate. To sit every afternoon in front of a round wooden table and wait beside a bottle of wine. People would come in, rolling their punctured tires, and I would give them a cup of wine after submerging the tire in a barrel of dirty water. As I patched up the hole in the tire we’d exchange short lines about the garage and pleasantries about the weather. They would perhaps smoke a cigarette. I might take one or two drinks of wine. When they left I’d close the gate and go into the house. I’d turn on the stove and stay watching the fire consume the logs and break them into pieces. I would eat in the kitchen watching the news on some national channel. I’d go to sleep early hearing the rain against the roof. The cats fighting on the street.
Jacinta Escudos:
I would’ve liked to be a singer. I like the idea of using the body, and in particular the voice, as an instrument in order to transmit all kinds of emotions. I even find it to be a much more valuable and unique work that that of writing a book. The book is revised, corrected, the text changes. But a singer executes a song in a unique manner, once, each time in a different way, with another emotion, with other movements. Every time is the first time for a singer. And the last. And the only.
