On writing

I am a man who sometimes writes with no reason. Only for the pleasure of writing. Like this moment: I'm writing this in English, although I know that nobody speaks it here in my country. But why? Maybe because I just want to improve my English, or maybe I like this language too much. That's a very concerning issue. I actually don't know why I like this language. I think that when I was a kid I saw a lot of American T.V. programs. And those programs were always in English. It is very funny to remember the things I watched on T.V when I was a kid. I'll remember forever a T.V. show called "Sabrina, the teenage witch". I really loved that show. It was about a young girl who had to learn how to be a good witch and a good student also. It was quite difficult for her. She always had problems with her boyfriend and friends because she wasn't allowed to tell to anybody she was a witch. I felt sorry for her, but inside I wanted to have those powers, which means I would be able to fly, to move to several places quickly and to disappear. Sometimes I think that we had those powers, everything would be more complicated. And that seems to be impossible, doesn't it?
Another T.V. show I loved was about two twin sisters. They were so funny, and her their mother was very stupid, but nice. I can remember me every night at nine o'clock, struck in front the T.V., watching like an stupid kid (Was I a stupid one?) and nothing could take me away from there. That was my place. And that's the way I grew up.

The writing for me is a kind of liberation. The words are like cars which let me drive away from this house, this city and this country. While I'm writing I don't belong to anywhere. I'm a citizen of the world, a cosmopolitan. I believe that the writing is a sort of universal language: everybody can understand it. A few days ago I saw on YouTube a talking of Isabel Allende, where she said something that is still trapped in my mind:

"Once, a long time ago, I heard that stories are to human kind who dreams. As individuals if we are not allowed to dream we go mad, with perish, suffocated by confusing thoughts."

And I agree with her.
I have been telling stories since I can remember. And if I look for the reason, I would find it out very easy. I have a quite clear memory where my dad is telling me several stories about farms, animals and grandparents. We were in bed, and he just told them to me. He made them up at the moment he was speaking; that's the reason now I tell him he has an amazing imagination. It was because of him that now I have the flame inside called Literature.
If I close my eyes, I can see me when I was six, writing in white papers a short story about two drops of rain, who had fallen to the earth and started living here. They had some problems with a jealousy cloud, who wanted to steal their cars. Now that I think about it I realize that it was very stupid, but I was an innocent kid. What can you expect for?
I remember that I drew some pictures of the two drops, named Gotín and Gotán. It was a sort of comic strip. I really loved it. Then I put all the papers together and I tied them with a rope. I created a cover and tied it to the papers. Eureka: my first book had got born.