I was born in Mendoza (Argentina, 1966), but was formed in Madrid. And deformed, continuously, persistently. Traveling educates and disturbs. I turned ten in the air, over the same ocean that had brought my parents together, but in the different direction.
At home, I was taught the art of conversation, literature and the absurd. I am a literature graduate, studied piano, classical dance, acting, theater and journalism. I moved from place to place some 20 times, and four from one continent to another. I did radio, plays, songs, films, video. With my works I traveled to exotic places like Colombia, Panama, Chile and Mar del Plata.
Such geographical-compulsive agitation turned into a pressing need to write. A vital fixation to register. My papers and I were one. While I exposed myself, my literature grew in the shadows. I mean, I was its outline.
One day I decided to submit my first novel to a contest. It was 2004 and Muerta de hambre won the first prize of the Fondo Nacional de las Artes, published a year later. That same year, an eccentric jury awarded me the third Julio Cortazar Prize for novel for La perfecta otra cosa, published in 2007.
Now, in 2011, my novels La piel dura and Vagabundas appeared in Argentina, and La Faim de María Bernabé, in France. The fact of being published encouraged my hidden activity: literature, that took over my social and theater presence and worsened by back. Today, it comes forward, while I hide myself away.
I have lived a little over 15,000 days, of which I practically remember none. I am amnesic, that is, an optimist, by nature. I like to forget myself and create other worlds. Words get to me, they dazzle me, and when in front of paper, they dictate what I can’t understand. That is why I write, to hand them over my place. They know how to growl and whisper when necessary. They are my body. I only lend them my head.