Regina Coyula, 9 September 2020 — There are things I read that have the effect of making me want to write more. I was commenting to my love about that convoluted relationship we maintain, a game of distances, a game that Carlos Lechuga would understand and will understand better when he is an old man.
In this novel (?) Carlos talks about himself through his obsessions: movies, sex, Cuba. Even in these interviews he gifts us, it is Carlos who draws himself. He does not sing and celebrate; he torments himself with that insolence of the young to believe that forty is the end of everything. I writes about what he knows best, which is himself, and emerges as imperfect but credible, and I forgive those imperfections because his authenticity shines through.
This is not a literary criticism, I liked the book after the trap that warns us that what we see may or may not be, that reality and fiction erase the limits for this obsessive who writes while he hopes to raise money for his next film project.
Kill and write, Carlos Lechuga. The cinema will come. Cuba will come (or go). As for your other obsession, Pfizer has it figured out for you.