I'm very pleased that you agreed to be interviewed.
Firstly, I would like to ask you how your passion for writing arose. At what age did you start writing with a certain awareness of what you were doing? What and why did you write?
I started writing when I was 14. I attended several competitions and some I won. At that time, I wrote to express my feelings, but I had no awareness of the power of the word. I went on writing for years, but I believe I developed such an awareness in 2012 when I opened my definitive blog.
Aside from natural improvement, have you noticed a development in your style and aims over the years? Has there ever been an occasion when you read something you had written and said to yourself: “This is it, I did it. Now I only have to keep writing like this”?
Over time my style has changed much. Slowly I refused classical poetry and began to focus on mental images. When I am able to capture one of these images, I think I’ve got the result.
Whilst a lot of poems deal with the portrait of a single moment, short stories tend to depict a particular event. It seems to me that your writings are halfway between the two genres as they represent a series of moments connected by unpredictable and startling associations. How would you define your writings? (https://laurafortin.wordpress.com/) Prose poems? Poetic short stories?
Mental polaroid pictures, definitely.
Would you like to tell us more about your writing process? How does it usually happen?
It’s not something habitual. I am used to surround myself with beauty as I am an artist in the way I live. I study art, I watch art movies, I listen to quality music. All of these inputs are necessary to translate simple feelings into images. Through my poetry I try to use art to represent a human state of mind.
How often do you write and how long does it take you to polish a writing? When do you know that it's “finished” and ready to be published?
It’s immediate. I start, I write, and it’s done. No work of filing.
Lastly, I would like to ask you to share one of your writings with us.
These are separate lanes, flavorless liquids, brittle cold. Screw together to survive, marry an anticipation and have children, crippled. This is a clean space, it has no hair, no odor. It's an aimless memory, without pride, a whole. My heart throbs like the accent of a language that doesn't own me. Quit saying to grow mark, washing away to become presence. Hunger is in my bed, young whore, she doesn't know she's departing. I oversee empty rooms, no rest. I happen.