"The Quest to Write a Novel: Part 2"

Hola,

Most of you have probably noticed that I love a good cliffhanger—and I’ll blame this on the era of prestige TV binging. My late-stage addiction to plots and moving images has turned me into a walking formula, constantly craving heightened attention.

I’ll try not to leave you with an incomplete tale by the time you finish this post, but I do hope the extreme close-ups you’re getting of who I am through these words make you want to come back for more—or at least give you something worth returning to until the actual novel gets published.

Here’s the dream I had the night I saw him in Central Park, sitting on a bench with that brown bike of his and this view stretching out behind him…

…Should I name him? He has a name in the novel, but let’s switch it up for this newsletter and call him Mark.

Yes, the novel is written in Spanish, and that’s a screenshot from the official manuscript. It will eventually be officially translated into English, but for now, here’s my personal and unofficial translation of everything I saw in my head that night:

“It took me a while to figure out if it was a dream… or a story someone else had written and I stole.
In both versions—you were there.

I saw you walking toward the water… I recognized your stride, your hands—I followed you. I ran. I dove in just as you reached the edge, hoping you’d notice me.
You did—but as usual, with indifference.

I swam around you, tried to turn my head to find your eyes, but my neck was frozen. I couldn’t see them.
I climbed out of the water. The shore was wide and smooth… it shimmered. I caught your reflection over my shoulder—just to be sure you hadn’t left.

I ordered a drink at the bar. When I returned, my friend was speaking to you—he in the water, you on that gleaming shore.
I smiled. I approached you from behind. You knew it was me.
You turned.
I hugged you.

We asked each other about life, about the day, about New York. The embrace didn’t end. We spoke into each other’s ears, whispered every word like we used to—our love always hushed, always ours, always in secret.

I never saw your eyes.
Or your smile.
My neck was still locked—I couldn’t see your face.
Still, the hug lingered. You held me tight and kissed the top of my head.

I opened my eyes.
I fought against my eyelids, desperate to fall back asleep—
to find you again”

Opening my eyes to what had just happened felt like a cold plunge—catastrophic and exposing.
I ran to the kitchen, put my mouth directly under the faucet, and drank as much water as I could—until I heard a delivery guy knocking on our door with yet another pizza box for my evil roommate. A quick reminder that I was back to the issue that brought me there in the first place. But in the five steps it took to return to my room, I realized that the dream meant something. That I hadn’t healed. That my wound was still slightly open. And that I needed to write the dream down so I wouldn’t forget to return to it—once I found a new apartment to live in.

I spent about two weeks afraid to leave the apartment—even just to go to the supermarket—because every time I stepped out, my roommate would go into my room. Sometimes to hide or steal things, sometimes just to put them back where she had taken them from, like some twisted little game. I had no intention of fighting. First, because anger is a feeling I don’t really know how to navigate. And second, because I was honestly too focused on finding somewhere else to go.

Eventually, I got so tired of everything she was doing that, one day before heading out for my daily run, I taped a piece of paper to my bed frame and wrote, in blue marker:
"YOU ARE BEING RECORDED."

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Americans, it’s that fear can accomplish anything here.
She never stepped into my room again.

Still, I needed to find a new place. Not just because of her, but because—as we all know now—Covid wasn’t going away anytime soon, and I knew money was going to run out fast.

Even after she stopped acting like a criminal and avoided my room, I was still desperate. I was paying rent for the apartment, but also for my photo studio—where I hadn’t worked in a month and a half. I knew I couldn’t give up the studio. A bathroom and a bed can be replaced, but good natural light facing north is nearly impossible to find here.So, I did something I had never done before: I reached out to all of my rich friends—the ones I knew had empty apartments in New York—and asked if they’d let me stay for a month, just until work picked up and I could afford rent again.

Some replied with overly complicated messages meant to keep the conversation going but never gave a real answer. Others just ignored me. So, technically, they all said no.

But then—one couple I used to see often in New York actually said yes. They had escaped to their Hamptons house and left their beautiful West Village apartment sitting empty. Here’s a summary of our message exchange:

Them:
—Omg, of course. We would love to help, and honestly, we can’t think of anyone better to take watch our place while we’re away. Do you think you could help with a small fee for the month you're planning to stay?—

Me:
—Absolutely. I can pay a little—my situation at home is a bit difficult, and I can’t stay with Nick because he doesn’t live alone.—

Them:
—Great. Do you think 9k would be OK?—

Listen. Yes, I have a name, some Instagram followers, and I’m aware that my job sounds very glamorous—but nine thousand dollars is a lot of fucking money. Especially for one month of rent on a two-bedroom apartment!
I respectfully declined. And now I hope all the people I reached out to—and who didn’t help me during that time—burn in hell forever.Just kidding. I don’t. I know rich people are rich because they know how to make money out of every situation. And honestly? Good for them.

But how is this related to the moment I decided to turn the dream into a novel?

We’re getting there…

The evening after receiving that message from the couple, my Irish friend Michael invited me—and our Spanish friend, Gonzaga—for drinks on his terrace. The rebellious spirit of being foreigners in New York, combined with the sheer loneliness of lockdown, fueled our desire to get together—even when no one else was really socializing at that point in the pandemic.

Of course, the first story I told once we sat down was that text exchange. And before I even finished, Michael interrupted me and said:

“Why don’t you come live with me? I have an extra room. It’s furnished. I’m going crazy here by myself. You don’t have to pay anything—my work covers my rent.”

An absolute MIRACLE.
An ANGEL came to my rescue.

Two days later, I packed all my stuff into a storage unit in New Jersey and moved in with him—with just a suitcase, my camera, and my big computer. Everything started to feel better. I was finally out of that horrible situation. I was safe. Settled. Living for free with a good friend. And his place was even closer to Nick’s apartment in Brooklyn.

But the peace only lasted a few days.

On the eve of May 17th, around 10:30 p.m., Gonzaga sent me the following text message:

—Hey, I thought your ex had moved out of New York, didn’t he?—

My mouth went dry. Gonzaga was one of the few people who knew about my relationship with Mark, and still—the nightmare of him seemed impossible to shake off. I texted back:

—He did, but I saw him in Central Park the other day after years! Maybe he’s just visiting? I have to tell you the story—it was crazy, and I’m traumatized all over again. He was even in my dreams that night.—

—Oh, well I’m at this roof party and he’s here! He looks like he’s about to leave. Should I go and scream at him? You know I hate him.—

—Lol no, but…

I paused.
I thought about how numb I had felt the night I saw him. Why was he in New York especially when no one else was here?

…would you do something else for me?—

—Say it.—

—Follow him. I want to know where he’s staying.—

—Lol. Of course, me too!—

Everything that happened that night, after I sent that text, is what I wrote down on the three pages that follow the one with the dream.

Come back next week for Part 3
and keep reading more about the process that led me to the novel I wrote.

Chao,

Andrés

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