La Voz de Galicia – 5 de abril, 2026 →
Sometimes people stop me on the street to talk about one of my columns. Sometimes they introduce themselves, other times they don’t. They get emotional talking about that column that made them think of their mother, their grandmother, their sister, or themselves. And then I get emotional too—because getting emotional comes easily to me.
But there’s something truly special about connecting with people through the written word, because it’s a delayed kind of connection… In my previous profession, everything was immediate—you stepped onto a stage, gave your concert, and received an almost instant response to your performance. The audience’s emotions appeared at the very same moment I was feeling them, and although there were also delayed moments, like recording albums or performing on television, I always considered myself a live musician—someone driven by the instinct of the here and now. And for me, that bridge of harmony between the music and the audience was something magical and impossible to describe.
With writing, emotion is captured in a text that may or may not be read (you never know when you write it). Sometimes it is a deeply felt emotion that, with luck, I am able to turn into words. Other times it is a thought I am unable to decipher, and that through the column I manage to give some form to, since I have to be concise and express it in 1,700 characters including spaces. And perhaps right now, in a moment when everything moves so fast, and when it is clear that rushing no longer makes any sense (when is the world going to end?), I feel more fortunate than ever to have chosen a path that forces me to slow down, and that leads me to get emotional every time someone stops me in the street to tell me that part of their story that resurfaced when reading one of these columns.
