Salomé Esper

What if we ran out of writing? This is a thought that gives Salomé Esper (Jujuy, Argentina, 1984) pause: “I believe it is a possibility, so it’s best to be prepared. Sometimes I think that I have already had my last idea, and that’s it forever. Every time I publish, something happens to me.” This could easily give way to one of this Argentinian writer’s stories, where fantasy bursts into the lives of her characters while blending humour, melancholy and affection. We’re talking about an untimely resurrection, for example, like in her acclaimed first novel: La segunda venida de Hilda Bustamante. Then came a delightful short story collection, Querer es perder, where she delved into this type of narrative. Behind them lie thoughts about family, desire, loss, motherhood, identity, loneliness... Just a few days before flying to Madrid to attend the Madrid Book Fair — an event sponsored by Iberia — for the first time, she confesses that she is eager to take part in the events — such as the opening La Cabina del Libro [the Book Cabin] by Iberia — but, above all, to stuff her suitcase with books.

Where does your relationship with words and writing come from? Have you always had this creative streak?
Before writing narrative, I used to write poetry. When I was ten, I started a notebook. As I child I already used to say I wanted to become a writer. When I was learning to write, I used to argue with my auntie because she said my calligraphy was bad and that no one would understand me. And I would retort: “My readers will understand me.” Which isn’t necessarily true now (laughs). At that age, I wasn’t a scholar like Borges, I was simply a child expressing herself. At school, anything to do with writing was like a safe space for me.

Before publishing your first novel, you released two poetry collections. What do you think your prose has inherited from that poetic vein?
I am told that my prose does have a poetic nature to it. When I write, I don’t realise that, but of course there is a question of playing with language, of sweetening it, but I never identified it as coming directly from poetry. It comes more from my fascination with language, with finding pleasure in it. When I published my first novel, I reread my poetry collections, and I realised that there were already stories and characters contained within them. Really, narrative wasn’t a new world to me. In fact, the last poem in my first poetry collection is kind of an introduction to Hilda.

“In my family, we found pleasure in strangeness, a desire for those situations to become part of reality to then get them down on paper”

Your literature is peppered with oddities. Is it a way of running away from reality or a way of facing it?
I wish for oddities, magic, fantasy to inhabit your reality. When I am asked where my stories come from, I place them in a kind of oral tradition, because my family has always shared stories about ghosts and the like. We found pleasure in strangeness, a desire for those situations to become part of reality to then get them down on paper. It was a kind on invitation. I never considered it a way of escaping reality.

Hilda Bustamante, the protagonist of your first novel, returns from the dead, but isn’t exactly scary. How did this character come about?
I wanted to write a fairy tale — which ended up becoming a novel — and I identified what it had in common with the fiction that I enjoyed. It was the paranormal. I decided for my protagonist to be someone who came back from the dead and I thought it would be funny for her to be an elderly lady with a fulfilling life who didn’t suffer a tragic death; in short, someone who wouldn’t have reasons to come back. No vengeance or anything like that. I pictured people would be mad, wondering why someone younger didn’t come back to life, asking a miracle for justified productivity. Life and death in themselves are so accidental, so random, that I liked that absurd perspective.

Salomé Esper has published a novel, 'La segunda venida de Hilda Bustamante', and a short story collection, 'Querer es perder'. © Sigilo

Your readers feel affection for Hilda. Do you feel it when you meet them?
Yes, indeed. I like to think that there is a dimension where Hilda really exists. There was certain controversy in Spain with a cover that was very similar to Hilda’s, and I had to laugh at the comments on social media, because they didn’t defend me or the novel, they defended Hilda! They spoke of Hilda like she was a real person. I have received comments from people who feel like the story helped them to process grief, which was never my intention. Reader’s interpretations are beyond you and that’s beautiful.

Speaking of readers... You are going to visit the Madrid Book Fair for the first time. What do you hope to find there?
I was actually thinking more about which books I could find there than what I have to do there (laughs). I started diving into publisher’s catalogues to choose in advance and not feel overwhelmed when I get there. My policy is to buy books from local independent publishers that I can’t get my hands on here. I loved being invited to the Fair, even though when I am usually asked to take part on round tables, talks or conferences, the first thought that pops into my head is “I’d rather not”. But I loved the Fair’s proposal, related to humour — an event called Ficción delirante [Delirious fiction] alongside Laura Chivite and Greta García.

“Not long ago, during a chat with my editor, Maxi Papandrea, we asked ourselves: What are men reading?”

Selva Almada, Mónica Ojeda, Elaine Vilar Madruga, Dolores Reyes, Brenda Navarro, Fernanda Melchor, Mariana Enríquez, yourself… What is your perception regarding the boom of Latin American female writers?
I don’t like to call it a trend because that makes it sound like something fleeting. It’s more that readers are finally giving women space. They appreciate women’s books being in circulation and are having greater presence in the media. In a piece by Les Luthiers, they said: “I was an unhappy person.” I identify with that sentence. I also had my own prejudices until I started reading more women. Slowly, thanks to feminism, I left them behind and got into these books more and more. I’m not sure if the same happens among men. Not long ago, during a chat with my editor, Maxi Papandrea, we asked ourselves: What are men reading?

You published your novel with a modest publisher, Sigilo. What role do these kinds of publishers play when giving new talent a chance?
Sigilo gave me everything. I was lucky in how my books came to life. The work these small publishers do is extremely tough. Big ones buy works that have a proven projection in the market. Small and medium publishers don’t have those certainties. People often combine their editorial work with other jobs to stay afloat. It is purely for the love of art. When I saw Sigilo’s catalogue, I thought my novel could fit in well. I liked their motto: “Verdad, misterio, locura y maravilla” [Truth, mystery, madness and wonder].

“I feel like a newcomer, and I put on my writer’s outfit for interviews or presentations, but then I take it off”

How do you combine your full-time day job, related to the publishing world, with writing?
Badly. I’m not writing at the moment. Both my incursions into narrative were at very specific times. Hilda coincided with my return to Argentina after living in Mexico for a few years... I stayed with my parents after the pandemic and used that unsociable time to write. Querer es perder was different because I was already living in my house in Córdoba. For my job, I need to pay a lot of attention to reading, so I often end my workday and want a break. I feel like a newcomer, and I put on my writer’s outfit for interviews or presentations, but then I take it off. It’s not an everyday occurrence in my life, but I am realising that I have to give it space because, even though it may sound strange with several published books, I recently discovered what I truly want to do.