Last year I published a book. It resulted from three years of research, traveling to describe the places where the story happened, translating documents from Croatian to Spanish, and finally, the actual process of writing, proofreading, and polishing everything.
My editor made me work a lot to reach the final version because he thought my first proposal was too long. And cut a manuscript so carefully done is like harming your own baby. I agreed with him and left the book in between his exigences and my desires. I fought like a lioness to protect the paragraphs I considered essential to the story, and I won.
I was satisfied with the result. The critics said that the I wrote the book compellingly and engagingly.
But I knew that the secret was the story. It was a powerful and true. With adventures, war episodes, spies, treasons, danger, and overall that, an immense love: The story of my parents.
I have done it in their memory.
Now I’m owned by my publisher. I have almost no rights (a modicum of eight percent of the sales.) I want to translate the book to English to reach more people, but I have my hands tied by my publisher, not interested in taking risks. I didn’t know that the writers’ job was so hard.
In the featured picture I’m signing books in a presentation in Barcelona