Writing has always been a part of my life, from a very young age. My diaries from over 30 years are proof of that. I also made writing my profession: I'm a journalist. But writing from the soul, that only sprouted when I was almost forty. It invaded me and overflowed during a moment of acute crisis, when I momentarily lost my sanity while dealing with frequent psychotic episodes. It was thanks to them that the words began to take on new forms. In a way, it was precisely the crises and the pain that made me a writer of myself. I then returned, without realizing it, to writing a diary, and from those crooked lines was born "Eyes closed, only if it's to avoid good winds." The book is a kind of open letter to myself and my loved ones. It's scary to write in pain because the danger is that you get used to it and attribute your entire creative process to it. But if it weren't for writing during that dark moment, I wouldn't even be here. Of that, I'm certain. But then, as the months passed and a passionate love arrived, the words took a different direction. They now brought me colors, smells, and tastes. They flowed. Pure delight. They wanted to speak of desire, of love, and of anxieties too, why not? This time, they sprouted from pulsating life. From what is most instinctive and primitive within me. Thus, “Chronicles of an Immoderate Love,” my second book in less than a year, was born. I realize that writing is within me, in all my nuances. It's part of my deepest self, bringing to the surface the all or nothing of me. It summons me to life.