As in the song that of Los Chunguitos, the mere appearance of the real Carmen has left us stunned, nailed to the ground, speechless. I refer to the Planet, endowed this time with a million lereles, whose grant has uncovered the true identity of bestselling author Carmen Mola. Well, it turns out that it was not a woman, but a trio of male scriptwriters from the world of television: Agustín Martínez, Jorge Díaz and Antonio Mercero. But how? Three guys? What is this, a practical joke? “Caaaarmen, I’m going to have to get drunk, Carmen, Carmen, Carmen.” Leaving the rumba joke aside, the striptease of the supposed novelist keeps alive the flame of a debate polarized more or less on two sides, between those who consider the matter an unethical prank and those who applaud an ingenious coup of mercantile effect.
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Seen as a whole, the operation is ugly. If you remember the path traveled, the novelists of the nineteenth century were forced to hide behind male pseudonyms to publish, so that they would heed them, like the Brontë sisters, who removed three other brothers named Bell from their bonnets: Currer, Ellis and Acton. And, look where, now that crime novel writers sell more than anyone else, wham, let’s go and dress up as a lady. However, the slip does not lie there, in the symbolic, but in the fact that a biography had been invented for the false author, a supposed high school teacher and mother of three boys, a woman who posed on her back and in a raincoat so as not to hurt the susceptibilities of her environment for writing such ‘gore’ pages ‘and past laps. A Chinese tale that we swallow whole. The sin of naivety once again, as if it were still possible to believe that the publishing world – so elevated, so spiritual and pristine – remains outside the manipulations of rampant capitalism. The peel is the peel, now and when Dickens was sleeplessly crossing the bridges over the Thames.
The ‘soufflé’, the soda foam, the identity chip bonfire will not take long to burn out. Much more interesting they seem the long-term questions raised by the ‘Planet affair’. Some, morbid: will the amount of the prize be kept going forward? And others of greater significance: what will become of the poor novelists? As the Colombian author Santiago Gamboa says, “The writer is the working class of literature & rdquor ;. Considering what has been seen, it will be necessary to work as a team, get together in non-binary trios, to eat a thread with the books. In this kaleidoscopic age, when concentration lasts as long as a lit match, rit is practically impossible to compete with the liveliness of the series mesmerizing from the solitude of the desk. What is the reader looking for in a book? Mere entertainment? Or consolation, light in the dark? Hopefully both objectives can coexist for a long time & mldr; You see, what things are, we started with rumba and ended up going downhill in the shoot, to the rhythm of tango, with the novel alone, fané and disconsolate.
Reference-www.elperiodico.com