There are stories that you write yourself... and others that write you.
Mine began when I was just eight years old, in that secret place where childhood and imagination mix without asking permission. There, a character appeared who accompanied me for years: my imaginary friend.
He was as real to me as any flesh-and-blood person. He walked beside me, asked me questions, listened to me in silence, and seemed to understand things that sometimes even I couldn't explain. At first, he had no name, only a presence. Over time, he became the Lord of my Dreams.
And although many say that children who create imaginary friends do so because they are lonely, I discovered the opposite: that character nourished me, made me feel accompanied, connected to an invisible world that, over the years, I would discover was full of meaning.
The question that changed everything
When I became an adult, that boundary between “real” and “imagined” became more blurred. Had it been just fantasy? Or perhaps a deep part of me trying to speak?
The question lingered in my mind for years.
One day, I simply decided to write. Not out of obligation, nor out of nostalgia: out of necessity.
I opened the drawer where I kept my childhood memories—those random notes, those feelings I had never shared—and I pieced them together one by one. That is how the manuscript was born, which, much later, would become my first book in the Ojos Grandes collection.
The Lord of My Dreams becomes literature
The character who had lived with me for so many years reappeared, this time full of words. All I had to do was listen to him.
He guided the story, set the pace, opened doors.
I wrote, but he was still there, as if he had never left.
The beautiful thing is that the magic didn't end there.
When my daughters were born, the stories took on a whole new dimension. They listened to my stories with the same fascination with which I had lived my childhood adventures. Seeing their interest, their attentive silence, their questions... gave me the impetus I needed to share what I had written.
I decided to submit the manuscript to a contest held by a public institution.
And to my surprise—and excitement—he won.
That was the moment when my imaginary friend ceased to exist only in my mind and became part of the lives of other people: children, families, teachers, and readers who feel his presence between the lines.
What does the Lord of my Dreams represent today?
In my stories, he is:
- A silent guide.
- A bridge to the imagination.
- A metaphor for intuition and childlike sensitivity.
- A protective presence that observes without intervening.
- A reminder that magic doesn't disappear when we grow up.
And, in a way, it is also a symbol of something deeper:
the recognition that inner worlds deserve to be heard and narrated.
From imaginary friend to literary travel companion
Today, when I write new stories, I feel that character is still there.
Not as an imaginary friend, but as a creative impulse, a presence that reminds me of the root of everything:
Imagination is a gift that, if we take care of it, will stay with us throughout our lives.
Thanks to him, Ojos Grandes was born.
Thanks to him, I regained my childlike voice.
And thanks to him, every story I write has a touch of mystery, tenderness, and truth.
What about you? Did you have or do you have an imaginary friend?
If you feel like sharing it, I'd love to read it. Imaginary friends deserve to be remembered. Sometimes, they even wait patiently for us to give them shape... in a story.