Salomé Esper: "You never get exactly what you want."

“There is no limit, everything is lost, it is lost before it is finished winning, it is lost just by wanting, this is a world of losers convinced that they must win,” writes Salomé Esper In “First-Timers,” the third story in Wanting is Losing , his first book of short stories published by Sigilo.

She took advantage of one of her days in Buenos Aires to talk to Clarín about this book, which, after the remarkable success of her previous novel published under the same label ( The Second Coming of Hilda Bustamante ), confirms her as one of the most interesting new voices in Argentine literature.

Here, Esper—"it's called ésper," reads his Instagram bio—recounts, over a coffee at the Ateneo Grand Splendid bar, that the title was almost a cause of argument with his editors. "They laughed because they said I had a much more negative view of my characters, and they saw the bright side."

Her stories, marked by transformation, branch out into multiple characters and conflicts involving new parents , men fishing, and curious neighbors. Her characters drift, intertwined by a desire that will bring them face to face with impossibility. At the same time, she allows for the emergence of the fantastic, as in her first novel, which asks the following question: What would happen if a deceased 79-year-old woman were magically resurrected?

" I've always been interested in creativity , and when you're not doing it, it weighs heavily on you. Even though you know you're not going to make it your life, and you don't feel the fire that burns, it weighs on you. The fact that I've published and that it's out there gives me a certain peace of mind. It's a done deal. I can keep doing it. But I don't have that thing about rushing toward something, about owing myself something," he reveals while expanding his creative universe.

–You were born in Jujuy, lived in Mexico, and are now in Córdoba. How do you think about identity? Do you feel you should move closer to Buenos Aires to gain visibility? I think about this in relation to a story you wrote in this book (“Imposible”) in which the protagonist asks existential questions.

–I ask myself a lot of existential questions. Maybe not so much about identity. Regarding creation, I've never felt that need to be close to any specific center. I think it's more about visibility, about exposure. I've always prioritized the creative exercise itself. I don't think that closeness is necessary for that. The other day I was asked about groups I belonged to, and it's not something I've ever felt anywhere. It's strange. I always spent a lot of time inside my house; I didn't have many connections. I went to a school in a neighboring city. I didn't have much of that social aspect. Maybe I only had it with the internet. My group of belonging was blogs.

–Your stories, and your novel as well, feature certain more rural, or at least non-urban, spaces. Does this have anything to do with creating far from Buenos Aires?

–For me, that's fortuitous. My experience is peripheral, but I also lived in Mexico City, the quintessential monster city of Latin America. Most of what I write isn't dictated by themes or prior choices. It's more about following an impulse, whatever it is at the time, responding to what the story demands. I hadn't realized there wasn't an urban setting. An image appears to me, and that image triggers an idea that requires a character that corresponds to its universe.

–Is that how these stories came about?

–When I started writing Hilda , my idea was to write a short story. I feel like that's when I first sat down to engage in this creative exercise. It dragged on and ended up being a short novel. When the whole process was over, I was still wondering if I could write short stories. I wondered: Will I be able to keep writing? I started writing very quickly. I wanted to write a lot because I had the idea that if I wrote a lot, I'd explore different subgenres of the short story. I wrote several and said: I have the same style in all of them.

–Another theme that appears, both in Hilda Bustamante and in the second story in this book (“La Carla”), is old age and the passage of time. Does it appeal to you?

–With Hilda, it was closer to the idea. I wanted to include a fantastical element, and it occurred to me that it would be a return to life. That's where the idea came first before the image. I found it funny that someone who had nothing to do, according to the expectations we have in our societies for older adults, would return. The longing for even a miracle to be productive. I liked imagining that. Other questions arose: Why don't we generally have older friends, and our only relationship with older adults is with family members? I also really like childhood. Writing from the point of view of a young person is a total freedom, it's beautiful.

–Since you mentioned the emergence of the fantastic in Hilda, that's also present in these stories. That interests you. You mentioned Poe earlier.

–Yes, I really like it as a reader. The power of writing to create absolutely anything. Afterwards, I always clarify: I'm not going to say it's something from my province because maybe it was something only from my home, but I've been chatting and at some point in the conversation someone always mentions a ghost, a goblin, a phantom. I've always liked that. I like to give space to that excess that I enjoy when I read.

–Continuing with what appears in these stories, in “First Timers” there is the theme of motherhood and fatherhood. How did that come about?

–It was crazy. The subject doesn't interest me. I feel like it's there even if you don't want it to be, because as a woman, people ask you about it from the age of four. They make you think about it. You have to say yes, no, why. That leads to other questions. I was surprised to write it. The original idea was to think about the relationship between form and love. How much the change in form affects love in any relationship. I had first thought about writing something about pets that changed bodies. This love you have for that dog, would it be the same if it changed form? Then I said: let's take it a little more to the extreme and play children.

–Could it be that all these stories are going through some transformation?

–Yes, because it's something that you somehow need to happen, even if it's minimal. For me, the center of the book is desire. People wanting things they can't achieve, whether it's something, someone, or a specific form of connection. Without seeing the other possible things that also emerge. Because it's not a question of: the world is ending. There are other configurations. I discovered this thing about connections later: What am I doing writing about mothers and relationships? I need something in the writing process that keeps me interested. You can't be interested in someone who doesn't change.

–Are you methodical when it comes to your writing?

–I think I'm just now identifying what the process is like. Very little happened with Hilda either. I don't have that much time either because I have an eight-hour day job, which has to do with publishing, reading, so I end up burned out and sometimes you want to disconnect. I'm still investigating what gives you the disposition, the peace of mind to be able to sit down. Some people say: "I write when I'm jogging, washing dishes." I only write when I'm writing. With Hilda, I invented time by absolutely silencing any question about why you're doing that. But not as a method, either. Finding the space and time when there's a stimulus.

–That could be a method. Has any stimulus appeared recently?

–I had something, but it's like I'm saving it. It happens to me when I buy a new book or a new outfit, like I leave it in its bag and put it away because I know it's still new.

–You were talking about desire earlier. Why the title Wanting Is Losing?

–It was almost a knife fight with the editor! The one from the novel magically appeared, and it was difficult to talk about the stories without giving away too much as to ruin the experience. I had an idea, and Maxi Papandrea, editor of Sigilo, and Vera Giaconi, with whom I also worked on the book, laughed because they said I had a much more negative view of my characters, while they saw the bright side. At one point, I wanted to call it "World of Losers " after a phrase from "First Timers." It's the idea that you can't win when you want something. You never get exactly what you want. So wanting—like yearning and loving—implies losing, that you'll never have exactly that. Which is more or less that phrase. It was hard. They banned the word "losers." I banned the word "happiness." None of my books will have that word!

Wanting is losing , by Salomé Esper (Sigilo).