Letter to the Writer I Want to Be in 2026

A letter that travels through time: an intimate dialogue between the writer we are and the one we dream of becoming.

By Lidia Roselló

HoyLunes – Dear future me:

I hope you are reading this with a cup of green tea in your hand (although if it is December, it will probably be a hot chocolate, because writers also need liquid sweetness to survive the winter). Maybe Diva is curled up beside you, reminding you that going for a walk is also a way of writing: every bark, every little run after a pigeon is, in fact, a reminder that life goes on, and that there is no novel without those small moments that seem insignificant but later become the raw material for a story.

I want to start by telling you that I am proud of you. In 2025 you published your first novel, Ladrona de Naranjas, and that is already a dream fulfilled that no one can take away from you. I hope you never forget the emotion of seeing your story turned into a real book, with the smell of ink and pages that other people made their own. Remember the furtive tears during the presentation, surrounded by people who wanted to share that moment with you. That mix of nerves, gratitude, and euphoria is proof that every dawn, every doubt, every crossed-out word was worth it.

I hope that in 2026 you are still the same curious writer who finds phrases in the air, titles in absurd conversations, and metaphors on any corner. May you keep jotting down ideas on napkins, in your phone’s notes, or in that notebook you swear you’ll never abandon (even though you always end up starting a new one). And, above all, may you keep laughing at your own blockages, your excuses, and that blank page that seems to judge you with its word count.

I wish for you to maintain both passion and consistency. To keep celebrating every written page as if it were a secret toast with your characters. To enjoy the days of overflowing inspiration, but also to embrace the grey days, when writing a single line is already an act of courage. Because writing is not always easy, but it is always necessary.

I want you to remember something important: you are not the same writer you were a year ago, and that is okay. You are growing, changing, daring to tell other stories. I hope that in 2026 you look back and see not only a published novel, but the entire path traveled with excitement, stumbles, and a great deal of magic. I hope you hold your second novel in your hands, the one you are working on every day and whose characters are already beating within you.

And if you ever doubt—because you will, you already know—look at Diva, who follows you with infinite patience even when you talk to yourself while rehearsing dialogues. Look at your cup of green tea and remember that writing is also a way of taking care of yourself, of bringing order to the chaos of your mind, and of giving meaning to what seems overwhelming.

If in 2026 you are able to laugh, cry, learn, and dream with every story, then you will have fulfilled the most important promise: to continue being a writer.

With affection,
Your 2025 self.

And now I invite you, reader of La Habitación Naranja, to write your own letter to the writer you want to be in 2026. Keep it in your notebook, in your bedside drawer, in your notes app, or share it with me. Read it a year from now and discover how hope, tenderness, and dreams can also be written into the future.