Hurricane Camila: The actress and writer stopped by the Book Fair to talk about film, writing, and sex.

Hurricanes tend to have feminine names. It wouldn't be amiss, then, to name Camila the phenomenon that writer Sosa Villada generated between last Wednesday, April 30th, and Thursday, May 1st, at the Buenos Aires Book Fair . An in-depth interview first at the Clarín/Ñ cultural space , followed by a reading of her latest book in the José Hernández room , served as a sample of what a writer who, in recent years, has established herself as one of the most interesting and disruptive narrators in Argentine literature, who also excels in acting, generates . The film adaptation of her second novel, Tesis sobre una domesticación, directed by Javier Van De Couter and starring herself, has just been released.

The writer, who broke new ground with the publication of Las Malas (2019), has continued to garner awards and recognition for this title, which tells the story of a group of sex workers, mostly transvestites, working in Parque Sarmiento, Córdoba. She hadn't set foot in the Fair for two years , and this was an ideal excuse to expand on her creative universe, for which she has already won the Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz Awards (2020), the Grand Prix de l'héroïne Madame Figaro Awards, and the Finestres de Narrativa Awards (2021).

Dressed in black and wearing gold bracelets , Sosa Villada sat next to journalist and writer Daniela Pasik, the moderator of the talk, who was introduced by literary critic Alejandra Rodríguez Ballester as a "Camila fan." "I've been following you since Cemento. I'm grateful for your existence," she reiterated.

He began by describing his latest book, The Betrayal of My Language (Tusquets), about which he stated: “It's deceiving. It's in the novel collection, but it's not a novel. It's essays, but they aren't; it's short stories, but they aren't. Your literature, or you as an artist, can't be classified .”

Sosa Villada defined it as "an alien. A literary mess. I couldn't tell you what it is, but I'm proud of the fact that I can't classify it. It's a degenerate book," she said.

He then asked about the film, which premiered the next day, and described it as "uncomfortable. There's a lot of sex."

“A lot of gay sex,” Camila added, laughing. Pasik wondered about something recurrent in her work: the ambivalence between fiction and her own life : “Is she Camila or isn’t she? Are you seeking that discomfort? Is it on purpose?”

“No, it’s not on purpose,” she stated, citing Belgian philosopher Vinciane Despret and her book , “What Would Animals Say If We Asked Them the Right Questions?” , which talks about elephants painting self-portraits. She claimed that zoologists believed elephants were replaceable.

“This is a bit of a problem with this particular elephant,” she stated in reference to herself. “ It seems like it doesn't matter whether I talk about one transvestite or another because we are a united identity that is just now beginning to gain its individualities (Flor, Lizy, me). I like to play that game where I can be a bunch of Camilas,” she revealed.

“I did the little waterfall,” she said in a sexy voice, accidentally spilling a bit of the gin and tonic that had been handed to her moments before. The journalist delved deeper into the previous question: “Is that confusion from the world, or are you seeking it out?” Sosa Villada responded: “No, it’s the world’s doing. I can write that I shit diamonds, and people will say: this transvestite shits diamonds. I’m always present. The experiences I feel are worth writing about run through my bloodstream ; they’ve passed through me. I wouldn’t be able to write something that touched me and then moved on. They’re experiences, and they give me chills, make me cry, or make me euphoric.”

When asked how she decided to star in the film, she first said "casting sheet," sparking more laughter from the audience. She added, "They suggested I adapt the book. I didn't want to star; I thought I had to be younger, thinner, prettier. But when they told me I was going to be with Poncho Herrera, I said yes."

The questions continued until, at one point, Camila shouted out a question to the audience: "Are there transvestites working at the fair? 500 working and only one transvestite? How embarrassing . And then they say, oh... the only group asking for work is the most punished in the country."

The journalist inquired about her creative process, which the writer differentiated between the theatrical and the literary. Her acting training is "purely physical," she described. She dedicates herself to training, sleeping well, and eating healthy. While writing, she differentiated, is the opposite : "You can be filthy, drunk, having sex in an orgy, high, or in a convent, withdrawn for seven months waiting for enlightenment. When I sit down to write, it usually starts with something that makes me angry—not angry, but emotional. It can be day, night, on a plane, with your partner sleeping next to you. It's the realm of infinity."

At one point, she also reflected on her themes: “Family. Watching the behind-the-scenes footage of Jessica Lange’s film Frances (1982), she talks about a fight and says that mothers are the source of all drama. I said: yes, that’s true. Duras said that mothers are the first contact we have with madness. Parents are always a little absent, especially those of our generation, so I care less about them.” She also added sexuality, language, and eroticism. She explained why: “ It’s getting harder and harder for me to get turned on . For it to enter me somewhere, besides my ass, I need that person to talk to me, to whisper something kinky in my ear.”

Then, she revealed some more details about how she writes ( “To the horror of conservatives, I like to write naked in my house. I'm always naked” ) and when (“I try not to write if I don't feel like it. It's not ritualized, it's surprising, when inspiration comes. I get out of bed and start writing”).

Towards the end, she answered some questions from the famous Proust Questionnaire (favorite word? Contentment. Least appreciated quality: prudishness) and summarized what she looks for during the process of writing a text, thus summarizing her literary philosophy: “ I find writing anti-capitalist, anti-fascist . One is occupied with one’s own words, one’s own music; if I’m not writing, I’m a fool not to write. You have to dig deep, encounter things that are not pleasant to you; it’s a moment of concentration, almost of meditation.”

The next day, a long line formed for the official presentation of The Betrayal of My Language at the José Hernández Hall, one of the largest on the grounds. “It's today! And I'm terrified no one will come,” the writer had posted hours earlier on her Instagram account.

At 5:30 p.m., the audience opened. Like a rock concert, people moved forward at top speed, searching for their seats . A diverse audience, mostly female, quickly filled the auditorium to capacity. The Black Eyed Peas' "I Gotta Feeling" was playing, while two girls high-fived each other as if to say, "We did it." In the front row, several clutched their copies of the author's hit single, Las malas, like a charm.

At 5:40 p.m., they welcomed everyone, and Camila emerged. This time, wearing a silver dress and high heels, holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and a glass in the other. Without preamble, she began reading a selection of texts from her latest book , a sort of biographical sketch mixed with poems, musings, and short scenes.

“My words outlive my desire and devour it,” she read to a storm of applause. “This is like a recital,” she said at one point, confirming the atmosphere of the entrance. At one point, she also took the microphone off its stand and read while standing up. Yes, like a rock star. Several of the phrases in her recent texts could be graffiti, a banner, or a manifesto: “Of all the gestures, I choose to stab the world by looking it in the eyes.”

At various points, she seemed emotional and moved . She broke down at certain phrases, especially those alluding to her father ("Accept the title of man. You learn to repeat that rule: men don't cry"). A woman handed her a small card and she used it to dry her tears. At one point, she swore because she had wandered off the page. "My writing suffers, it spits curses onto the pages. Only in it am I alive," she said, while adding, in one of her few remarks beyond the reading: "It seems like one kick after another." "I love you Camila," the audience shouted, and she thanked them with smiles and air kisses.

“Memory is the most treacherous affection there is,” was one of the last lines she read before her audience—for it had already become clear that they were her most loyal audience—erupted into final applause . As the storm subsided and the audience began to disperse, a man approached the stage, lifted his shirt, and showed the author a tattoo. She exclaimed with a mixture of brazenness and irreverence: “Look, it has my name tattooed on it! How disgusting! I hope it brought you luck.”