In A Twelfth Night, Noemí Trujillo Giacomelli opens the doors to her inner world through a book that carries the emotional texture of a diary. Within its pages we find the story of her life, the origin of her literary vocation, and the deep imprint left upon her by her mother and grandmother. Her relationship with both—marked by pain and misunderstanding—becomes the driving force of her writing. It is precisely through that wound that Noemí awakens her literary voice and transforms personal experience into art.

The book allows us to glimpse closely the author’s creative process: how her writing is born, what inspires it, and what sustains it. There are also moments of great beauty and tenderness, such as when she speaks of writing “four-handed” with her husband. That gesture, more than a literary exercise, seems an act of love and creative complicity—a fusion between two souls who share both words and life.

Another fascinating aspect of the work is its reflection on literature itself: her influences, her readings, her conception of the act of writing. Noemí reveals her favourite authors and, at the same time, formulates a lucid critique of the contemporary literary system. On page 133, for instance, she writes:

“If literature feeds on love, then one must go on loving.”

A phrase as simple as it is luminous, encapsulating her understanding of writing as an act of devotion.
On page 127 we find another reflection, this time of a more social and combative nature:

“Every good writer knows that writing well is not the same as selling much, and that all too often those who sell the most are not those who write best.”

That denunciation of the publishing market is both courageous and necessary. Few authors dare to say it so plainly, and Noemí does so without fear, with the honesty of one who loves literature above commercial success. Personally, I share her view: the Spanish publishing landscape is in need of profound transformation, and statements such as this invite us to think and to act.

I found myself deeply identified with Noemí in many of her reflections: in her way of turning pain into creativity, in her constant dialogue with other women writers, and in that desire to transform experience into beauty.

A Twelfth Night is a magical book, in the most literal sense of the word: it contains something of magical realism, something of dream and revelation. Though it does not formally adopt the structure of a diary, its confessional tone makes us feel as though we are reading the author’s life even as she writes it.

But there is something deeper running through these pages: ghosts. A Twelfth Night speaks to us of those women writers who are no longer among us and who visit from beyond during Twelfth Night, becoming a kind of literary ghosts with whom Noemí converses at each encounter. Yet beyond these “ghosts”, I sense a more constant presence throughout the book: the ghost of illness. That invisible spectre hovers over the work as a constant presence, like a personal Sleepy Hollow threatening to sever the writer’s dreams at any moment. Noemí transforms that threat into creative drive: the ghosts are not mere apparitions but images, delusions, illusions and visions that she turns into literary substance. In truth, that “ghost” of illness that haunts her paradoxically urges her to write even more. Writing thus becomes an exorcism, a way of surviving. The result is a symbiosis between life and literature, between the real and the imagined, between autobiography, criticism, and reflection upon the creative process itself.
At that point, A Twelfth Night becomes not only a personal testimony but also a constructive critique of the publishing system and of the way literary creation is understood in our time.

Who would I recommend this book to? Without doubt, to women writers embarking on their literary journey. Noemí speaks of the reconciliation between family life and writing, of the sacrifices and renunciations that being a woman who wishes to write entails. That dialogue, from woman to woman, from skin to skin, carries a depth that perhaps only those who have lived something similar can fully comprehend.

I would also recommend it to students of contemporary Spanish literature, especially those interested in women writers of the second half of the twentieth century. Trujillo Giacomelli offers a distinctive perspective: not that of the academic critic, but that of an author who converses, as an equal, with other creators. That “mimesis among women writers”, as one might call it, is both fascinating and revealing.

Finally, this book is ideal for passionate lovers of literature, for those who enjoy reading about the act of writing itself, and for readers seeking to rediscover the emotion and truth that only words can offer.

A Twelfth Night by Noemí Trujillo Giacomelli, published by Editorial Destino, is, in short, a brave, intimate and luminous work—special and delicate at once. A gift of love to literature and to life.