A community devoted to
the conception,
the craft,
the stubbornness,
the hoax,
the purpose,
the end,
& the joy of reading and writing stories.
Our Chapters
Technical Lab
An experimentation space where processes turn into knowledge through engaging narratives.
Scribe Studio
Individual and group mentorships guiding beginners and emerging writers across the creative and editorial journey.
Out Loud Programs
The act of reading, writing, and sharing reflections on genres, authors, and the literary imagination, bringing audiences and voices together.
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Our Characters
Lucía Malvido
Ghostwriter & Bookkeeper
(CDMX, 1985)
Obsessive out-loud reader and collector of literature from the American continent, the Russian heroes, and the ancient scriptures. Convinced that the internet is her mother country, she’s been a pirate since 1997. In the material world, she works as a knowledge lead at a software startup. Always eager to get her hands dirty with the dough of stories.
Francisco Marzioni
Writer & Newsreader
(Rafaela, Arg. 1979)
Born and raised on science fiction, he is a yoga student and apprentice of cinema from within. A poetry bard at the edge of the 20th century, has devoted his body and soul to reading, forecasting and making music. Today he teaches others to listen to the rhythm of imagination as a way to conceive possible worlds.
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Our Adventures
On Writers and Poets
By Lucía Malvido
It happens since I can remember, when the rainy evenings find me at home, I feel some huge drive to sit and get myself to write. It won’t be the first time I understand that this is the true story behind this craft, not a real intention to untangle the complexities of language, nor the emergent need to say that unique sentence. Is just this rush of energy that they sometimes call inspiration which, nevertheless, is frequently confused with the effect of an epiphany or with the unraveling of pure illumination. This is different to these hands, though there may be a subtle connection with the qualities of light: the gloaming turns colors to gold and seems to define a lightness to the gravity of volumes, something about your clothes, the shelter I wrap my body with, that holds me with a distinctive strength before this table and under this roof, a loosen gratitude that only resembles itself. Its time is this time, and here I am, waiting for it to rain while invoking the sound of the drops of rain with the patter of my fingers over the types. If I stop the action of tapping on the keys, the fingers keep playing over the keyboard without pressing the keys the whole way, they brush them and beat over their surface. Their movement sounds like a little stream. There is nothing more.
I’ve carried out this exercise so many times and yet, I’ve lost some practice. Could I have worn out the radiance of this moment by trying to explain it, describing it, listing the elements that compose it, forming sets, integrating them, extracting them, carefully noticing them?
To write is as catching fishes with a net. There is no true nobility about the net more than the technique, the occupation that engages men in learning its structure, in knitting it, to bind it, to cast it skillfully, learning the details of the currents and the tides. And then comes the fishing. Which fishes or how many one is to catch, can’t be known. The scribe makes something out of whatever the sea provides them.
Poets are wholly beyond that. They are devoted sailors, fishermen, and go chasing for an object. They want to hold it in their hands and sacrifice it in the name of a true existence, conceiving its name, because they know how the world really is. And they can be the boat, the net, the creature, the endlessness of the ocean, the blaze of the sun and the salt, the conclusion and the relief. The poet is the voice of gloom, nature and fate.