Jordi Puntí: today's writers are more like entertainers than creators

As a writer, what draws you more: intimate, small-scale stories or broader, collective narratives?

I think the two are inseparable. Perhaps I tend to focus more on personal, intimate stories, but they often reflect what's happening within society—the trends and currents that shape people's lives. These often become subjects of social critique, and they're easier to observe when applied to a specific character.

How important are details in your writing?

Extremely. As Nabokov once said, "God is in the details." When imbued with meaning, details illuminate the whole, revealing the essence of a scene and the subtleties of a character's reactions. A single, well-crafted detail can contain an entire world, serving as a metaphor to convey a particular mood, an unforeseen decision, or a desire disclosed in the most unexpected of ways.

Your novel Lost Luggage, which has been translated into Arabic, was a major success. How did the idea of writing about a father with four secret sons come about?

The idea first came to me during a move. My partner, who was my fiancée at the time, had relocated to Barcelona, and the truck drivers who brought her belongings from Munich caught my attention. In speaking with them, I came to understand the toughness of their lives—a constant existence on the road, far from family. But yet they carried themselves with a certain lightness—even a joy for life. It was as though the three of them had formed a new kind of family. Always travelling, always encountering new sights, yet bound by strict timetables.

Separately, we lost a suitcase during the move—it resurfaced months later—which set me thinking about tricks, theft, and the peculiar magic of other people's possessions, and how they can encapsulate an entire life.

You've written both short stories and novels. How do you compare the two?

They are entirely different forms. Writing a short story is like swimming in a pool; you know where you begin, where you end, and you control the space. Writing a novel, by contrast, is like swimming in the sea; each day is different, the horizon is distant, and you have no control over what lies beneath the surface. Both are rewarding, but I prefer writing novels because of the challenge they present and the sustained effort they require. It is like chiselling away at stone for months or even years, never certain whether you will be happy with the final result.

How has translation influenced your writing style and what are some challenges you face?

I translate very little these days due to time constraints, but translating authors such as Paul Auster, Daniel Pennac, and Amélie Nothomb—all well-established novelists—has taught me that every book is a kind of architecture. From the outside, you see only the words, but inside lie the structures, foundations, and hidden conduits that hold the whole edifice together.

By that I mean syntax, style, and the imperative to express things in a certain way, always seeking the right point of view. Translation involves finding the words in your own language, but above all, it is about grasping that internal dynamic and determining how to render a particular style into your own tongue.

I always like this analogy to describe it: translating is like dismantling a radio and then reassembling it so that it works in another language.

How do you see the changing relationship between writer and reader in the digital age?

I am not particularly optimistic, especially with the advent of artificial intelligence. The 21st century and the rise of social media have simplified, and—in some ways— distorted the notion of "the writer." What now counts is instant success and the status of being labelled a "best-selling author".

Over time, the cultural role of the writer has diminished. Writers are no longer regarded as thinkers or creators of ideas that encourage reflection and foster knowledge. Entertainment has become the primary aim, and publishers increasingly tend to favour well-known media personalities over genuine storytelling or imaginative vision.

It is, frankly, a bleak picture.

How important is writing in Catalan to you?

I have two possible answers to that question. On one hand, writing in Catalan today is simply about doing what is natural; expressing myself in the language I know best, which makes it an instinctive choice. On the other hand, in this era of linguistic globalisation, and with the pressure of Spanish within Catalan society itself, writing in Catalan is also an act of resistance—and perhaps of survival.

To me, writing in Catalan gives me a genuine and natural sense of belonging to a small, clearly defined minority.

Do you think Catalan literature doesn't get the global exposure it deserves?

I believe all cultures aspire to a greater presence abroad and broader recognition, yet I do not think we have grounds to complain. Over the past two decades, there has been a marked increase in translations into other languages. I say this from personal experience, but also because, when travelling to other countries—particularly in the West—it is no longer unusual to walk into a bookshop and find a title by a Catalan author. That said, there remains considerable room for improvement, especially with translations into non-Roman/Romance languages.