Special Guest Blogger: Miguel de Cervantes

I was just a regular guy in Madrid trying not to get stabbed so that naturally ended with me stabbing someone but it started in 1569. I was young, I had two working hands and I possessed that dangerous cocktail of pride and boredom that usually leads to a courtroom appearance. I got into a bit of a disagreement with a gentleman named Antonio de Sigura. In my defense, the guy was asking for it. In the law’s defense, puncturing a man with a sword is generally frowned upon.
A warrant was issued for my arrest, and the punishment was having my right hand cut off and being exiled for ten years. Now, as someone who planned to write for a living, the cutting off the hand part felt like a bit of a professional setback. So, I did what any rational, brave Spaniard would do and ran for the border like a man whose pants were on fire.
I ended up in Italy and for anyone fleeing the law, Italy is great. The pasta is excellent, and everyone is too busy arguing about art to notice a fugitive writer in the corner.
By 1571, I decided that since I couldn't be a civilian without being arrested, I’d become a hero and joined the navy. Specifically, I fought in the Battle of Lepanto against the Ottoman Empire.
I was sick with a fever on the day of the battle, shaking like a leaf in a Mediterranean gale. My captain told me to stay in bed. I told him I’d rather die fighting than stay tucked in like a lapdog. It sounded very poetic at the time but then I got shot. Twice in the chest, once in the left hand.
The result? I spent six months in a hospital in Sicily and walked away with a useless left hand that functioned only as a paperweight.
After five years of playing soldier, I was finally heading home to Spain in 1575 with letters of recommendation from Don John of Austria himself. I was basically carrying the ultimate Get Out of Jail Free card.
As my ship, El Sol, neared the Spanish coast, we were jumped by Barbary pirates. My luck, as usual, was functioning at a sub-zero level because I was carrying those fancy letters of recommendation, the pirates thought I was a high-ranking aristocrat. They thought, Jackpot! This guy’s ransom will buy us a new fleet and several islands.
They took me to Algiers. My ransom was set at 500 gold escudos. My family, God bless them, didn't have 500 gold escudos. They didn't have five gold escudos but they did have some goats and a lot of prayer. So, I spent the next five years as a slave.
Now, some people would accept their fate but not me, and over the next five years, I orchestrated no fewer than five escape attempts, one of which included trying to walk to a nearby Spanish Town Oran but getting lost and after three days walking back to prison.
Finally, in 1580, the Trinitarian friars managed to scrape together enough money to buy me back. I returned to Spain at the age of 33, broke, disabled, and with five years of kidnapping trauma under my belt. Naturally, I decided the best thing to do was get a job in government administration as a tax man but it turned out I was much better at getting shot than I am at accounting.
I was eventually thrown into prison (again) for irregularities in my accounts but it was there that i hit upon the idea of writing a novel about a nobleman who reads too many books and decides he’s a knight-errant. People think Don Quixote is a satire of chivalry but mostly, it’s a reflection of my life.
I published Part One in 1605. I was 58 years old. In the 1600s, being 58 was the equivalent of being 112 today but the book became a sensation. It was translated into multiple languages and I became famous across Europe.
And do you know how much money I made? Almost none. I sold the rights for a flat fee because I needed to buy bread. While everyone was laughing at my knight and his squire, I was still struggling to pay my rent. Then, some douchebag named Avellaneda wrote a fake sequel to my book while I was still working on Part Two.
I had to write Part Two just to spite him. It’s arguably better than the first one, mostly because I spent half the book making fun of the guy who tried to rip me off.
I died in 1616, on the same date as that Shakespeare fellow in England (though we used different calendars, so don't get pedantic with me). I left this world with no money, one working hand, and a story about a crazy guy on a skinny horse but as Don Quixote himself said: 'Fortune may have yet a better success in reserve for you, and they who lose today may win tomorrow' but I maybe should have added Or the day after. Or several decades after they're dead. Either way, keep tilting at those windmills.