Dreaming in Cuban (1992) is a hallmark of Latino literature and it’s been on my to read list for years, but it took a student’s undulating praise of it during a Novel class I taught last spring that pushed the novel to the top of my list this summer. And my word, I can see […]
Posted on November 9, 2018
The stories that you tell, the words that you use and refine, the characters you try to give life to are merely tools with which you circle around the elusive, unnamed, shapeless thing that belongs to you alone, and which nevertheless is a sort of key to all the doors, the real reason that you spend so much of your life sitting at a table tapping away, filing pages. The question in every story is the same: is this the right story to seize what lies silent in my depths, that living thing which if captured, spreads through all the pages and gives them life?