3/31/2010
..."The torture never stops." I've been thinking about this lately. I will write more about this in our continuing coversation about craft and writing and the writing life. But things are on my mind, a convolution of things and events. Lots of feelings. Yes: I won the National Hispanic Cultural Center Award--partially for writing, but partially for helping others. I have to admit, that part makes me really happy. And proud.
I received a letter from a "friendly" fan who hid the zinger in the tail of her note: how do I reconcile my early "missionary" work in Tijuana with my strong anti-Christian bias in Into the Beautiful North? Um. You know something funny? Exactly seven days before this note-in-sheep's-clothing arrived, I was mocked for an hour by an atheist writer for my strong pro-Christian bias in Into the Beautiful North! DOH! Cosmic joke's on me this week! I will have to address this stuff in a few days. It's just too rich. All I'll say is this: one of them was paying attention, and one of them can't apparently read a cereal box.
But the torture part. It's the grim inner echoes, isn't it? It's the dark basement of the soul with all its cobwebs and regrets. I have a desert in me. It yearns for rain.
So, I had some oral surgery this week. Who wouldn't be bummed? I mean, man! I had a bad molar. And the roots of this molar had grown into my sinus. Hope you're not eating right now. They got that stuff out, but they had to put a dead man's bone up in there. I joked on Twitter that my mouth is now haunted. Lots of stitches.
But, you see, when I was a boy, my father was in a panic. I was weak, and I was Catholic, and I was American and I was quite possibly gay. He was sure I was gay becauise I wanted to be a priest and I didn't like cigarettes. Ironic, considering the current crises. But this was entirely based on my generally non-macho personality back then. He was a Mexican military man, and he had suffered heavy experiences. Violence. Deaths. I think it made him crazy. I think his panic wasn't all about me--I think his panics were also about himself. My dad loved me, no doubt. Well, I had doubts. Like many sad kids, I knew he didn't always like me, even if he loved me. Now, when people feel that way about you, they do things out of "love." Thinking they'll make you better, more acceptable, tougher. Things that feel, deep in that basement or far out in that black desert, like torture.
I was terrified of doctors and needles and pain. I cried. So my dad orchestrated a stratagem for making me tougher. He convinced my mom that dentists in Tijuana were cheaper than San Diego. True. I ate too much candy. True. Too many cavities, also true. So he took me to his dentist, and he had told the dentist that I was an American weakling, so they agreed to do all my dental work without anesthesia. And my dad could stay in the room so they could both scold me when I writhed or cried. "Pussy!" "Asshole!" Hmm. I don't know how macho it made me, but they were right in a certain sense--it made me tougher.
I didn't like Marathon Man much when I saw it, though.
Yeah, now I have a wonderful high-tech dentist. The assistant told me, "You were calm." If they only knew. I have been sad so deep inside all week and just realized why. Pain makes me feel bad, of course. Getting old makes me feel bad. But the sorrow of those brightly lit white rooms with those awful tools and that smell and those angry men looming over me. Wow. Something so tawdry and stupid, so long ago, just breaks my heart. It makes me sad in a way that doesn't even want me to write.
You see? Pain wants us silent. So to hell with that. Sing, baby. Shout. Laugh and talk and talk and talk.
When something good comes along, like this NHCC award, think about that.
When letters come that you want to burn, think of a way to answer them with heart and wisdom.
Listen to Frank Zappa!
Love, L
NHCC Literary Award
I received a letter from a "friendly" fan who hid the zinger in the tail of her note: how do I reconcile my early "missionary" work in Tijuana with my strong anti-Christian bias in Into the Beautiful North? Um. You know something funny? Exactly seven days before this note-in-sheep's-clothing arrived, I was mocked for an hour by an atheist writer for my strong pro-Christian bias in Into the Beautiful North! DOH! Cosmic joke's on me this week! I will have to address this stuff in a few days. It's just too rich. All I'll say is this: one of them was paying attention, and one of them can't apparently read a cereal box.
But the torture part. It's the grim inner echoes, isn't it? It's the dark basement of the soul with all its cobwebs and regrets. I have a desert in me. It yearns for rain.
So, I had some oral surgery this week. Who wouldn't be bummed? I mean, man! I had a bad molar. And the roots of this molar had grown into my sinus. Hope you're not eating right now. They got that stuff out, but they had to put a dead man's bone up in there. I joked on Twitter that my mouth is now haunted. Lots of stitches.
But, you see, when I was a boy, my father was in a panic. I was weak, and I was Catholic, and I was American and I was quite possibly gay. He was sure I was gay becauise I wanted to be a priest and I didn't like cigarettes. Ironic, considering the current crises. But this was entirely based on my generally non-macho personality back then. He was a Mexican military man, and he had suffered heavy experiences. Violence. Deaths. I think it made him crazy. I think his panic wasn't all about me--I think his panics were also about himself. My dad loved me, no doubt. Well, I had doubts. Like many sad kids, I knew he didn't always like me, even if he loved me. Now, when people feel that way about you, they do things out of "love." Thinking they'll make you better, more acceptable, tougher. Things that feel, deep in that basement or far out in that black desert, like torture.
I was terrified of doctors and needles and pain. I cried. So my dad orchestrated a stratagem for making me tougher. He convinced my mom that dentists in Tijuana were cheaper than San Diego. True. I ate too much candy. True. Too many cavities, also true. So he took me to his dentist, and he had told the dentist that I was an American weakling, so they agreed to do all my dental work without anesthesia. And my dad could stay in the room so they could both scold me when I writhed or cried. "Pussy!" "Asshole!" Hmm. I don't know how macho it made me, but they were right in a certain sense--it made me tougher.
I didn't like Marathon Man much when I saw it, though.
Yeah, now I have a wonderful high-tech dentist. The assistant told me, "You were calm." If they only knew. I have been sad so deep inside all week and just realized why. Pain makes me feel bad, of course. Getting old makes me feel bad. But the sorrow of those brightly lit white rooms with those awful tools and that smell and those angry men looming over me. Wow. Something so tawdry and stupid, so long ago, just breaks my heart. It makes me sad in a way that doesn't even want me to write.
You see? Pain wants us silent. So to hell with that. Sing, baby. Shout. Laugh and talk and talk and talk.
When something good comes along, like this NHCC award, think about that.
When letters come that you want to burn, think of a way to answer them with heart and wisdom.
Listen to Frank Zappa!
Love, L
Just found out this week that I will be honored with the National Hispanic Cultural Center's bi-annual Literary Award at the National Latino Writers Conference in May. To be on a list that includes Rudy Anaya, Pat Mora, Denise Chavez and Martin Espada is humbling.
For me, what mattered even more than the recognition of my work is that the award honors a writer who has "impacted the productivity and success of other writers." I would have accomplished nothing without Rudy Anaya and the other writers who helped me -- and continue to do so. Giving back by reaching out to other writers is the only way I can repay their efforts for me.
Thank you, NHCC. I am honored. I look forward to seeing you in May.
To read more about it, see here.
My Life in Rock And Roll
For me, what mattered even more than the recognition of my work is that the award honors a writer who has "impacted the productivity and success of other writers." I would have accomplished nothing without Rudy Anaya and the other writers who helped me -- and continue to do so. Giving back by reaching out to other writers is the only way I can repay their efforts for me.
Thank you, NHCC. I am honored. I look forward to seeing you in May.
To read more about it, see here.
3/29/2010
Shawn Phillips wrote a song inspired by The Devil's Highway called, well, "The Devil's Highway."
Here it is in concert:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=jEuTTsGSdoo
Funny story about my boyhood, too.
To Fairfield, From Kankakee
Here it is in concert:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=jEuTTsGSdoo
Funny story about my boyhood, too.
3/24/2010
Had no idea the amazing folks at the Kankakee Public Library wrote the sweetest letter in the world to the amazing folks at the Fairfield Public Library after Fairfield chose Into the Beautiful North for its One Book read.
This made me cry (again). Kankakee represents so much to me, as a writer and as a citizen of the world. And what I hoped to do with Into the Beautiful North was show what a small piece of America might hold for someone looking for hope and kindness.
So click here and scroll down to the Letter from Kankakee. As we re-jigger the website for the paperback launch, the links there will be an essential part of the new page for Into the Beautiful North.
Thanks Kankakee, as always.
Hasta La Vista, Baby
This made me cry (again). Kankakee represents so much to me, as a writer and as a citizen of the world. And what I hoped to do with Into the Beautiful North was show what a small piece of America might hold for someone looking for hope and kindness.
So click here and scroll down to the Letter from Kankakee. As we re-jigger the website for the paperback launch, the links there will be an essential part of the new page for Into the Beautiful North.
Thanks Kankakee, as always.
3/22/2010
Heading out for Texas tomorrow morning. Crack of dawn. And from Texas to NY the next day BEFORE the crack of dawn. From airport to Fairfield CT for their one-city-one-book event for Into the Beautiful North. Then, pant pant, from there across country to Oregon. Airline won't let me check in early, which means DHS will squint at me and give me a load o' shite this week because I have really weird chains of one-way tickets. I've only been on planes every month since 2004!
So I won't be here to chat with you for a few days. However, we're having a great time over at my Facebook Fan Page. When I get back, I'm going to focus on all questions and comments people put up while I'm on the road. If you want to talk, or want to know anything, go there. I'll be answering next Sunday.
Festive in Tucson
So I won't be here to chat with you for a few days. However, we're having a great time over at my Facebook Fan Page. When I get back, I'm going to focus on all questions and comments people put up while I'm on the road. If you want to talk, or want to know anything, go there. I'll be answering next Sunday.
3/17/2010
It was funny to go to Tucson for their Tucson Festival of Books (TFOB) after such a long and nasty Chicago winter. No big coats! The snow had finally melted out of our yard. But flying in, we saw snow on the Arizona peaks. Hmm. No snow in Chicago, but snow in Tucson. It's a topsy-turvy world.
This was my second TFOB, and frankly, I was wondering who would want to see me again. I got some suprises, though. Like, a few hundred surprises. The first one was our rental car--a bad-ass metalflake blue Dodge Charger. Now, I will say right here that I have rented a billion Focuses, KIAs, Hyundais, even a few Chevy Malibus. But I was never handed the keys to a metalflake monster. Go, Dollar! I'm a true-(metalflake)blue San Diego boy who yearned for a hot car to cruise Clairemoint Drive and astound Prudence, Rockie Lee and my beloved Carol Moore. Oh, I would have probably made my girlfriend Colette really giddy in a Charger. But I was driving Keds and Converse hi-tops and never even had a car.
The Charger was vicious. Evil. Fat and bulgy. In short: I was in love with myself. Mr. Male Menopause, announcing to Cinderella that it wanted to kill the BMW beside us. I composed poems about it eating Priuses. She Twittered: "That's just sad." But my car UNDERSTOOD ME. We rolled up to the El Conquistador resort (TFOB knows how to take care of its authors) and rumbled around like a jaguar robot, scattering terrified quail. Um, she was driving, actually. But I was the baddest possible passenger in the desert, casting wicked ass-kicking passenger stare-downs at all other drivers, especially those bastards in Mustangs.
We went to the get-together/banquet. The blessings began to shower down right away. Saw our beloved Robert Boswell, and Bozzed it up w/ him. People kept stopping me to say hi. The editor of Hummingbird Review (you'd better start reading it!) came along. Hugs all the way around. Then Mr. Desierto, the reigning genius of flora and fauna, Gary Paul Nabhan showed up. Turns out he's doing a book: Teresita's Plants. Yes! The Yaqui sacred plants of Hummingbird's Daughter and the real world. Asked me to write the intro. All monies to go back to Yaqui women's groups. How utterly perfect is that?
On to the banquet. We were at table 11. Sitting at the table next to us was mystery queen, JA Jance. One of the coolest people at TFOB. Cinderella whispered, "There's Janis Ian!" Yo! I used to be all crushed out on Janis when I was "At Seventeen" (nudge nudge--witty authorial reference) and watching her on stuff like, what? Midnight Special. Maybe Mike Douglas. At one point, when they forced all us writing wretches to stand and be applauded, she said, "Hi, I'm Janis Ian." I said, "I know. I love you." She squinted up at me with a HUH? look. Later, during a break, she said, "Do I know you?" I said, "No. I was just one of those boys who could cry over your songs." Yeah, baby. Me'n'Janis. BFFs. I had the best time gossipping with her and JA Jance.
We dragged off to the hotel and fell into bed, totally exhausted. I was awakened the next morning by Cinderella gone psycho on our TRX exercise system and suqatting and push-upping and deep-knee-bending. Are U kidding me??? I was doing the patented Luis Pillow On The Head exercise routine. But I LEAPT from bed in my blue underpants BY GOD and showed her a friggin' thing or two about EXERCISE! &*%#@$!!! We did planks and high rows and high curls and whatever blood-squirt out of your eyes morning torture. We'd show all the happily relaxing people attending TFOB! "Keep your core tight," my peach gasped. I replied, "I HAVE NO CORE." Ug, grunt, huff, grrrg.
Trucks, motorcycles and Toyotas fell to the curb in fear as the Charger awoke and paced around Tucson looking for fresh meat.
I had my morning event at 11:30. Tom Miller was doing the onstage chat w me. There's no way to tell these stories w/out feeling like a jerk. I think of the Bonzo Dog Band song, "Look at Me I'm Wonderful." Sorry. Nuff sed. So, um, the theater was full, actually. About 350 peeps in there. They tossed out over 60 people, and one of the escorts told me there were 100 people outside being barred from entering. I was shocked. The great master, Simon Ortiz was there. I was thrilled when Simon stepped up to ask a question and I said, "the Master, Simon Ortiz," and the audience broke out in applause for him. Yes. You have to pay your respects.

Then it was time for my second public event of the day, my "workshop." I wasn't sure what to workshop, so I decided to simply tell them of my own experience and answer questions. It was across the campus, in a lecture hall, and I was astounded to see SRO again. What's up, Tucson? Clearly, Teresita was punishing Cinderella for mocking me by making her sit on the floor. It was a wonderful hour with very sweet, kind people. I loved it to death. I think we shared a lot of valuable stuff. It's hard to remember, because to speak to so many people, you have to fire up the reactor. You have to jam in the dilithium crystals and attain warp drive. It fries the circuits. However, afterward, I had my third signing of the day. It was a nice line, not as giant as the first, not as sparse as the second. But big-time blessings showered down.
Representatives of my beloved Yaqui tribe came. they brought me cool presents. Note to people standing in autograph lines: Luis likes swag. They brought me Yaqui tribal flag pins for my jackets. Cool! It's like a secret code. We took senior-prom snaphsots all hugs and grins. And then a handsome young agent of the US Border Patrol appeared. How's that for a day, Yaqui bessings AND Border Patrol blessings! But about that shaman.
The man was silent. White haired. Dark faced. Hawklike, if a hawk could almost grin. He stepped up and gripped my hand and wrist and stared in my face. Then he stepped back and made the sign of the cross over me and walked away. Somebody next to me muttered, "Holy shit."
Off to the author's dinner/beer blast. We sat with Kathleen Alcala. I ate fish tacos. We found our beloved Charger, its mouth hideously dripping with oil from the Mini Cooper it had eaten, and we made it back to our room to pass out again from exhaustion.
In the morning, quail were rampaging all over the grounds. It was all delight. All joy. We
discovered Jamie Ford and Masha Hamilton in the green room. It was a Twitter-pal Tweet-up. I had a third appearance and a fourth signing ahead. We walked all together and found Darth Vader, so we took our stoopid writer pix like kids at Disneyland. How delightful it is when you hook up with writers who can simply be joyous and free and not wrestling for prestige or position. Wish we'd had Janis Ian in there too! Well, the next event was also really good. Probably 300 folks again. Nice signing line. More swag. A stunning Yaqui hummingbird pin to go w my tribal flag. We met "Tucson Cowgirl," another Twitter pal, and Mary Beth Dawson, one of my healer-world friends from Hummingbird days--she lived on Rancho Teresita. Could it have been better? I don't know how.

Oh, wait--I do know. Mr. Mendoza's Paintbrush was ready, and Bobby Byrd was selling it like Chocolate-Covered Dodge Chargers. My li'l exquisite graphic novel out early for its Tucson debut. A small way to pay back the love. Thank you, Christopher Cardinale for such beautiful artwork.
Had to drive around in the Charger for a while, so we snuck out and I floored it on out to East Saguaro, where I used to hike w javelinas, coyotes and a white ghostly roadrunner as I was wrestling with Hummingbird. Just...driving. No music. Window open. My wife and me, free upon the land. There was a party ahead, and a hang with dear friends, and a ghastly five a.m. wake up for our flight back. But the desert was all green and red and purple and gray and yellow and orange all arund us. The mountains were saffron and mauve. And the snow was dabbed on them as if a great painter had stepped down from heaven and, against all odds, laid grace on the land.
Love to you,
L
3/11/2010

On Facebook, an old friend from high school posted this scan of I See the Wind, the Blind Man Cried, my first "book."Like all young writers (and cartoonists) I wanted to be published. I didn't know how to be published. All I knew was I had piles of cool stuff I wanted to see in print. My friend Frank and I got the miscreants in the industrial off-set printing class to steal plates for us and Frank shot the plates for me. Then, using "borrowed" Clairemont High School paper, the dope fiends printed my book section by section after school. In a further commando raid, we requisitioned their industrial stapler and put it all together. The cover art reflects that phase when I was trying to learn how to draw with pencils and fancied myself Salvador Dali, Jr.
Thought you'd enjoy this.
3/10/2010
Joy's a choice. Joy's a discipline. Misery's easy. Sometimes, you don't feel like you can handle the burden of joy, so you slouch and frump and sigh and feel exhausted. Joy can be a real pain, like doing elevated push-ups on your TRX system in the basement. Right now, the joy doesn't want to ignite. I'm feeling the pressure of writing against the schedule of outside things. Inside vs. outside. I have to rush back to school today--my writing day--to sit in a PhD oral defense. Tomorrow, I have to teach, though I can get in some writing after. But Friday, I rush away to Tucson Festival of Books. Love Tucson, love my friends there, love the festival, and I love fancy hotel weekends with Cinderella. But...Teresita...Tomas...deadlines...work. I can't get it done. So my decision today is to embrace the discipline of Joy. Capital J. Because I'm feeling a li'l beat.
Wait. I could just Kerouac that and make it Beat. Make beatness into Beatitudes.
Perhaps you have seen the Lakota thought that you need to arise and thank the day; then give thanks for the breakfast; then give thanks for life; then give thanks for work and all things, and if you can't give thanks, then you can own your own misery. Ha ha. Yeah, bouwee!
What has been, as warned by all my friends, a total time-suck, has been this new foray into Facebook. But what a joyous thing it has been. I like it. I am too dense about computers to get much out of it, which is a good thing. But the all-knowing, all-seeing, all-powerful Cinderella runs all the clicks and whizzbangs for me. Keep dropping me messages over there! I am having a great time answering you.
And I have really enjoyed the continuing craft discussion here. I have gotten emails, comments, twitters and messages on fb about the thoughts I post about writing. I like it. I will keep that up as long as you like it, too. If you have questions, get 'em to me by whatever means you like, and I'll try to answer here.
You might notice the website changing. Yes, we are redesigning it. A new phase is upon us, what with Mr. Mendoza's Paintbrush coming out, followed by the paperback of Into the Beautiful North. I also hope to submit Hummingbird's Daughter II (whatever we call it) by summer. And the UK edition of ITBN will be out just as we set foot in London in July. Big cool stuff.
You know, when you're a poor boy in San Diego or Tijuana, listening to scratchy records all night because you can't sleep, and you're thinking about some big scary future that you don't think will happen, and your little 69 cent drug store notebook is filling up with absurd meditations on the heavy wowness of the universe, you don't know. You don't imagine. But you hope. If you're lucky, you get kissed a little. All right, you get kissed a lot. But you would trade all those kisses to get any sense of hope at all that this dream will come true.
Yo, I kept the kisses. What--am I stupid? But look at what happened. On the days when Joy hides, I sit back and look. I get to do the thing I love. I try, as Rumi suggested, to be the thing I love. That I get love back from you is...well. It's simply too much to comment on here.
I have conversed with readers from Australia, Bahrain, Chile, China, England, France, Germany, Holland, Iceland, India, Indonesia, Iraq, Ireland, Israel, Italy, Mexico, New Zealand, Scotland, Siberia, South Africa, Spain, Turkey, United Arab Emirates. WHAT? Really? Oh, Luis--I wish I could go back in time and let you know that someone would be listening. But you were too busy fretting and working, and that work made me grow up...in fits and starts...your scared poverty nights made these days. So, thanks, son.
And thank you, mis amigos. See you in Tucson. See you in my dreams. Or, um, on Facebook.
XXX, L
Rainy Sunday--It's Raining Words
Wait. I could just Kerouac that and make it Beat. Make beatness into Beatitudes.
Perhaps you have seen the Lakota thought that you need to arise and thank the day; then give thanks for the breakfast; then give thanks for life; then give thanks for work and all things, and if you can't give thanks, then you can own your own misery. Ha ha. Yeah, bouwee!
What has been, as warned by all my friends, a total time-suck, has been this new foray into Facebook. But what a joyous thing it has been. I like it. I am too dense about computers to get much out of it, which is a good thing. But the all-knowing, all-seeing, all-powerful Cinderella runs all the clicks and whizzbangs for me. Keep dropping me messages over there! I am having a great time answering you.
And I have really enjoyed the continuing craft discussion here. I have gotten emails, comments, twitters and messages on fb about the thoughts I post about writing. I like it. I will keep that up as long as you like it, too. If you have questions, get 'em to me by whatever means you like, and I'll try to answer here.
You might notice the website changing. Yes, we are redesigning it. A new phase is upon us, what with Mr. Mendoza's Paintbrush coming out, followed by the paperback of Into the Beautiful North. I also hope to submit Hummingbird's Daughter II (whatever we call it) by summer. And the UK edition of ITBN will be out just as we set foot in London in July. Big cool stuff.
You know, when you're a poor boy in San Diego or Tijuana, listening to scratchy records all night because you can't sleep, and you're thinking about some big scary future that you don't think will happen, and your little 69 cent drug store notebook is filling up with absurd meditations on the heavy wowness of the universe, you don't know. You don't imagine. But you hope. If you're lucky, you get kissed a little. All right, you get kissed a lot. But you would trade all those kisses to get any sense of hope at all that this dream will come true.
Yo, I kept the kisses. What--am I stupid? But look at what happened. On the days when Joy hides, I sit back and look. I get to do the thing I love. I try, as Rumi suggested, to be the thing I love. That I get love back from you is...well. It's simply too much to comment on here.
I have conversed with readers from Australia, Bahrain, Chile, China, England, France, Germany, Holland, Iceland, India, Indonesia, Iraq, Ireland, Israel, Italy, Mexico, New Zealand, Scotland, Siberia, South Africa, Spain, Turkey, United Arab Emirates. WHAT? Really? Oh, Luis--I wish I could go back in time and let you know that someone would be listening. But you were too busy fretting and working, and that work made me grow up...in fits and starts...your scared poverty nights made these days. So, thanks, son.
And thank you, mis amigos. See you in Tucson. See you in my dreams. Or, um, on Facebook.
XXX, L
3/07/2010
I love the rain. I can watch it and listen to it forever. My first wife never believed me when I said that. She thought I was a poser, trying to look sensitive. Maybe she didn't notice me watching wrestling. I wasn't posing--I grew up in San Diego and Tijuana. Rain? To quote one of my relatives: "Are jou joking me?" We didn't have a lot of rain. Now, I can just drive around and watch it fill gutters. Last year, when we had floods looming, my little girl and I had demented catastrophe drives so we could watch the river leap its banks & make a waterfall into the local rock quarry.
Today, it rained. It rained, and I worked on polishing Hummingbird's Daughter's sequel all day. I have 200 killer pages. Killer. I didn't think I could get there again. Well, to tell you the truth, I didn't have to get THERE. All you shamans will know what I mean. I can't take it anymore--the ghosts and the visions and the strange dreams and the apparitions. But this book is about Teresita grown up and in the US. I can get to that stuff.
It's funny--the paperback of Into the Beautiful North is about the be released (June). And I have the new graphic novel coming in May. (Mr. Mendoza's Paintbrush, artwork by Christopher Cardinale.) I have a lot of miles to travel, and I hope I'll see some of you out there. We'll post the whole schedule here when it's ready.
It begins next week, though, in Tucson. Tucson Festival of Books. See you there!
Funny, anyway, because my books seem to inspire such divergent responses. When I got a big award for The Devil's Highway, a generous mentor told me that Across the Wire was the better book--regardless of my award and my nomination for a Pulitzer. It was, in fact, one of the great books of the century. I asked, "Where were you when I needed you?" So now, the split decision on Beautful North seems to be either: A) hilarious, moving, I loved the characters, or B) well, it's no Hummingbird's Daughter. (Honestly? The Hummingbird's Daughter is no Hummingbird's Daughter--if you could see the book I was trying to achieve...sigh.)
But here's the thing, if you're me. You will write what you need to write. When you need to write it. And you'll trust your readers to trust you. We are, after all, in this together.
I love Beautful North, and of course I appreciate the many many people who write to me about it. I am amused by reviewers who feel that the Mexican portions of the book have "too much Spanish." (I gave them a Twitter hash-tag: #RUStupid?) I don't think it's perfect, and I don't think it's in any way Hummingbird Part 7. Those of you who know me know that it is Hummingbird that is the anomaly. That li'l monster is sui generis, it's a phenom unto itself, and twenty years of suffering, work, travel, fear, dread, exultation, miracles, shock, love, divorce, tears and hunger dictate that it stands alone. Most of my other fiction, though, is picaresque and shaggy-dog in nature. In Search of Snow, Six Kinds of Sky, ITBN, Mr. Mendoza--even, egad--large swathes of Hummingbird. (My editor gave me a ew rule: only one fart scene per book. Damn.)
Here's the deal, though, on the process, since I've been talking about process lately. Into the Beautiful North taught me how to write Hummingbird's Daughter II. I use each story or book to take me higher. I wanna take you higher. Baby baby baby light your fire. I am Sly and the Family Urrea. Boom shaka-laka-laka. (Book shaka-laka-laka?) I am moving through the degrees of my black belt training.
How do Teresita and Tomas become immigrants in the USA? Nayeli, Tacho, Chava Chavarin and Atomiko taught me how. If you see beyond the 2 funny 4 my own good trappings of the adventure, I don't think it's shallow. And, to tell you the truth, after Hummingbird and Devil's H, I could use a laugh. So I wrote it so I could laugh out loud every day.
For people doing term papers, the book is about interpersonal borders (political, geographical, cultural, sexual, age-related, language-related, economic, and aesthetic). The theme of pan-cultural inter-penetration is all through the book. It's also, and here comes the Teresita angle, about grace. About the sacredness of the quotidian day. And it's a love-song to Mexico and the US.
Frankly, I thought that the garbage dump scenes would get me a lot of Steinbeck citations in reviews, and I was happy when they came.
So. It's raining, and the Oscars are on. I feel so good right now. Tired. Burned out a little. facing 400 more pp of the big book. But I am certain, finally, I can get through it with fire in my back pocket.
Lord, I'm shining.
Can't wait for my comic, and can't wait for my paperback. Nayeli will be a movie--just watch. I am proud of her and wish her well. And I thank those of you who keep suggesting more books about her.
Oh, if you get the chance, check out the new PHOENIX NOIR anthology. I have a story in it called "Amapola." It was nominated by the Crime Writers of America for an Edgar Award. Best Short Story. BOOM-shaka-laka.
We're having tacos tonight.
I Am Atomiko,
Luigi
Karla's Question
Today, it rained. It rained, and I worked on polishing Hummingbird's Daughter's sequel all day. I have 200 killer pages. Killer. I didn't think I could get there again. Well, to tell you the truth, I didn't have to get THERE. All you shamans will know what I mean. I can't take it anymore--the ghosts and the visions and the strange dreams and the apparitions. But this book is about Teresita grown up and in the US. I can get to that stuff.
It's funny--the paperback of Into the Beautiful North is about the be released (June). And I have the new graphic novel coming in May. (Mr. Mendoza's Paintbrush, artwork by Christopher Cardinale.) I have a lot of miles to travel, and I hope I'll see some of you out there. We'll post the whole schedule here when it's ready.
It begins next week, though, in Tucson. Tucson Festival of Books. See you there!
Funny, anyway, because my books seem to inspire such divergent responses. When I got a big award for The Devil's Highway, a generous mentor told me that Across the Wire was the better book--regardless of my award and my nomination for a Pulitzer. It was, in fact, one of the great books of the century. I asked, "Where were you when I needed you?" So now, the split decision on Beautful North seems to be either: A) hilarious, moving, I loved the characters, or B) well, it's no Hummingbird's Daughter. (Honestly? The Hummingbird's Daughter is no Hummingbird's Daughter--if you could see the book I was trying to achieve...sigh.)
But here's the thing, if you're me. You will write what you need to write. When you need to write it. And you'll trust your readers to trust you. We are, after all, in this together.
I love Beautful North, and of course I appreciate the many many people who write to me about it. I am amused by reviewers who feel that the Mexican portions of the book have "too much Spanish." (I gave them a Twitter hash-tag: #RUStupid?) I don't think it's perfect, and I don't think it's in any way Hummingbird Part 7. Those of you who know me know that it is Hummingbird that is the anomaly. That li'l monster is sui generis, it's a phenom unto itself, and twenty years of suffering, work, travel, fear, dread, exultation, miracles, shock, love, divorce, tears and hunger dictate that it stands alone. Most of my other fiction, though, is picaresque and shaggy-dog in nature. In Search of Snow, Six Kinds of Sky, ITBN, Mr. Mendoza--even, egad--large swathes of Hummingbird. (My editor gave me a ew rule: only one fart scene per book. Damn.)
Here's the deal, though, on the process, since I've been talking about process lately. Into the Beautiful North taught me how to write Hummingbird's Daughter II. I use each story or book to take me higher. I wanna take you higher. Baby baby baby light your fire. I am Sly and the Family Urrea. Boom shaka-laka-laka. (Book shaka-laka-laka?) I am moving through the degrees of my black belt training.
How do Teresita and Tomas become immigrants in the USA? Nayeli, Tacho, Chava Chavarin and Atomiko taught me how. If you see beyond the 2 funny 4 my own good trappings of the adventure, I don't think it's shallow. And, to tell you the truth, after Hummingbird and Devil's H, I could use a laugh. So I wrote it so I could laugh out loud every day.
For people doing term papers, the book is about interpersonal borders (political, geographical, cultural, sexual, age-related, language-related, economic, and aesthetic). The theme of pan-cultural inter-penetration is all through the book. It's also, and here comes the Teresita angle, about grace. About the sacredness of the quotidian day. And it's a love-song to Mexico and the US.
Frankly, I thought that the garbage dump scenes would get me a lot of Steinbeck citations in reviews, and I was happy when they came.
So. It's raining, and the Oscars are on. I feel so good right now. Tired. Burned out a little. facing 400 more pp of the big book. But I am certain, finally, I can get through it with fire in my back pocket.
Lord, I'm shining.
Can't wait for my comic, and can't wait for my paperback. Nayeli will be a movie--just watch. I am proud of her and wish her well. And I thank those of you who keep suggesting more books about her.
Oh, if you get the chance, check out the new PHOENIX NOIR anthology. I have a story in it called "Amapola." It was nominated by the Crime Writers of America for an Edgar Award. Best Short Story. BOOM-shaka-laka.
We're having tacos tonight.
I Am Atomiko,
Luigi
3/04/2010
Karla, who just read Into the Beautiful North in school, asked some good questions about the book. I thought they were really sharp, and I wanted to answer them here. Thanks for this, Karla--it adds to the general conversation I have with readers and fellowwriters all the time. You are the kind of reader I hope for. And your questions are good.
Like why do some people in class find the end of the book unfinished? I say this: because they are not paying attention. It is a common thing for students to think a story is left hanging or is not finished because they need a wrapped-up "neat" ending. The princess marries the prince. They all lived happily ever after. Life's not like that. Neither is literature. What you're after in a piece of fiction is a sense of a cpompleted narrative pattern. Think of a Persian rug. You don't study the rug; it's just there under your feet. But the pattern is complete. If the pattern weren't complete, you would feel uneasy or even dizzy. So, imagine if Nayeli started down the street to her father's house and the book ended. THAT is incomplete. What does happen (don't want to spoil those who have not read it yet), is the completion of the narrative pattern: she has an answer, and it is what it is. She has to grow up. She has to take her place now as an adult. This is the traditional and mythic story of the warrior on a quest. It just happens to be a young woman. People want pink hearts and frou-frou snuggles for girls, but that short-changes and insults the pain, yearning, hope and sorrow of real people. That ain't Art. I could have Nayeli find a rich boyfriend, win the lottery, save a drowning kitten, and become President of Mexico. But...no.
Now, the sense of suspension at the end was not an error. But the book is in no way unfinished. It reflects the unfinished business in all their lives, and on the border. Now what some of your pals may be responding to is the sense that the ending is abrupt. That may well be. A couple of critics felt that was so, yet later wrote me personal letters saying what they really wanted was another book. A series? Maybe. I can tell you that there was a longer, much more involved ending. But both my editor and I felt that it violated the integrity of Nayeli to give readers false and cheesy resolutions. You have to look at her as a person, and see that the gesture she makes is dignified, hard, and devastating. People who cry at this ending are having true feelings rather than goosed up get-your-hankies romance movie tears. I mean, I could have had ET in there, and he could have died, but Nayeli's love could have re-ignited his love-light and he could have then come back to life. Or I could have had a toruble-making puppy die. Then we could have called the waaaa-mbulance and cried a lot. Honestly, I wish I had because I would have sold a lot more copies. But at the end of the day, I have to live with myself and not be ashamed of the words I write.
Even as it is,some people say the book is a sell-out and a let-down. But I will always write what I need to write the way it needs to be written. It's been a weird feature of my career that every book I do, someone points out thast it was "all right" but certainly not as good as the book that came before! Ha ha! I love this. This means that Beautiful North will soon be much better than the next book I ahve coming out!
I don't know what to say about Yolo and Matt. This comes up often when I teach Fiction. They want to know what happened to Garp after the book ended, or what happened to Tarzan or the Little House on the Prairie girls. I feel like a real creep saying this to readers, but, um, Yolo and Matt don't exist. So, what happens to Yolo and Matt on the page IS what happens to Yolo and Matt. If we are looking at the shifting, uncertain relationship between immigant and host nation, between citizens of different countries, between friends and lovers, between Mexican and American, male and female, then Matt and Yolo are exactly what is happening in the book. They are trying to work out the relationship. Again, those wanting a pat answer are simply lazy readers. Because literautre is not made to answer your questions--it is there to post the question. The books with lists of answers in the back are text books, and you look back there to study for a quiz. Oddly, there would be no question in this case without the story being there first. See what I mean? It's ABOUT these questions. The border isn't easy to solve. Thus, the novel. (And, by the way, maybe the big issue is not Matt and Yolo, but what happens with Matt and his struggle with God and religion?)
Finally, why Atomiko at the end? because when we hear "I am Atomiko," it means a couple of things: 1. I have solved the plot point of whether he will follow or not (see The Seven Samurai or The Magnificent Seven), 2. he's my favorite character and, dang it, I wanted to see him again, and 3. THE BAD GUYS ARE ABOUT TO GET THEIR ASSES WHIPPED.
Yeah! If you're tuned in to a book, then you and the writer have made a deal between the two of you and you pick up clues and "get" whole other stories. We used to call this "The Indirect Means of Telling a Story" at Harvard. A story is told on one level--the way your pals might be reading it. But it is also implied, echoed, hinted and partially co-written by the reader, as you are clearly reading it. It's like a friend who can look at you in a crowd and cock an eyebrow and you somehow know this means, "Hey, remember that creeper that bothered us at the dance last year? Well this idiot in the Izod shirt reminds me so much of him!" And you get it.
You and I, in other words, work in a partnership. It is not my job to spoon-feed TV watchers easy solutions, but to set off shadows, laughs, fear, echoes, prayers and colors in your mind. We're dancing. The fact that they have questions is good for me. It means I am doing my work.
The answers in the book, by the way, are about humanity, friendship, love. Stuff like that.
Hope this answered your excellent questions. Thank you for reading my book! You rock.
love, L
Today's Meditation
Like why do some people in class find the end of the book unfinished? I say this: because they are not paying attention. It is a common thing for students to think a story is left hanging or is not finished because they need a wrapped-up "neat" ending. The princess marries the prince. They all lived happily ever after. Life's not like that. Neither is literature. What you're after in a piece of fiction is a sense of a cpompleted narrative pattern. Think of a Persian rug. You don't study the rug; it's just there under your feet. But the pattern is complete. If the pattern weren't complete, you would feel uneasy or even dizzy. So, imagine if Nayeli started down the street to her father's house and the book ended. THAT is incomplete. What does happen (don't want to spoil those who have not read it yet), is the completion of the narrative pattern: she has an answer, and it is what it is. She has to grow up. She has to take her place now as an adult. This is the traditional and mythic story of the warrior on a quest. It just happens to be a young woman. People want pink hearts and frou-frou snuggles for girls, but that short-changes and insults the pain, yearning, hope and sorrow of real people. That ain't Art. I could have Nayeli find a rich boyfriend, win the lottery, save a drowning kitten, and become President of Mexico. But...no.
Now, the sense of suspension at the end was not an error. But the book is in no way unfinished. It reflects the unfinished business in all their lives, and on the border. Now what some of your pals may be responding to is the sense that the ending is abrupt. That may well be. A couple of critics felt that was so, yet later wrote me personal letters saying what they really wanted was another book. A series? Maybe. I can tell you that there was a longer, much more involved ending. But both my editor and I felt that it violated the integrity of Nayeli to give readers false and cheesy resolutions. You have to look at her as a person, and see that the gesture she makes is dignified, hard, and devastating. People who cry at this ending are having true feelings rather than goosed up get-your-hankies romance movie tears. I mean, I could have had ET in there, and he could have died, but Nayeli's love could have re-ignited his love-light and he could have then come back to life. Or I could have had a toruble-making puppy die. Then we could have called the waaaa-mbulance and cried a lot. Honestly, I wish I had because I would have sold a lot more copies. But at the end of the day, I have to live with myself and not be ashamed of the words I write.
Even as it is,some people say the book is a sell-out and a let-down. But I will always write what I need to write the way it needs to be written. It's been a weird feature of my career that every book I do, someone points out thast it was "all right" but certainly not as good as the book that came before! Ha ha! I love this. This means that Beautiful North will soon be much better than the next book I ahve coming out!
I don't know what to say about Yolo and Matt. This comes up often when I teach Fiction. They want to know what happened to Garp after the book ended, or what happened to Tarzan or the Little House on the Prairie girls. I feel like a real creep saying this to readers, but, um, Yolo and Matt don't exist. So, what happens to Yolo and Matt on the page IS what happens to Yolo and Matt. If we are looking at the shifting, uncertain relationship between immigant and host nation, between citizens of different countries, between friends and lovers, between Mexican and American, male and female, then Matt and Yolo are exactly what is happening in the book. They are trying to work out the relationship. Again, those wanting a pat answer are simply lazy readers. Because literautre is not made to answer your questions--it is there to post the question. The books with lists of answers in the back are text books, and you look back there to study for a quiz. Oddly, there would be no question in this case without the story being there first. See what I mean? It's ABOUT these questions. The border isn't easy to solve. Thus, the novel. (And, by the way, maybe the big issue is not Matt and Yolo, but what happens with Matt and his struggle with God and religion?)
Finally, why Atomiko at the end? because when we hear "I am Atomiko," it means a couple of things: 1. I have solved the plot point of whether he will follow or not (see The Seven Samurai or The Magnificent Seven), 2. he's my favorite character and, dang it, I wanted to see him again, and 3. THE BAD GUYS ARE ABOUT TO GET THEIR ASSES WHIPPED.
Yeah! If you're tuned in to a book, then you and the writer have made a deal between the two of you and you pick up clues and "get" whole other stories. We used to call this "The Indirect Means of Telling a Story" at Harvard. A story is told on one level--the way your pals might be reading it. But it is also implied, echoed, hinted and partially co-written by the reader, as you are clearly reading it. It's like a friend who can look at you in a crowd and cock an eyebrow and you somehow know this means, "Hey, remember that creeper that bothered us at the dance last year? Well this idiot in the Izod shirt reminds me so much of him!" And you get it.
You and I, in other words, work in a partnership. It is not my job to spoon-feed TV watchers easy solutions, but to set off shadows, laughs, fear, echoes, prayers and colors in your mind. We're dancing. The fact that they have questions is good for me. It means I am doing my work.
The answers in the book, by the way, are about humanity, friendship, love. Stuff like that.
Hope this answered your excellent questions. Thank you for reading my book! You rock.
love, L
Rosario in Guatemala, Dec. 2009
Men go abroad to wonder at the height of mountains, at the huge waves of the sea, at the long courses of the rivers, at the vast compass of the ocean, at the circular motion of the stars;
and they pass by themselves without wondering.
-- St. Augustine
-- St. Augustine
3/02/2010
Been blogging here for a long time. Realized the other day that we started this blog nine years ago in February. Think I'm one of the first authors who was blogging regularly (and kept at it).
Thought it would be fun to take a look back at the very first blog. Anybody else been posting this long??? Give us a look at your first!
XOXO
L
2/13/2001
Provence Dispatch
Greetings from the South of France...okay, so I'm not in France. I'm in
frozen graysnow Chicago. But I'm thinking of the South of France. I'm
thinking about the window of our bedroom at the Auberge des Seguins (the
drawing above) and the overgrown pathways up the Roman cliffs above Buoux.
The scattered colors and chaos of the Saturday country market in Apt. The
mad Mediterranean in its shades of green and turquoise, the topless bathers of
Marseilles, and the sly octopi in the bayside crates of the fishermen,
reaching out through the slats and hissing, "Hey, Mon Ami! Let me out of
here!"
I remember the strange illuminated castlements on hilltops of the
Luberon--ancient towns and villes lit up in the dark, violet, blue, orange,
gold, red, seeming to drift above the woods and the plains like glowing
motherships, each small kingdom shining its own color. Gorde, like some hive
of angels designed by M.C. Escher, and Avignon, with its wonderful ice cream
cones and its palaces, its old walls and its hippies washing their underpants
in the ancient fountains.
After working on a novel for 20 years or so, I found a bedroom I couldn't
imagine on my own waiting for me in France. If the book is ever published,
you'll find a small Mexican room transported to Sonora from Provence, and the
low roof beams, you can rest assured, made resounding contact with my head on
several occasions. My Cinderella and I go back there often in our dreams,
and we eat the little blue quail eggs and hop the bullet train to Paris.
If this revamped website had been up and running then, I probably would
have written you a dispatch of our adventures.
But we did bring back a baby. Our madwoman Rosario, "La Chayo," now one
year old and bellowing her outrage over some slight or other in the living
room as I type this in the kitchen.
And now I'm going to go listen to Black Sabbath's first album. ("Ohhhh
nooooo, Please God Help Me!!!!!") I might be regressing.
Ever Yrs.,
Thought it would be fun to take a look back at the very first blog. Anybody else been posting this long??? Give us a look at your first!
XOXO
L
2/13/2001
Provence Dispatch
Greetings from the South of France...okay, so I'm not in France. I'm in
frozen graysnow Chicago. But I'm thinking of the South of France. I'm
thinking about the window of our bedroom at the Auberge des Seguins (the
drawing above) and the overgrown pathways up the Roman cliffs above Buoux.
The scattered colors and chaos of the Saturday country market in Apt. The
mad Mediterranean in its shades of green and turquoise, the topless bathers of
Marseilles, and the sly octopi in the bayside crates of the fishermen,
reaching out through the slats and hissing, "Hey, Mon Ami! Let me out of
here!"
I remember the strange illuminated castlements on hilltops of the
Luberon--ancient towns and villes lit up in the dark, violet, blue, orange,
gold, red, seeming to drift above the woods and the plains like glowing
motherships, each small kingdom shining its own color. Gorde, like some hive
of angels designed by M.C. Escher, and Avignon, with its wonderful ice cream
cones and its palaces, its old walls and its hippies washing their underpants
in the ancient fountains.
After working on a novel for 20 years or so, I found a bedroom I couldn't
imagine on my own waiting for me in France. If the book is ever published,
you'll find a small Mexican room transported to Sonora from Provence, and the
low roof beams, you can rest assured, made resounding contact with my head on
several occasions. My Cinderella and I go back there often in our dreams,
and we eat the little blue quail eggs and hop the bullet train to Paris.
If this revamped website had been up and running then, I probably would
have written you a dispatch of our adventures.
But we did bring back a baby. Our madwoman Rosario, "La Chayo," now one
year old and bellowing her outrage over some slight or other in the living
room as I type this in the kitchen.
And now I'm going to go listen to Black Sabbath's first album. ("Ohhhh
nooooo, Please God Help Me!!!!!") I might be regressing.
Ever Yrs.,
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