A Question of Inspiration

Better beware of notions like genius and inspiration; they are a sort of magic wand and should be used sparingly by anybody who wants to see things clearly.
Jose Ortega y Gasset


A reader recently wrote to ask what inspired me to tell Father Bernardo Martínez’s story in Bernardo and the Virgin. Most of the time, the answer to this seems quite clear to me. But there are moments when the question is shrouded in a cloud of awe and mystery.

I’ll start by describing what I find perfectly clear. For decades I had wanted to write a panoramic novel about Nicaragua and Nicaraguans—a work in which I’d attempt to explore as many facets of life in this wonderful, quirky country as I could. My adolescent years were spent in Nicaragua. (In spite of both of my parents being Nicaraguans, I’m an American, born and raised up to age eleven in Los Angeles, California. And, first and foremost, I consider myself a Los Angeleno.) But during my time in Nicaragua I came to adore the people, their history, and their culture. And their concerns and suffering also became my own.

In the late 1980s I decided to try to write my long-dreamed novel about Nicaragua, telling the story through a passion that the people of this nation share with Americans: baseball. At the time the Contra War was raging, and the plot became mired in politics. Furthermore, it was my first attempt at writing fiction and, to be honest, I had no idea what I was doing. Needless to say, the result was a highly uneven work. (Regardless, although my first attempt at a novel was unsuccessful, I did learn a lot from the experience.)

I then wrote two more failed novels (neither of them about Nicaragua), before throwing in the towel. I chose instead to concentrate on academic writing—books and articles, mostly about Latin American Literature (in Spanish) and US Latino and Latina literature (in English). Although I continued to dream that one day I would publish a novel, it all seemed to be just that: a dream.

But a decade later, during a long overdue visit to Nicaragua—I had been away for nearly twenty years—I met, through my father, a Catholic priest named Bernardo Martínez. The more I learned about Father Bernardo’s experiences—the pivotal event of his life being the apparition of the Virgin Mary, which took place in 1980—the more novelesque his story became. To my benefit, just as I was about to commit to writing the novel, two books about Father Martínez were published, both non-fiction. I was delighted to discover that others had been so touched by Father Bernardo’s relationship with the Virgin Mary that they had also been compelled to write about it. This was, in my eyes, an indication that I had stumbled upon a remarkable story. Moreover, these books were a godsend, saving me from years of research.

As my idea to write Bernardo and the Virgin began to flourish, I came to realize that Father Martínez’s story could also serve as the springboard for the panoramic novel about Nicaragua I had always wanted to write. Needless to say, I was delighted with my choice of Father Bernardo’s life the subject for my novel.

But did I really choose to write this book?

Many writers believe that a topic often chooses them.

When I had enough information to begin writing, I asked Father Martínez for his blessing to tell his story—in the form of a novel. Since Father Bernardo had a somewhat limited education, I wanted to make sure that he understood, and perfectly, that although I intended to remain true to the essence of his experiences with the Virgin Mary, I was going to invent the other stories that would circulate around his character. The irony is that although Father Bernardo was often accused of making up the apparitions, he had considerable trouble understanding the nature of fiction. He listened patiently to my explanations, which I repeated over and over. After a while, I noticed that he had stopped listening; he then smiled, placed a hand on my shoulder, and said, “It doesn’t matter what I think, Silvio. The Virgin told me some time ago that she had chosen you to write this book.”

This incident worked its way into the final chapter of Bernardo and the Virgin. And it still sends chills through me whenever I think—or, in this case, write—about that moment.

So, did I tell the story of Father Bernardo’s life out of inspiration; or was I chosen to do so?

In answering the reader with all honesty, I told her that I believed it was a little of both.