A Question Left Unanswered

I'm kind of hooked to the game of art and literature; my heroes are artists and writers.
Jim Morrison

This is the way in which I feel writing matters. It clarifies and intensifies, it deepens and connects me to others.
Julia Alvarez


Recently, I visited several high school English classes at Balboa Academy, here in Panamá. I was there at the invitation of Mrs. Mindy Hunt, their teacher, to discuss the writing process. A few days earlier, she had asked each of her students to submit a question about writing on a slip of paper. On the day of our discussion, at the beginning of each period, she placed the neatly folded slips of that class in a basket.

In doing this, Mrs. Hunt made a wise decision. After I had finished answering the two or three students whose hands shot up eagerly after I was introduced, we’d all fall into an awkward silence. At that point, with great relief, I’d reach into the basket. At the end of the day, I had been able to answer every single question.

Most of them were the typical ones writers get: How do you come up with ideas? What made you decide to become a writer? How do you deal with writer’s block? Are your novels about things that actually happened to you? What do you do to become inspired? Do you write every day? How do you deal with deadlines?

Occasionally, a question would reveal a greater degree of sophistication: Which writers serve as your models? Who are your favorite authors and is there a book by any one of them that you wish you had written? Where do you work best? Why do you write?

I’d stumble through my answers and, when the bell would finally ring, the students would applaud politely, thank me for visiting them, gather their things, and hurriedly leave the classroom to beat the next bell.

At the end of the day, with Mrs. Hunt’s permission, I collected the slips of paper and took them home. That evening, after dinner, I lay in my hammock, reviewing each question. Believing that I had answered every one, I was startled by a question I had somehow overlooked. Perhaps I had glanced at the slip and passed on it—unconsciously, of course—because it was a question that would have placed my back against the wall.

What advice would you give to a young person, like me, who wants to become a writer?

To this student, I’d now like to say: I apologize for my oversight. I realize that you, maybe more than anyone else there that day, deserved my full attention. However, I believe my mistake has probably worked out for the best, for it has given me time to carefully consider my reply.

Let me take this opportunity, then, to share with you the twelve most valuable lessons I’ve learned on becoming, and being, a writer:

1. Rejoice and be thankful that you love writing.

2. Writing is excruciatingly difficult work. Writing is a craft with a painfully slow learning curve. It will take years before you become proficient in all aspects of the writing process, and there will be many times when you’ll feel stuck, when you’ll feel that you’re not making progress. Just remember, though, that every time you give a writing task your noblest effort you’ll be learning a valuable lesson or two. These may not be noticeable, but believe me, they will be there. Therefore, for your peace of mind, don’t be in a rush. Learn to enjoy each writing day and to take great pleasure in the long and winding journey.

3. Begin your writing career today. There are no graduation ceremonies for writers, no solemn rituals during which one is anointed an author. That means you’ll become a writer as soon as you start to think and to behave like one. So, from this moment on, treat every class writing assignment as if you were being paid to write it; join the school newspaper and write the most interesting articles your capable of composing; submit your work to magazines and newspapers—online and in print; start your own weblog and commit yourself to posting a well written personal essay at least once a week; and, most importantly, spend some time every day learning something new about the craft.

4. Learn to read with care. Try to decipher how the writers you admire stir their readers. Once you can figure this out, you will be well on your way to becoming a great writer.

5. Seek the company and advice of other writers. Most writers love to talk about the craft. Many have written helpful books about writing. Their experiences are yours for the taking.

6. Know your subject. If you are to write convincingly about anything, the knowledge must be inside of you. Conducting research is one of the greatest pleasures to found in the writing life.

7. Know your audience. Develop a clear picture of your ideal readers. You’ll want, more than anything, to develop an intimate connection with them. Know what makes them laugh, what makes them cry, what frightens them, what makes them feel whole. And as you write, always keep them in the forefront of your thoughts.

8. Learn to revise. Rewriting is like putting together the most challenging puzzle imaginable—you know what the big picture should look like, but finding the piece that fits perfectly can be a frustratingly slow process. Nevertheless, it’s vital for every writer to become an expert at revision. And a writer must learn to love rewriting. Know that it will take you many, many years to master this, but once you do, the rest will fall into place as if by magic.

9. The passion for setting your thoughts onto paper will always be with you. Life will get in the way of your writing. Your education, your loves, your family, your jobs, and life’s other responsibilities will conspire to take you away from writing. Don’t despair. Even if you have to postpone your dream of becoming a writer for several years, your love for putting your thoughts and visions into words will always be there, waiting for your return with open arms.

10. Acquire other ways to make a living. Very few writers find fortune and celebrity. The majority of us have to earn an income by doing something that may have nothing to do with writing. Do, however, choose an occupation that you’ll love almost as much as being a writer.

11. Believe in yourself. Writers are visionaries, and visionaries stand alone atop of mountains from which they can gaze upon that which no one else can see. Not even your best friends will understand what it is that you’re trying to accomplish. You are utterly alone on this journey. Moreover, rejections—which are guaranteed to happen—will riddle you with self-doubt. Whatever happens, stay true to your muses. In the end, they will reward your faith.

12. Be patient. There are no shortcuts along the path to excellence. The majority of writers only begin to taste a small measure of success at an age when the most noted professional athletes are hanging up their uniforms for good. Writing is a profession whose fruits are to be enjoyed in the latter years, when our gray hairs attest to our hard-earned wisdom.

I wish you luck. May you always enjoy a surplus of ideas, and may you always find the strength to pursue, and succeed, in your dream of becoming a writer.

Origins of a Dream

. . . mientras haya esperanzas y recuerdos,
¡habrá poesia!
Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer


I remember vividly the homework assignment that made me start to dream about becoming a writer. But I can’t tell the story behind that luminous moment without first filling in some of the background.

Shortly after I turned eleven, my parents decided to return to their birthplace: Nicaragua. I was dead set against the move as I saw it derailing my dream of playing third base for the LA Dodgers. But before I could fully grasp what was about to strike me, I found myself completely immersed in a Spanish-speaking world.

Keep in mind that up to that point my education had been entirely in English and that although I looked Nicaraguan, my grammar in Spanish was atrocious, plus I spoke it with a gringo accent. Because of this I suffered many embarrassing and disconcerting moments.

Still, in spite of the trauma my dislocation caused, the experience also had its rewards. For instance, we lived in a marvelously large colonial home in the city of Granada. Also, from one day to the next, I had gained a loving extended family that greatly helped to ease my transition into the new language and culture.

It was not long after my arrival that I discovered that every Nicaraguan child is expected to recite Rubén Darío’s poetry—Nicaragua’s greatest contribution to literature. Since my Spanish was still at an awkward stage, I was spared from having to do this. My sisters, however, being much younger than me, picked up the language instantly, and soon they were reciting Darío’s verses for the amusement of every person who happened to drop by our house. It was by listening to them repeat their lines—time and time again—that I too memorized many of the Nicaraguan’s poems.

But I have to confess that Rubén Darío’s work has never really moved me. I’m aware that now that I’ve said this publicly every Nicaraguan will consider me a heretic, but I can’t help it. I simply can’t relate to the rigid formality of his work. In spite of this, I'm in awe of Darío’s genius, particularly with regard to the musicality of his rhymes.

Nevertheless, my indifference toward poetry—in Spanish or in English—persisted until I was fourteen. But that changed forever the day that Juan Alas, our literature teacher—a Salesian priest, and published poet himself—assigned several poems written by the nineteenth-century Spanish writer, Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer.

This became a defining moment in my life, for it is when my passion for literature and for language truly began.

The instant I read Bécquer’s verses, they astonished me—and they continue to do so to this day. They opened my eyes and my ears to the beauty of language and to the possibility of exquisitely blending emotional intensity with elegant simplicity.

Right after my introduction to Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer, I decided that I too would become a poet. Inspired by his example, I filled several notebooks with verses about dormant harps, melancholic swallows, and unrequited love. And it is my good fortune that these feverish and feeble adolescent musings were lost long ago.

But Bécquer continues to dwell inside of me, as do so many other writers who since that day have touched my heart. And isn’t that really the main reason why a man or a woman would choose such a thorny occupation whose outcome is agonizingly uncertain? Look at what following his calling did for Bécquer: he died impoverished, broken-hearted, and unpublished at the age of thirty-four.

Yet, in spite of the hardships, many persons still opt to become writers because we hope that through our struggle to express whatever is churning inside of us we might be lucky enough to find a minuscule place inside the souls of others and, in doing so, gain a small measure of immortality.

A Matter of Respect: On Reading Luis Rodríguez

Where, after all, do universal human rights begin? In small places, close to home—so close and so small that they cannot be seen on any map of the world. Yet they are the world of the individual person: the neighborhood he lives in; the school or college he attends; the factory, farm, or office where he works. Such are the places where every man, woman and child seeks equal justice, equal opportunity, and equal dignity without discrimination. Unless these rights have meaning there, they have little meaning anywhere. Without concerted citizen action to uphold them so close to home, we shall look in vain for progress in the larger world.
Eleanor Roosevelt


A little over ten years ago, when I was teaching in North Carolina, a student asked me to read Always Running, Luis Rodríguez’s memoirs about growing up as a gang member in Los Angeles. (As usual, I, the late bloomer, was just beginning to explore Latino and Latina literature.) The student told me that Rodríguez’s tale brought tears to his eyes. I found this remarkable since the young man had lived all of his life in the South, and he was just starting to learn about Latinos. I remember thinking to myself that Rodríguez must have hit a universal chord, so I went out and bought a copy of his book.

Several years later, I learned that Rodríguez was scheduled to visit North Carolina to give a series of talks. Thinking that Always Running might be of interest to a Mexican-American acquaintance of mine, I loaned it to him. He had also grown up in Los Angeles and had served time in prison because of gang-related activities.

“This guy has written the story of my life. I’m dying to meet him,” he said upon returning the book.

Sadly for me, shortly before Rodríguez’s arrival I moved to Nicaragua and missed the chance to meet him. But I’ve often wondered if the two Los Angelenos met, for I would’ve loved to have been present during their conversation.

* * * *

A couple of years ago I was part of a panel of new Latino authors at the Book Expo America held in Chicago. It was the first time I would read from my novel, Bernardo and the Virgin. Seated next to me was a young man named Joe Loya, author of the memoir The Man Who Outgrew His Prison Cell: Confessions of a Bank Robber. Having a chance to chat prior to the readings, I asked him a few questions about his book.

“I owe it all to Luis Rodríguez. He’s my mentor. When I was in prison I wrote him a letter, and he encouraged me to write my story. Have you ever heard of him?” Joe asked.

Had I ever heard of him?

“That’s him seated over there,” Joe added, pointing Rodríguez out.
The instant Loya made that comment, Luis Rodriguez, in my mind, became larger than life. After repeatedly hearing how his work had touched the lives of others, I couldn’t muster the courage to introduce myself. (Besides, I felt guilty because I had yet to read his memoir.)

Minutes later, Mr. Loya, Rodriguez’s protégé, was standing before the podium giving one of the most impressive readings I’ve ever witnessed. Let me tell you, he was a tough act to follow.

* * * *

“Better late than never,” goes the saying. Just last week I finally got around to reading Always Running.

And yes, Luis Rodríguez’s story touched me, deeply. Los Angeles is one of my hometowns, and while living there I witnessed events similar to the ones he describes in his book. (My other hometown, Granada, Nicaragua, is where I grew up from ages eleven through seventeen, after which time I returned, once again, to L.A.)

Always Running teaches us that young people join gangs in a desperate attempt to fight off despair and to gain respect. To help prevent them from taking this path, Rodríguez calls on our leaders, at all levels of government, to invest heavily in the inner cities so that every young person can learn to excel at something constructive, and thus find fulfillment, regardless of race.

It’s unfortunate, but we’ve yet to heed this message.

* * * *

As anticipated, I enjoyed Always Running; but the writings by Rodriguez that I like the most are his weblog entries. I’m a big fan and I never miss a post.

(Check out his website at www.luisjrodriguez.com)

In the wake of Katrina, Rodríguez has been particularly eloquent in condemning the negligence that magnified this preventable catastrophe. He points out that what happened in New Orleans illustrates that local and national leaders have little respect for the poor, and that they continue to treat them dismissively.

Is it any wonder that people everywhere, even here in Latin America, have reacted angrily to the White House’s dismal response?

The best lesson we can learn from this disaster is that those who make the decisions must start placing the needs of poor first—for they are the ones whose needs are greatest. Otherwise, at the furious pace at which climatic and political changes are occurring throughout the globe, great-scale human tragedies will become commonplace.

Throughout his career as a writer and political activist, Rodríguez has repeated Eleanor Roosevelt’s message: pay attention to the neighborhood, the schools, and the workplace, for these basic units of communal life need to operate for the benefit of humanity if we are to endure the passage of time.

For years Rodríguez has been speaking out without fear against injustice, not caring who he angers. I especially admire that he has done so during the dark years of the Bush administration, where to bring light to what is wrong in American society places a person on the par with being a terrorist. Little wonder the majority of us are afraid to open our mouths.

Gracias, Luis, for having the cojones to speak the truth as you see it.

You have my respect.

Dales duro, ese.

On Readers, Harry Potter, and the Pope

Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger.
J. R. R. Tolkien

I have to confess that I’m a fan of the Harry Potter series. Like millions, I look forward to each new book. I also have to confess that, as a writer, I envy J. K. Rowling, and not only because of her novels’ outrageous sales. I’m jealous, for one thing, of Rowling’s mastery at developing a tightly-woven plot. Her ability to keep us turning the pages is astonishing. And she’s also a master at creating highly imaginative settings—as evidenced by Hogwarts and the world of wizards. If Rowling has a weakness it is in the area of character development. But even here she must be doing something right; otherwise we wouldn’t care so passionately about what will ultimately happen to Harry.

What most impresses me about Rowling’s novels, though, is how her readers are able to create book discussion groups on the spot. On several occasions I’ve been in gatherings where someone mentions Harry Potter and at once people of all ages become engaged in rather sophisticated discussions of Rowling’s work. It’s little wonder that librarians are enthusiastic about the series, particularly about how it’s been able to attract young people to the act of reading.

Recently, however, the news media reported that the pope does not approve of the Harry Potter novels. What brought this to the forefront were of a couple of letters that Joseph Ratzinger—when he was still a cardinal—wrote to Gabriele Kuby in which he praises her for making people aware of the dangers that J. K. Rowling’s work poses for the young. Unfortunately, the press’ coverage of Ratzinger’s statements has been misleading, and objectivity has been cast aside for the sake of sensationalistic headlines. It turns out that, after all, Benedict XVI has neither read Rowling’s nor Kuby’s works. And it seems that the letters were actually composed by an assistant, although they bore the Cardinal’s signature.

Regardless, Gabriele Kuby is a compatriot of Benedict XVI and she’s the author of Harry Potter: Good or Evil? In her book, she condemns J.R. Rowling’s novels because they’re corrupting the hearts of the innocent, preventing them from developing a properly ordered sense of good and evil, and in the process harming their relationship with God.

Kuby, and others who share her viewpoint, are entitled to their judgment. Furthermore, they have every right to monitor what their children read. That goes without saying.

What’s more, Kuby was astute in seeking Ratzinger’s endorsement of her views, as well as in making public his apparent approval of her book. Let’s face it, who better to endorse a work condemning the spiritual dangers of Harry Potter than the then prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith? And as an added bonus, because of the prominent media coverage, Kuby’s work, from virtual obscurity, has received more than its fair share of attention from the world press. Most writers gladly welcome any controversy that promotes sales of their book. (I shall leave Salman Rushdie out of this equation).

But what concerns me is not that anyone disapproves of J. K. Rowling’s fiction. No artist, especially one as successful as Harry Potter’s creator, will be universally loved. What worries me is a specter from the past that I see hovering above this entire affair—like Nearly Headless Nick, who refuses to accept the manner of his death.

In Spanish America, for the first three-hundred years of its existence, novels were forbidden. A person could not legally own—let alone read—a work of fiction. To have such a thing in one’s possession was an offense punishable by law.

Who was responsible for instigating this decree? El Santo Oficio: The Spanish Inquisition.

The reasoning behind the prohibition was that reading novels would be harmful to the spiritual well-being of the indigenous who, the inquisitors believed, would be unable to distinguish fact from fiction. The Peruvian writer, Mario Vargas Llosa, in his introduction to La Verdad de las Mentiras, argues out that the inquisitors—long before literary critics—were the first to recognize that fiction, by its very nature, is both seductive and seditious.

Indeed, a writer, through the power of her imagination, is capable of creating a world that readers may prefer over the real one. Also, and perhaps more dangerously, fiction can prompt a young mind to become independent and, heaven forbid, freethinking.

A world without fiction would be colorless—muggle-like, if you will. But some people prefer to live in a world that’s black and white, and that’s their privilege. Yet what frightens me is the certainty that many of them would like to restore the power the Church exercised in the days of colonial Spanish America, forcing the rest of us to live in a monochrome universe where great flights of the imagination are viewed with suspicion and scrutinized with a rigid checklist that aims to detect and banish anything deemed dangerous.

Isn’t that the dream of every inquisitor?

The entire affair regarding Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger’s supposed condemnation of Harry Potter demonstrates that inquisitors still exist. And what I find particularly alarming, as this case illustrates, is that they believe they have an ally in Benedict XVI.

In Gabriel García Márquez’s Del amor y otros demonios, a priest, Cayetano Delaura, who during Spanish colonial times functions as the librarian for the archdiocese of Cartagena, Colombia, recalls how, upon entering the seminary, he had a novel taken away from him because it was a “forbidden book.” Twenty-six years later, he walks into the library of Abrenuncio de Sa Pereira Cao, a scholarly Jewish physician. The priest is astounded to see a collection that far surpasses the one he cares for, and which includes countless "forbidden books." As he scans the bindings he recognizes four volumes of Amadís de Gaula, the series of adventures about a heroic knight he had taken from him as a child. With tears in his eyes, he tells the physician, “It is my duty to turn you in to the Holy Inquisition.”

But he doesn’t. In the end, after a long discussion about books, love, demonic possessions, and other matters, as the priest leaves, he says to the learned doctor, “With you I can converse without stopping into the next century.”

And so it should be among everyone who reads novels, even those about a young wizard named Harry Potter.