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La Vista:

The Discipline of Joy
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
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
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

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


Ten Years After (OK, really nine ...)
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.,


Facebook.
2/28/2010
Yeah, we took the plunge. Well, Cinderella took the plunge while I was upstairs writing Hummingbird's Daughter II. So we have a Facebook. Go over and say hi. Join up! (Is that how it works?) I'll see you there, or here, or on Twitter, or on GoodReads. Wow. I still wish we could send post-cards to each other.

Love 4ever,
L


Neil Gaiman Saves The Day
2/25/2010
OK, famous (and infamous) writers have been in our lives and in and out of our house forever. Our kids eye-roll as they pack up their sleeping bags and move into the basement or sit through yet another reading or author dinner. They are unfailingly polite and always feign great interest in these grownups.

But this week, Neil Gaiman came to town. Now we don't know Neil Gaiman. And 10-year-old Chayo was not at all happy about that. Thanks to Coraline and The Graveyard Book and his kid picture books, she is a huge fan. (So's Eric for the record, but for other reasons and he's at college so he's not part of this story). "Why don't you know him?" Chayo demanded. "He's an author, you're an author. Finally, here's somebody I really want to meet. He's my Author Crush!"

Demoralized, we "cursed" Neil Gaiman on Twitter and bemoaned the fall from grace of Daddy The Amazing.

Neil saw our posting and wrote immediately. Said he loved the Mexico poem (below). And he invited us to come to his reading and he'd say hello to Chayo backstage. Redemption!!

We went to see him last night as part of Naperville Reads and escorted our beaming daughter (who spritzed herself with perfume in the car) backstage to meet her Author Crush.

Neil Gaiman was warm and friendly and completely charmed the little kid in our house. He asked her what he should read and she responded (with little hearts in her eyes), "Anything would be good." He posed for a picture with her and, as we left, swept her up and swung her in the air.

She hasn't come down yet.

This morning at the bus stop, she was mulling over the authors she's met and figuring out her favorites. "OK," she said. "I LOVE Colum McCann. But he's more my friend because we hung out and everything. And I don't think I'll read his books anytime soon. But Neil Gaiman ... well,I think he's my real Author Crush. He's amazing."




Thanks, Neil, for making a 10-year-old girl so happy. And for helping her Daddy stay cool in her eyes.


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