Monday, April 4, 2016

winning



I am overjoyed to announce I won the Lumina fiction contest judged by Roxane Gay. My story "I, Succubus" is a little bruja tale, part of a longer series of bruja tales I've been working on. I probably have a enough for a collection, I don't know. I just love writing them. I was able to celebrate this weekend at AWP with most of the friends I love most. I am exhausted from AWP but damn, really really happy.

Saturday, March 19, 2016

machete writing

I'm at the very end of my book and ay, it hurts in a really weird way. I've been in a strange dance of transition over the last few month, shifting away from old, harmful patterns of anxiety. One of the biggest gifts has been the writing. I've been working on the fantasy book(s) for five years. I started in 2011, I wrote a little more than 50,000 words. I was happy with the book, I cried in places, I fizzled in wonder at my own imagination. I was curious about my character's backstory, began sketching it out, then I knew: I had to write that book instead. I had to build the world, or let the world tell me how it wanted to be offered to the reader. I started that in 2012, and now, four years later, I'm finally finishing it and ay, the grief.

I'm not a fast writer. I can be, when I write short stories they pour out of me so fast that sometimes I have a hard time keeping up. I've stopped writing poetry. But the novel writing process has been an unraveling, a process of finding each thread in the story, asking how to weave it into place. The story is weaving, the writer unravels. I say that as I've had to strip away so much of what I thought I wanted and trust that it would work out. I unravel, I am denuded. I've had to learn to really trust myself and that has been the hardest part of all. We are born trusting and somewhere along the way it is taken from us.

I think one of the scariest things about this is that I feel so incredibly alone in the journey. I feel like I have the machete in hand. I'm trying to do something new. I want to take a step forward but first, I machete. Idea: machete. World-building machete, machete, machete. Characters, machete. Fear, machete. I know I'm not alone, that story is as old as the first curious eyes that wondered at the world, but this particular story is mine. That's hard. I'm trying to do something I don't think has been done, at least not that I'm aware of.

I haven't talked much about what I've been writing, at least not online because I've been protective of it, scared to tell the world what I'm doing in case I fail, or in case there are hungry eyes who want to satiate themselves in theft. I know all writing, and especially a lot of fantasy, is derivative. And I'm writing the book I wanted, the book I needed as a young adult.

The world I'm writing is fantastical, but instead of being informed or inspired by the popular fantasy I was enamored with (am still infatuated with,) I'm writing a world informed by my ancestral cultures. Mesoamerican. Indigenous. I say informed and not inspired because I've made the active choice to attempt to create the magic, spiritual and social systems, not take or "borrow" anything from living or transitioned cultures. Those aren't my stories to tell, not right now, maybe not ever. But the landscape is home, the jungles and deserts, the ancient cities built by astronomers to reflect back the stories the stars dictated, the temples, the clans. I've inhabited my world with characters who look like me, my family. Brown skin, dark eyes, dark hair. The magic/spirituality is based on elemental magic. The magical creatures are echoes of the land, my Jaguar women, my desert Fire Warriors, the shamanic lineage my protagonist is born into. Matriarchy. Balance. Unrest. Prophecy. Loss.

I'm proud of the work I've done. I've written some really good shit. And I know I have work to do. The story and writing is only one part of the work. My fears are real and probably something all writers face. I don't know if the world of readers will respond. I can hope they do if/when this book is offered to an audience. This story is what I wanted when I was growing up: a story in a world where I could place myself without having to change my skin color, eye color, a mythic fiction where I felt I belonged.

There have been a ton of conversations right now about diversity in literature, and along with those conversations, especially lately, there have been dialogues about cultural appropriation. Because I'm writing a world of indigeneity, I am hyper-aware of appropriation. There are places, most likely, where I have fallen short. But the big things, the rituals, the belief systems, the archetypes I've tried to build, have been shaped to not appropriate. I hope. All I can do  in this moment is hope. And hire beta readers who will tell me where I've fallen short. I will listen. And do the work.

I love the world I've built. I love the clans. Utan, Airan, Ilkan, Ka-Lit. Dreamer. The temple city of Alcanzeh, the wider landscape of Mita. I love Indir, my gentle protagonist who has been thrown into a chaos she wants nothing to do with. Her two big secrets, one that can change the wider world, and one that changes her on a deep, personal level. Her two sisters, Delu and Zeri and the strange, often beautiful triangles of sisterhood. I love my bad guys, their complications are human and cruel. I love my magical creatures, stunning Ilkan Raru of the Jaguar clan who is all instinct and emotion. I love the strange little character Dua who showed up and fucks shit up in the greatest of ways. All the little seeds I've tried to plant along the way, watching them take root and grown. Pounding the plant against stone to extract the fibers, the combing and washing, the thread-making and weaving. The stones of the temples, the altars. The Songs. The ceremonies of birth, death and everything before, during, after.

I'm in grief. The breaking of the shell, the vulnerability of saying Yes, world, I followed my dream and now I'm going to offer it to you. I'm a ways away still, there are edits I need to make but the heart of it is there;  it is a true heart, my heart. And then the process of shifting from writing to the business side of it, trying to find an agent who believes in the work and all that can possibly follow. I'm grateful to be at the end of this project at a time when there are dialogues about diversity. The timing seems divine, but perhaps (yes, if I believe my own stories and I do,) all timing is.

Here's the song that made me want to write this book.

Monday, February 22, 2016

Cantinas, Swooning and the Fermented Fat of Endangered Species


My dad sent me to Mexico this weekend as an early birthday gift, to surprise my grandmother for her birthday. I haven't been to the ranch alone in years and I was thrilled. I'm near the end (at last! at last!) of my fantasy novel and was looking forward to calm days of writing on the patio. Ha. Ha ha.

Turns out grandma was in LA. I had the house to myself for a couple of days before she arrived Saturday. Perfect. Time to write, wander, allow myself the indulgence of true Mexican time, where a day lasts a week, punctuated by mealtimes and gossip. The first night I sat up late on the patio, writing, every cell in me thrumming with the joy of being in my ancestral homeland. In the morning I got up early (or late, by ranch determination, the sun was up, cows milked, cheese cooling. . ) and wrote some more. Went to town with a cousin. Spent time with an aunt and the former-arch nemesis of my grandmother. I discovered that my great-grandmother used to run a cantina in the village! There was no electricity back then so it was lit by gasoline lanterns. One of my great-uncles was in charge of the music, he changed the records on what sounded to me like a freaking Victrola. My uncle described it as a record player with a large horn attached to it, so yeah, Victrola. I must investigate more next trip down.

I spent only a little time in the fields. The weather is unseasonably hot for February so the men were frantic with the beans, trying to get them picked before they dry out. They were sucking the river dry to keep the chiles hydrated as well. I rode on a tractor a bit, just because, then stretched out in a rope hammock and spent the rest of the afternoon watching the leaves above me getting it on with the wind. We went home just before sunset.

Then I got sick. My lungs started aching, burning. My grandmother's former arch-nemesis insisted I needed just a couple of teaspoons of fermented sea turtle fat and I'd be fine; she knew a woman who knew a woman. . . What you do is take the fat from a sea turtle and pour it into an empty coconut. You bury the coconut for a week, don't bury it so deep the heat from the sun won't hit it, it needs the warmth to ferment. After seven days, dig it up, bottle it and cure everything that ails the lungs. I, of course, said no thank you. I can handle a cold but the guilt of sucking down the lipids of an endangered species? Not so much.

The next morning I woke up feeling like I'd been UFC fighting in my dreams. Add to that the lovely polyester sheets I was sleeping in, I was miserable. My cousin took me to town to see a doctor. Doctors in Mexico are so damn affordable. I paid 30 pesos, about $2 to see the doc. He listened to my lungs, symptoms and told me I had an upper respiratory infection. He gave me a syrup for the cough that would soon come and then told me to go to the pharmacy next door and get an injection, an anti-inflammatory injection.

I've been getting shots in the ass for years. When I lived in San Miguel de Allende 2003/4, we used to get vitamin b-12 shots before nights of partying, for energy and hangover prevention. My doctor here injects me with anti-inflammatory shots when I get sick too. No big deal, right? The nurse at the pharmacy had me lift my dress, swabbed me with alcohol and injected me. It hurt. I could feel the liquid seeping into the muscle, it ached. I shook my leg a bit to move the medicine then I got hot. Fever hot. Hot-flash hot. And dizzy. The world went fuzzy, I leaned on the counter and said Estoy mareada and then I fainted. I came-to in a chair, my cousin fanning me with a cardboard box while the nurse was trying to get me to sip pedialyte. I had never fainted before, it was very 19th century of me to do so, in a maxi dress, in another language.

The sickness took over anyway, despite the swooning injection and cough syrup. My grandmother arrived that afternoon and we had a party. I wasn't really a part of the "we" though. I was wrapped in polyester sheets, alternating between sweats and chills, coughing and fever-dreaming. Of course my family hired a band and they were set up right outside my window. Thus my fever-dreams had a soundtrack, featuring an accordion. All the aunts and cousins made a show of checking on me, coming in to touch whatever part of me wasn't wrapped in purple polyester to declare, ah, yes, she's sick. I was diagnosed with everything from mal aire, bad air, to pregnancy, to the dengue chikunkuya. I was told I'd be sick for months, or that it would pass if I just took a linty pill scrounged from the bottom of a purse. At one point I woke up the sound of a cat screaming from having it's claws ripped out but it turned out it was only a cousin, drunk on three bottles of Two-Buck-Chuck, serenading my grandmother with the help of the band.

Around midnight my grandmother came in and declared that my mother would forever hold her responsible if I died on her watch so I had to go home. Plane tickets were arranged and I got home last night. The sickness, of course, has now almost passed from my body. It was lovely to sleep in my own bed, Hari beside me. We took an hour to sit on our balcony and talk before bed, as we do. My happiest of places.

A few interesting threads I cannot right now weave into the longer narrative:

The village, normally tiny, has about doubled in population with migrant workers from Southern Mexico. They sleep in huts literally made from black garbage bags. Entire families going into the fields at dawn, returning after sunset. Many don't speak Spanish, they speak an indigenous language from their home. At night they play music, singing in their language, dancing. They don't interact much with the locals, sending their children to buy the few things they need from the women in town who sell eggs and slaughter chickens.

My grandmother's former arch-nemesis told me about giving birth to a breech baby. She figured out the baby was breech when she was washing clothes in the river and felt something odd between her legs. A baby foot. Hanging out of her vagina. She pushed it back in, kept washing clothes and resigned herself to a difficult birth later that night.

The cousin of a cousin died after receiving an injection at the same pharmacy where I received mine. They injected him and he fell to the ground immediately. The doctor came out, looked at him and said "He's dead."