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High Life in the Hyphen

When I write, I carry a lot of different influences. In Spanish literature, the sentences are long, and the ideas layer over one another in a single space, and nothing is brief except the moment the words are describing. British literature (the other half of my heritage) is different. Its metaphors make more sense to me. Everything lines up right. The butterflies find their assigned seating on the tree bark. Then, they sing and unleash, sing and unleash. Cormac McCarthy repeats phrases in the first sentences of All the Pretty Horses, but I’ve never read Cormac McCarthy, but my dad loves Cormac McCarthy, and I love my dad, so I love Cormac McCarthy. My mom loves that I love Spanish, and I love her, and I love Spanish. Writing is about loving, and I live in the hyphen between Cuban and British.

If human traits could be written on a supermarket receipt, the price of creativity would be unknown, and the highest paid celebrities could not buy time. I think I’m okay on both, but I won’t think that way for very long.

I’ve moved a lot, so I think all the places I’ve lived influence my writing as well. I can write about England, New England, the South and the West, but my stories still manage not to be located in those places because I don’t feel connected enough to them. My memories and experiences are too niche for the average reader or the authentic local, in my opinion, without much research involved. In this case, I might as well write about New Zealand or Guam because the research I still have to do about things I thought I knew freaks me out a little.

When I write, I write about things that almost exist. There’s almost a monster under your bed, and you can almost open the door with your mind. But you can’t, and that’s okay. My characters can, and that’s okay too. The biggest thing I want in life is for everything to be okay. I want everything to be okay.

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