Artist in Residence (Said with a Wink)

Let me clear something up right away. When I introduce myself as an “Artist in Residence,” I am winking. Possibly with both eyes.

Nobody gave me the title. There is no committee, no grant, no tweed-jacketed professor handing me the key to a studio. I gave it to myself, the way you might give yourself a gold star for finally returning the library book. But I like how it sounds, and I have discovered that Mexico is a very forgiving place to try on a grand title.

Here is the real story. For years I kept a notebook of story ideas. Then notebooks, plural. By the time I finally counted, I had thirteen stories sketched out, each one its own little universe of scandal, betrayal and, because I cannot help myself, love. What I did not have was time. I had a calendar, a to-do list that reproduced overnight like rabbits, and a life that kept saying “after this week.” The stories sat in their notebooks and waited, very politely, like dinner guests who have been told the food is almost ready.

At some point I admitted that “someday” is not a writing schedule.

Why Mexico?

People ask why I did not just rent a cabin somewhere quiet. Fair question. The answer is that these stories were born here, or at least they were born at tables here, with a bottle in the middle and somebody’s grandmother holding court. (More on that in another post.) If the stories came from Mexico, it seemed rude to write them anywhere else.

Also, I have been in love with the idea of Mexico since I was a girl in San Antonio, watching telenovelas I swore were for language practice. The real thing turned out to be louder, warmer, funnier and a great deal more dramatic than anything on television. I did not think that was possible.

What a day actually looks like

Glamorous, it is not. Strong coffee. A walk, because my best ideas show up when I am moving and my worst when I am staring at the screen. Then writing, in blocks, the way my ad agency days trained me: fast first, polish later. In the afternoon, when the light goes gold and the neighbors’ radios come on, I let myself wander, because wandering is research. Somebody always has a story. Somebody always says, “Ay, you won’t believe what happened to my cousin,” and I am already reaching for my notebook.

Is it a vacation? No. Is it the best job I have ever had? Ask me again after deadline.

So here is my plan for this little corner of the internet. I will tell you what I am writing, what I am eating, what I am learning, and what I am getting wrong in Spanish (a lot). I will tell you about tequila and telenovelas and the real-life scandals that inspired the fictional ones, with the names changed to protect the guilty.

Pull up a chair. Pour something. Hasta pronto,

Maya