Telling stories about cholos and aliens, La Llorona and life
Sabrina told me via Facebook that I promised months ago to write about what inspires me in my writing and I am wondering what madness possessed me when I pledged such a thing.
I’m 51 years old and it took me fifty of those years to become an author. A writer — that I’ve been all my life. I can’t remember when I first picked up a pencil and started writing, but I do remember I wrote on anything and everything. I kept journals daily. I wrote stories in my head on the way to school. I made up stories at bedtime for my children, because they wanted personal, not just the things I read to them in books. I started writing poetry early on too, but it wasn’t until my grandson Aiden was born that I became a published poet with Cien Años, the elegiac poem I wrote in honor of his birth and in remembrance of my grandfather, Salvador Camarillo.
If I have to say what inspires me, and try to wrestle that muse down, I can’t do it. There is no one thing and it’s rarely the same thing twice. Inspiration is like lightning — it falls where it may, when it wants and sometimes it misses. A lot of what I write comes from ancestors, that grandfather I mentioned was a hell of a storyteller, and I’m half Irish — a whole culture with a deep history of storytelling. Memories of a certain smell, the feeling of wind on my face or the simple act of teaching my granddaughter how to bake can become a story or a poem.
I think the writer’s job is to be an observer and I’ve had good training there. Early on in my career, I worked for a vocational rehabilitation firm. We studied our injured worker clientele carefully — watched for pain behavior; tested their reach, grip, walking ability, punctuality, grooming, speech, interests, dexterity and even their personalities with tests and copious notes. We wrote behavioral observations every 15 minutes for the six-hour work day. Those very detailed notes and test scores eventually became a voluminous report that went off to insurance companies, lawyers, and counselors.
I’m 51 years old and it took me fifty of those years to become an author. A writer — that I’ve been all my life. I can’t remember when I first picked up a pencil and started writing, but I do remember I wrote on anything and everything. I kept journals daily. I wrote stories in my head on the way to school. I made up stories at bedtime for my children, because they wanted personal, not just the things I read to them in books. I started writing poetry early on too, but it wasn’t until my grandson Aiden was born that I became a published poet with Cien Años, the elegiac poem I wrote in honor of his birth and in remembrance of my grandfather, Salvador Camarillo.
If I have to say what inspires me, and try to wrestle that muse down, I can’t do it. There is no one thing and it’s rarely the same thing twice. Inspiration is like lightning — it falls where it may, when it wants and sometimes it misses. A lot of what I write comes from ancestors, that grandfather I mentioned was a hell of a storyteller, and I’m half Irish — a whole culture with a deep history of storytelling. Memories of a certain smell, the feeling of wind on my face or the simple act of teaching my granddaughter how to bake can become a story or a poem.
I think the writer’s job is to be an observer and I’ve had good training there. Early on in my career, I worked for a vocational rehabilitation firm. We studied our injured worker clientele carefully — watched for pain behavior; tested their reach, grip, walking ability, punctuality, grooming, speech, interests, dexterity and even their personalities with tests and copious notes. We wrote behavioral observations every 15 minutes for the six-hour work day. Those very detailed notes and test scores eventually became a voluminous report that went off to insurance companies, lawyers, and counselors.
It was important work and it was taken seriously. Sending an injured worker back to his or her job at the wrong time could re-injure them and cause permanent damage. I worked for some of the best in the business and I learned a lot. Later, at another vocational rehab firm, I took others' notes and transcribed them into reports, listening to observations rather than making them. I also worked with an occupational therapist as a translator in that same firm and learned from her how the body works.
All of this has made me a keen observer. I watch without realizing I’m doing it. I could be on a morning train to work and the way a person sits tells me they have a low back injury which makes me wonder how it happened, which leads to me making up a story about an accident. On the way home, I could be waiting at a bus stop watching a tree bend slowly in the breeze and that tree becomes two jacarandas — the beginning in a something I am working on, called Llorona.
I write about cholos in East Los Angeles too. People often ask me why and to be honest, I don’t know really. I grew up in barrios and I’d watch them. They’ve always lived around me and I around them and they are the guys that actually stand and give me a seat on the bus, or hold open a door when everyone else is pushing past me in the morning or afternoon rush.
“The sun is warm, even in the coolness of the courtyard and it warms her skin, brightening the hair on her arms with its light. The two jacaranda trees sway in the distance, gently moving, leaves swinging in time. She is fascinated by the trees, her body unconsciously swaying with it. She notices that though they grow together, each tree reaches in an opposite direction — like angry lovers. The sky is such a pale blue that it is almost colorless and she blinks, remembering eyes like that and shakes her head to force the memory of them out.”
I write about cholos in East Los Angeles too. People often ask me why and to be honest, I don’t know really. I grew up in barrios and I’d watch them. They’ve always lived around me and I around them and they are the guys that actually stand and give me a seat on the bus, or hold open a door when everyone else is pushing past me in the morning or afternoon rush.
I’m comfortable with the gente and so I write about their imagined hopes and dreams. I give them unlikely heroes that defeat aliens, speak to ghosts and rise above what they are given. You can read about my cholos and aliens in the book ¡Ban This! (Broken Sword Publications, 2012) ; here, here and here at Pocho.com; and in the upcoming Lowriting (also Broken Sword Publications). I also review books and write about food, culture and tech on my blogs (including Ginaruiz.com).
What inspires me? I guess if I had to sum it up in a word it would be life.
What inspires me? I guess if I had to sum it up in a word it would be life.
