I previously had no concept of what it was like to be a victim of your troubled mind.
As a way to cope with rejection, I often repeated to myself: Focus on the work rather than the results.
We have the right to imagine what is possible beyond the systems that try to destroy us. Black and queer writers have long imagined worlds beyond this one.
The details of those poems may be his first inkling that I know what he did.
People have sex. Women have sex. It would feel irresponsible to censor or smooth over this part of their (and our) lives.
Writing like I didn’t think anyone would ever see my words made me bold and reckless, taking risks I might have avoided if I knew my book would be published.
Latinidad, to me, was like a shrunken sweater. I never wanted to get rid of it, but I couldn’t imagine how it would possibly fit.
Will my face betray me when it’s time to talk about my book in public?
I wasn’t looking for pretty stories. I wanted messy, ugly, honest secrets.
My vision of a writer has always been someone quiet, someone introverted, and—especially—someone white.