The Woman From La Feria

By DUARDO PAZ-MARTINEZ
The Paz Files

KYLE, Texas - One of my ruthless professors in college would grab student papers at the beginning of class, laugh his way back to his desk and use three little words to answer those who openly expressed their agony about his always-tough assignments: "Writing is fighting."

And so it is.

I have morphed into this walking stick figure who bathes early, looks for black coffee and either the NY Times or the Wall Street Journal to help set my bearings for the day. Sometimes I am inspired to write a comment on someone's blog, more to educate than to please myself. The number of misinformed people in this country grows by the day. We seem to have bred a generation of idiots and fed, perhaps too well, an earlier generation of hate-filled slobs. I mean mental slobs, people whose glasses are stained not by crap one could easily remove, but my bigotry and scorn. Yes, they, too, type-away, not that it is writing, however.

At present, my mind is taken by my next novel, yet another look at the Texas-Mexico border. In the past, my work about my homeland has centered on men and bars and men and men being men. This one is a bit more ranging, titled: The Mexican Wife.

It is at this early stage a tale of love and disgust, of bad love and of the best kind of love. Is it possible in Deep South Texas? Can one find a good, loyal woman in that menudo-fueled miasma? The story begins as if it is entirely possible. Where it goes as it fills its middle belly and sets sail for the tale's finale is the essence of my present writing journey. I make no apologies for my work, nor do I like to explain the stories. That's only fair to the reader, who must be given his shot at making what he/she wants to make of the work.

I don't really fight it anymore, although there are days when I'd rather be out on the golf course or out and about in the little Hill Country towns that dot the landscape around Weird Austin. Why fight it? It'll be what it's gonna be and that'll be that, until the next salvo of chapters forms yet another literary boat shoe. Life is daily. You can't live life by the week, although I'd favor that. It would be a dramatic change and my feeling is that the ragged world we live in needs something huge to help waking up and to make it worthwhile.

So, about writing: It's either in your blood, or it isn't.

Methods of approach are many. You can lock yourself in a bedroom (we have converted one into what is now my lovely office, with a view of goofy, yet quaint FM 150!), or you can check yourself into a cheap motel that comes with a saggy bed, noisy shower and thin walls and go about hashing out whatever grabs your mind. The work will stand on its own, and there is no need ever to ask yourself whether it's worth the time and effort. It always is, because it's your contribution to the masses, your glance at your subject and your decision to take it this way or that, your primal scream.

The Mexican Wife challenges me in a new way. I am often criticized for being too critical of Mexicans and of my Rio Grande Valley upbringing. I laugh it off; I'm Mexican! Writing takes no sides. It is loyal to itself. My view of the Valley is not anybody else's. I know that, and I'm okay with it. What I see in it, I see. My only regret is that I did not blog in Bethlehem back when it meant something to be there. I'd have blogged from the manger and posted a play-by-play of the fateful evening's doings. And I'd have taken road trips to Jericho to check that out. I'm not an atheist, but I have many doubts. Video of these Great Books events is what I need, although much of that comes from my trained cynicism as a Journalist, the one who knows peoiple will tell you anydamnedthing to make themselves look good.

So, I write on, somehow knowing that we may finish the work, or we may ditch it. Something new may pop-in and steal the day. A road trip could always change the point-of-view, items on the list of priorities, feed you a line you buy, meet someone who throws a strong image on your brain, like a sassy waitress or a well-read motel maid or some second-tier actress in a western town looking for her own raison d'etre. Life is funny that way.

It's part of the deal writers make with their subjects. Giving up control is okay. Allowing a new mood is part of it. Granting space is, as well. That country that is the writer's mind has no flag or boundaries; it is fully available and willing to let you waltz in and throw shit at the inhabitants.

It's Hell, but I can't wait to get back there...

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