I received great compliment (not quite the right word) today when a friend told me she was reading my novel Playing for Pancho Villa aloud to a person who is struggling against a cluster of merciless winning debilities. The person could follow the story, see the images and listen for the next step in the unfolding. And found satisfaction, even distraction, as he listened. What better use of a story can there be? What could be more important to the storyteller?
It is cold and rainy and gray in Guanajuato. The quilt is thick and warm. I listen to the rain. My black cat and I lie against each other, she spread out along my spine. I do not know how to describe this sense of comfort, me so large and human, she so small and animal, my breathing a sea, hers a boat—or is it the other way around?