Does Your Unfinished Art Serve a Purpose?

I’ve wanted to write a novel about my Mexican grandmother since I was fifteen. I’ve known all along what the first line would be: “When I was nine years old, Poncho Villa rode into town and killed a merchant in the street.” Whenever I think of that line, I get the shivers, remembering the day my notoriously quiet grandmother let that memory slip out. But it’s never seemed like the right time to...

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