sandra cisneros makes me want to write good stories, about days other than today and people other than myself. i want to spin, twist and shuffle letters around until they make sentences that sing. i want to write half as wonderfully as she, like:
“In English my name means hope. In Spanish it means too many letters. It means sadness, it means waiting. It is like the number nine. A muddy color. It is the Mexican records my father plays on Sunday mornings when he is shaving, songs like sobbing.”
from The House on Mango Street, lent to me by miha, who knew i’d love her, and now i have to get my hands on her other works. i have to stay up until the morning hours to finish the stories i began, all too long ago.