The Writing University conducts a series of interviews with writers while they are in Iowa City participating in the various University of Iowa writing programs. We sit down with authors to ask about their work, their process and their descriptions of home.

Today we are speaking with Alan Valdez, MFA Candidate at the Spanish Creative Writing Program.

Alan Valdez. (Mexico, 1992). I wrote La pérdida de voluntad en el agua (Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2021). I like otters, making music on a synthesizer, Pascal Quignard’s pursuit of silence, and, above all, Emily Dickinson’s Poem 135.

1. Can you tell us a little bit about what brought you to the University of Iowa?
I wrote my first book while living in a Michigan suburb. For the first time, I understood what the four seasons were about. But, most of all, I understood winter. I lived with my sister and my little nephew Santiago. It was my first time in the United States. I didn’t know how to speak English. My nephew, who was just learning to talk, taught me his language. So, as he named the world in English for the first time, I also learned to say it with him.

I will never be able to remember how I learned to speak, but watching a small child do it has been one of the greatest privileges I’ve had as a human being. Knowing that language, above all else, is a tender and fearless little creature, jumping from one object to another, leaving tiny footprints behind.
That experience changed my life; it gave my metaphors a sense of gravity.

Years later, while living in Mexico City, I learned about creative writing programs in the United States. When I heard about the Iowa program, the decision was quick: I wanted to return to the Midwest, to once again have the opportunity to think in sync with the seasons, as they stretch and blur.

Also, I wanted to go from living in a vast and fast-paced city to a place where urgency was a foreign word.

I wanted to learn how to write slowly.

2. What is the inspiration for your work right now?
I don’t understand the word “inspiration” as anything other than part of the breathing process. But, to be kind to the question, I think the closest I get to something like that is when I prepare for an important visitor.

I clean my house, open the windows, let the air in, place beautiful fruit in the bowl, and also heat some water to offer tea in case they’d like some.

3. Do you have a daily writing routine?
Walking. Walking for hours and then taking photos and videos of every little creature that jumps through the dry or wet grass, depending on the month. And recording sounds, like footsteps on leaves or concrete, or the sound of geese doing geese things.

Listening to the same song until I have squeezed out every sensation and rhythm. Then I come home and fall asleep.

And then I wake up, open the windows, make my coffee, think about places I’ve been and people I’ve loved. I send good morning messages, sometimes I teach Spanish classes, sometimes I go to the store to buy food for the week. Then I cook with what I bought, sit down for dinner, watch a YouTube video, and then go out for a walk.

Like this, every day. Today, for example.

Writing, for me, is simply the consequence of being alive.

4. What are you reading right now? Are you reading for research or pleasure?
Just this morning, I finished reading Catching the Big Fish by David Lynch. It was a beautiful book that I finished reading at the laundromat.

I finished it at the exact moment the washing cycle ended, and I had to start the drying cycle. My clothes spun, getting lighter with each turn. I recorded the sounds of the machines and the other customers dropping coins to wash their clothes too.

I stayed alert, waiting for the big fish to arrive.

Then I remembered that I’ve never seen a David Lynch movie, but I liked him when he told the story of how, one day, while painting a picture, he realized he wanted to make films—because what was inside the painting he had just made started to move.

Wherever David is, I’m sure he’s still fishing.

I believe that reading, even when it’s for research, must be driven by an enormous curiosity, and there is nothing more enjoyable than lifting wet stones to see what’s underneath. Anything else that isn’t like that must be either a punishment or bad luck—or one of those things that get stuck between your teeth and you can’t figure out how to remove while sitting through an unbearable meeting.

5. Tell us about where you are from – what are some favorite details you would like to share about your home?
I am from both the north and the south of Mexico. I grew up between Chihuahua and Acapulco. So, to me, there is no difference between the desert, the mountains, and the sea.

My country is an accumulation of violent, chaotic, and natural processes that have been happening for centuries. The Spanish I use and will always use to write is a small trace of all that life combined. My country has many animals and many plants. In my country, beautiful people live who do not speak Spanish. In my country, terrible people also live. In my country, people do not read. In my country, people also write. In my country, we think about this country.

Here, do you think about us?
 

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We do! Thank you so much for talking with us. We're so glad you're here!