Francisco's Journal an author discusses the art of writing

The rain on this April evening reminds of my grandfather’s house in Tampico, Mexico, where I grew up. It is the sound of the rain on the roof of the house. The soft light of the lamp falling on the book. Mostly I think the memories come from the combination of sound and warmth. In my grandfather’s house, la casa de mi abuelito, the roof was made of tin and so the rain made sounds that, depending on the force of the rain, resembled anything from dozen ballerinas tip toeing to a million marbles dropping out of a big bag in the sky. Even as a six-year-old, I liked the rain. I liked it when it rained so hard that the noise absorbed all my thoughts and there was this delicious mixture of fear and safety. Inevitably, during those hard rain storms, the lights would go out. Then, the kerosene lamps were lit and there was complete immersion in all the senses: the sound of the rain, the smell of kerosene, the shadows cast by the flickering flames. If it was too early to go to sleep, then we would all sit in the living room, listening, maybe saying a word here and there. A word or two now and then was all that was needed.