5 Latinx Books To Read If You’re A Romance Newbie

Everyone should be reading romance. Yes, everyone. Romance novels are smart, sexy, feminist, inclusive, and uplifting. And guess what, mi gente? You can find Latinx representation in them, too. But if you’re a new romance reader, where do you start? There are so many possibilities. Do you enjoy historicals? Well, Lydia San Andres has you covered. She writes historical romances set on a fictional island that shares the customs and traditions of its neighbors in the Spanish Caribbean. Do you crave action? Try Diana Muñoz Stewart, a romantic suspense author who weaves contemporary social justice topics into her fast-paced novels. What about a story that reads like the telenovela of your wildest dreams? Angelina M. Lopez’s Lush Money may be just what you’re looking for. And if you’re overwhelmed by the choices, let me be your romance reading concierge and share my recommendations for the 5 Latinx books to read if you’re a romance newbie.

[Full disclosure: I know and love all of these authors. But even if I didn’t know them, I’d tell you to start with their books.]

American Dreamer by Adriana Herrera

The first book in Herrera’s Dreamers series, American Dreamer recounts the love story between Nesto Vasquez, an Afro-Caribbean food truck owner trying to make his mark in Upstate New York, and Jude Fuller, a sweet and earnest librarian whose quiet world is about to change forever. Herrera doesn’t shy away from weighty topics: the flaws of the so-called American Dream; racial prejudice; and the pain of being rejected by your family because of who you are. Against this backdrop, the romance remains front and center. Herrera’s authorial voice is pitch perfect, and I’m so glad she’s joined the steadily growing list of Latinx authors writing in the genre. One warning, though: Do not read this book on an empty stomach; the food descriptions will make you hungry.

Delicious Complication by Sabrina Sol

Known as the chica who loves love, Sol writes sexy stories that feature Latina heroines. Delicious Complication is the second book in her Delicious Desires series and my favorite of the three. Why? Because it also features one of my favorite tropes: fake dating. Brandon Montoya wants to convince his sick mother to come to Los Angeles for cancer treatment, so his plan is to lure her with the promise of meeting his (fake) fiancée, Daisy Robles. Do Brandon and Daisy catch feelings. Of course they do—it’s a romance. Do readers get to enjoy one of the hottest shower scenes I’ve ever read? Yes, indeed. One other thing: Sol has a short story in Best Women’s Erotica of the Year, Volume 5, and it is not to be missed. It’s a sexy “just one night” story with a twist, and the heroine is the first Latinx President of the United States. Need I say more?

His Perfect Partner by Priscilla Oliveras

If you're looking for a heartwarming novel that will make you smile, laugh, cry, and happy-sigh, this is it. Tomás is a single dad with only two concerns: his career and his daughter. Yasmine has dreams of making it big as professional dancer someday. Would an affair between a single dad and his daughter’s dance teacher make sense, especially given said dance teacher is unlikely to settle down? Absolutely not. But the heart knows what it wants, doesn’t it? Yasmin and Tomás’s love story is a slow-burn that beautifully highlights the importance of family in Latinx culture and the way our dreams can evolve over time. Critics agree it’s a must-read: This sweet contemporary debut received starred reviews from Publishers Weekly and Booklist!

Stripped by Zoey Castile

Each of the books in Castile’s Happy Endings series, set in the world of adult entertainment, is a little bit sweet and a whole lotta sexy. Plus, the characters feel like real people, ones we know and love, and their troubles resonate because we’ve all experienced them in some form or another: helplessness, guilt, a sense of inadequacy, among others. But in these stories, love truly does conquer all. You can’t go wrong with any of them, but start at the beginning: Sexy, funny, and heartfelt, Robyn and Fallon’s story in Stripped will make you want to glom the rest. Just be prepared for the Thong Song earworm; you won’t be able to avoid it.

Take the Lead by Alexis Daria

Take a broody (read: reluctant) reality-television star, put him on a Dancing With the Stars-type show with a sexy and determined partner, and watch the sparks fly. The first book in Daria’s Dance Off series, Take the Lead was named one of the best romances of 2017 by both Entertainment Weekly and The Washington Post. Stone and Gina’s chemistry leaps off the pages, and Daria’s reality-television world feels, well, real. Add Gina’s concern that she’ll be stereotyped as a “sexy Latina” on the show and you have a story with grit, humor, passion, and heart.    

So there you have it: your Latinx romance starter pack. Happy reading, everyone!

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* Mia Sosa writes funny, flirty, and moderately dirty contemporary romances that celebrate our multicultural world. Book Riot included her debut, Unbuttoning the CEO, in its list of 100 Must-Read Romantic Comedies, and Booklist recently called her “the new go-to author for fans of sassy and sexy contemporary romances.” Mia’s trade paperback debut, The Worst Best Man (Avon, Feb. 4), is a February 2020 LibraryReads selection and one of Amazon’s Best Books of the Month in romance.

'The Worst Best Man' Is Mia Sosa's Best Romance Novel Yet!

Picture this: You’re about to get married when your fiancé’s brother steps into your bridal suite to inform you the wedding is off and that it’s also his fault. This is the situation Carolina Santos, who goes by Lina, finds herself in. Fast forward three years and she’s totally over her ex-fiancé, Andrew Hartley, and his meddling brother, Max. Now, she’s got other issues to deal with.

Lina’s about to lose the office space she uses for her wedding planning business when she receives a surprise job offer from Rebecca Cartwright, the CEO of a hotel. There are just a few problems. One, it’s not exactly a job offer, it’s more of a job test and, two, Lina will have to work with a person from the marketing firm that assists the hotel to prove she’s the right person for the job. To Lina’s surprise that person is none other than Max. And Andrew will be working with the person Lina is competing against for the job. To make matters even more awkward, rather than tell Rebecca that Andrew is her ex, Lina pretends she’s never seen Andrew or Max before in her life. Oops!

Now trapped in a lie, Lina and Max are forced to work together because they both want to win this job from Rebecca. And though Lina still hates Max for the role he played in ending her marriage before it even began, Max refuses to let her push him away. Instead, through pranks and unexpected honesty, Lina eventually begins to thaw towards Max and Max begins to wonder if maybe Lina was with the wrong brother all those years ago. However, with so much messy history and a job on the line, are Lina and Max really willing to risk everything for a shot at love together?

The Worst Best Man is a funny and heartfelt story about a woman who’s biggest fear is being “too emotional," opening herself up to a man who will happily wipe away her tears, judgment free. Filled with Afro-Brazilian culture, fun quips, amazing food, and a steamy romance that’ll make you believe love can conquer anything, Mia Sosa has written a novel that you won’t be able to put down.

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Zakiya Jamal is a second generation Cuban American living in Brooklyn. She received her B.A. in English from Georgetown University and her MFA in Creative Writing with a concentration in Writing for Children and Young Adults from The New School. She currently works at Scholastic as the Social Media Manager. You can follow her on Twitter at @ZakiyaJamal. 

Exclusive First Look at Mark Oshiro's Each of Us a Desert Out Fall 2020

Latinx in Publishing is pleased to exclusively reveal the cover for Mark Oshiro’s forthcoming YA fantasy EACH OF US A DESERT publishing September 15th from Tor Teen, an imprint of Tom Doherty Associates/Macmillan Publishers. Read on to view the gorgeous cover and read an excerpt from their eagerly anticipated sophomore book!

From award-winning author Mark Oshiro comes a powerful coming-of-age fantasy novel about finding home and falling in love amidst the dangers of a desert where stories come to life.

Xochitl is destined to wander the desert alone, speaking her troubled village's stories into its arid winds. Her only companions are the blessed stars above and enigmatic lines of poetry magically strewn across dusty dunes.

Her one desire: to share her heart with a kindred spirit.

One night, Xo's wish is granted—in the form of Emilia, the cold and beautiful daughter of the town's murderous conqueror. But when the two set out on a magical journey across the desert, they find their hearts could be a match... if only they can survive the nightmare-like terrors that arise when the sun goes down.

Fresh off of Anger Is a Gift'‘s smashing success, Oshiro branches out into a fantastical direction with their new YA speculative novel, Each of Us a Desert available for pre-order now!

Tor Teen / Tom Doherty Associates, cover artist, Jenna Stempel-Lobell

Read an exclusive excerpt of Each of Us a Desert below!

Rogelio called my name. It drifted in our home like a wind, like a lost calf bleating for its mother, and I bolted upright from the floor. He called it out again, and I cast a glance down at Raúl, who slept soundlessly on the ground. As he always did. Nothing ever seemed to wake him, and I sent up a silent prayer to You, thankful that he would not have to hear this.

Mamá and Papá were asleep, too, not far from us, and Papá’s soft snoring filled the room. Mamá rustled in her sleeping roll, and I sneaked out while I could. She was the lightest sleeper of them all, but that night, I was thankful she did not wake. I pushed aside the burlap curtain that crossed over our doorway, and he swayed there, his arms drooping at his side, and my name slipped off his tongue again, jumbled together.

“Xochitl.”

I stepped out to Rogelio and reached forward, intending to direct him away from our door, but the smell hit me. I choked. Tesgüino, his favorite.

Despite how drunk he was, he still saw me shrink away from him. “Lo siento, Xochitl,” he said. “Pero te necesito. He hecho algo terrible.”

He slurred all of it, the words coated in alcohol and regret. It was always the same with Rogelio: the sadness. The numbness he sought in drink. The begging. Even if I hadn’t been a cuentista, I would still know his secrets. He wore them on his clothing, on his breath, on his face.

I shook my head. “Now, Rogelio? Do I have to now? It’s the middle of the night.”

“I won’t make it to morning,” he said, and then his eyes focused on me. They were glassy in the bright starlight, and dust clung to the tracks of his tears, roadmaps of misery and loss.

He knew. Everyone did. Your body told you when your lies, your secrets, the terrible things you had done, were about to take form in our world. Las pesadillas, we called them. Night terrors made real.

I glanced behind him, and there they were. Five men shrouded in the shadows, each of them with their arms outstretched. They were not in solid form, as if the darkness itself had conjured up these beings. At the ends of their arms, blood dripped to the ground from stumps. Someone had taken their hands.

They moved closer.

I stepped back again, shuddered.

It was time.

I was taught that, too. That if a cuentista did not take a story, las pesadillas would gain power, would lash out, would harm others.

So I couldn’t wait any longer.

I reached down and grabbed one of Rogelio’s sweaty hands. “Ven conmigo,” I said, and I directed him behind our home. He shuffled along, and if I had not held his hand, I am certain he would have gotten lost walking those few feet. I guided him toward the firepit in the back, still warm from the tortillas we had made, and had Rogelio sit on a rough cobija placed next to it. He didn’t sit so much as collapse on the spot, and then he started humming. I didn’t recognize the melody, and then he lifted his hands up as if he held his guitar, and he started playing, and it was one of the saddest things I’d ever seen.

I pitied him. So I sat across from Rogelio, and I took his hands, and I asked him to tell me his story.

As I did, they surrounded around our home.

Shuffled toward me, their feet dragging on the ground.

Closer, closer.

I started because I had to. They were almost upon me—and these pesadillas looked furious.

This is what I think happened. I don’t actually know. I gave it back to You, as I had always done, so I like to imagine what happened as I performed my duty.

He put his hands out, palm down.

I put mine out, palm up.

I placed mine underneath his. I took in a deep breath, and I closed my eyes, opened my heart and my stomach.

He stared at me, and then he opened, too. His story was a deluge from his mouth, and as he spoke, they entered my chest. I gasped at first; that first rush was always the hardest to deal with. Even if I gave You these stories back, I had a sort of memory within my bones of that surge, the passage of truth from one body to another. I had learned long ago how to adjust and settle into the wave of the story, and I guided Rogelio, pulling it out, weaving it into my own body.

“Tell me why you are sad, Rogelio,” I said.

“I miss them,” he said, and despite that he towered over me even as we sat there, he shrank. He became tinier, a shriveled man drained by his resentment and longing. “They never should have left me.”

I bristled. We did this every time. “Why did they leave you?”

There. The story flowed out; Rogelio told me everything. He shared the jealousy, the quiet terror, and the violence. He told me about how he had regretted the money he spent, the gamble he took, the look on the faces of his friends once they realized what he had done with their wages. They simply left one day, and he had begged Marisol to tell him where they’d gone, and she rejected him every time.

So he went to Manolito’s. Bought his favorite bottle. Again. It washed over his memories and shame, eroded the sharp edges.

“I shouldn’t do this,” he said. “Solís expects better of me. Of all of us.”

I had it now. With one last tug, I devoured Rogelio’s honesty, and the story became mine. It swam within me: regret struggling to surface in a sea of self-hatred.

“Gracias,” I told him, and when I opened my eyes, the ritual complete, he was standing above me. He wiped at his mouth, then walked away, leaving me with his regret and guilt.

I had done my duty. What other need did he have for me?

As Rogelio’s story filled my body, it jostled for space. It stretched between bones and organs, and I pushed the pain and discomfort down, down, farther away from my heart. I stood and wobbled, trying to separate my own sadness and loneliness from Rogelio’s. They were so similar, and it haunted me every time. You let me keep that part of the memory; the ritual left me confused, bewildered, uncertain where I ended and where the story began.

I peeked in on Raúl one more time. Still asleep. Same with my parents. If any of them had heard us, they gave no indication.

So I walked. I turned to the north, guided by the glowing estrella that hung over the distant montañas, and I let You take me where I needed to go. I opened myself to the earth. I climbed up the other side of a gully, and the earth spoke to me. So I let it pull me to the ground, the dirt biting into my knees and my palms, brief reminders that I was a guest in this body, that at any moment, You could take me away.

His story came out of me in great big heaves, and the refuse poured out of my mouth, sharp and thick on my tongue, and it spilled onto the waiting earth, filling the cracks and seeping deep within. I expunged it all, spat it out at the end, tasted its bitterness. I always remembered that flavor; it lingered beyond the ritual every time. On its way back home, back to You, the truth reached out and tried to take me with it, the shame needling my body, Rogelio’s terror my own. I had to fight it; the stories were so desperate to find something to cling to, someone to bond with.

I gave You his story, and You took it back. When the last drop of it fell to the dust, I stood up and it dissipated. Washed away. There was a feeling that remained as the memory floated off. A sadness. Regret. They were fleeting, like something that had happened to me so long ago that I could not recall the fuzzy details.

Then they were gone.

It was the same each time. I wiped the bitterness from my lips, then turned back toward home, the starlight casting me in a glow of purpose. I made the sign to complete the ritual. See the truth; believe the truth. But I could not remember Rogelio’s story no matter how hard I tried. It was what I was supposed to do, and it provided safety to Your gente. They could trust me with their secrets because I could not share them. They were always returned to you, and I was left aimless, purposeless as my mind struggled to remember who I was.

I collapsed alongside Raúl, much as Rogelio had behind our home, and I curled up on my sleeping roll. The ritual drained me of my energy and of my memory of the story. It would take hours for me to recover, and then . . .

Well, I would do it all over again. Inevitably, it would be only a day or two until someone else needed me, and then I would consume their truth, expel the bitterness into the desert, and forget.

I was Your cuentista, Solís.

I did my best.

I promise.

***

This is the story that I was told, Solís. Long before Tía Inez gave me her power when I was eight years old, I learned what You had done and what You had asked of us.

You punished us, Solís. Long ago, You became furious with what we had done to Your world. Greed. War. Terror. Jealousy. Strife. You punished us with fire—La Quema, as we came to call it—and You scorched it all. You burned every bit of it, determined to wipe us away. My ancestors buried themselves in the dirt, though, and when fire and devastation rained down on the land that would become Empalme, they felt the heat itching to rip the skin and meat from their bones.

But they survived.

They came aboveground, out from their homes beneath the ash and the destruction, to discover that the earth was blackened, that everything they’d known was gone.

Never again, You told them, Your voice booming over the flattened landscapes, the arid remains. You must never disrespect my creation.

This is the story I was told of how las cuentistas were born; You gave some of us the ability to devour the truth of others, and You warned us. We would all know if someone had harmed another, if they had kept their truth from You. The longer one of us went without a cuentista, the worse our pesadillas became. And so we were cast out into the world to ingest what others had done wrong, then return it to You, to the eternal desert. We were spread far and wide, forcing las aldeas to form, each of them around a cuentista. When that cuentista died, a new one would be granted the same power, just as I had been when Tía Inez died and chose me.

We cuentistas were exempt, too. No one took our stories. We did not manifest pesadillas.

We were alone.

I never questioned any of it, Solís. And why should I have? I had never met another cuentista besides Tía Inez; I had never truly ventured beyond Empalme; I had no reason to question anything.

I am telling You this, Solís, because maybe You’ll understand. Maybe You will have mercy on me. Because even before all of this happened, before I had to flee Empalme, I knew something was wrong. Why did I not have to tell You the truth? Why were my secrets my own, and why had they never become one of those terrible pesadillas? Why did You not punish Julio and his men, who stole our water from us every day?

I would say that I am sorry, Solís, but I had to.

I had to leave.

Used with permission from Tor Teen, an imprint of Tom Doherty Associates; a trade division of Macmillan Publishers. Copyright (c) Mark Oshiro, 2020.

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MARK OSHIRO is the Hugo-nominated writer of the online Mark Does Stuff universe (Mark Reads and Mark Watches), where they analyze book and TV series. Their debut novel, Anger Is a Gift, was a recipient of the Schneider Family Book Award for 2019. Their lifelong goal is to pet every dog in the world. Please visit them online at www.MarkOshiro.com and follow them on social @MarkDoesStuff

Sylvia Zéleny is a True Contemporary Voice to Be Heard on the US Mexican Border

“Sylvia Zéleny makes her claim as one of the true contemporary voices to be heard on the US Mexican border. Her powerful stories are not to be missed and will hold canon for many young readers looking to identify with text for and by their own culture.” — Chelsea Villareal, member of Latinx in Publishing. 

What defines us? What makes us into the people that way we are? The Everything I Have Lost is a beautifully sublime story of a young girl coming of age en la frontera. By writing in her diary, Julia unveils her firsthand account of what it's like not knowing what’s going on around her in a city where everything is out of her control. She can only watch and document as her world gets smaller under the escalating violence in her hometown, Ciudad Juárez. 

Her experiences are broken and divided across the Rio Grande. As she has roots in both Juárez and El Paso, she vacillates under the complexities of her own identification. She so deeply loves her home, her favorite restaurants, and her family, together in Juárez. There is a connection to her community, a connection that author Sylvia Zéleny elegantly conveys through the distinctive houses in Julia’s hometown neighborhood. 

Julia is a child when her family loses everything, just like the rest of the families on her block. It seems like a miracle from above when, out of nowhere, they move into a new comfortable house, have a car, and want for nothing. Her father has a new job but she isn’t allowed to ask any questions. She’s thankful but in the dark. But as long as she has her family, she’s content, as content as most young girls can be on the verge of thirteen. 

As she ages into a young woman, she confronts her childhood innocence with a bravely that few of us are lucky enough to conjure. She wants to know where her father’s been when he comes home all beat up and why her friends at school keep telling her that he’s up to no good, a bad guy. She’s stuck between her right to a happy family and the realities of the tumultuous climate around her.

Born in El Paso, her family frequently visits her tia, bisabuela, and prima across the bridge. Escaping the violence of a diminishing city, only to be bombarded with a culture similar to but not her own. El Paso serves as a reminder of what can be for all young girls like Julia as well as a memory of what has been in her home of Juárez. Julia is a pillar of strength, not to be undermined or undervalued, in an environment unsuitable for children, any children. 

Expertly woven in Zéleny’s The Everything I Have Lost, the modern identity of young people experiencing random acts of violence, wherever they may be, are not appropriately represented in our mainstream culture. Julia has a voice and it is powerful and eye opening, especially to readers unfamiliar with the day to day life on the border. For the two cities, El Paso and Juárez, cannot be separated. As Zéleny writes, “These cities, you can never separate them, there will always be a bridge.” Let us look to Julia as we move forward into hopeful progress. Building and respecting bridges across both rivers and cultures. 

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Chelsea Villareal is a Children’s Media Strategist and Brand Marketing Manager from Portland, Oregon – Hey Cascadians! She holds a BUPA in Political Science & Media Studies from Portland State University, attended the NYU Summer Publishing Institute and is currently enrolled in her Masters at Columbia University. She works on the Brand Marketing team at Penguin Young Readers and lives in Brooklyn with her partner and two crazy, lazy feline beasts.

Nona Fernández's SPACE INVADERS is an Abstract Dive into the Pinochet Regime

National Book Award Nominee for Translated Literature 2019. Image by Andrea Morales.

SPACE INVADERS by Nona Fernández, at about one hundred pages, is a slim little book translated from its original Spanish. Where it seems to lack in pages, the novella dispels underestimations with its packing of emotions and tension during the violent Pinochet regime. Augusto Pinochet came into power after the coup in 1973, backed by the United States government, which overthrew the elected socialist, Salvador Allende, the military dictatorship lasting until 1990. Pinochet was responsible for kidnappings and executions of people who posed any inconvenience or resistance to his rule, numbering in the thousands. Torturings were at numbers even higher than that, more than three times as much. It was a violent and precarious time in Chile. What does this look like to a child?

Told from the perspectives of a group of kids, we read about their dreams and musings. They are kids being kids; some with crushes on each other, some enjoy playing video games. Eventually, things get odd ─ particularly with Estrella, whose father is a government officer who has a wooden prosthetic hand he removes when he gets home from work. He would drive his daughter to school in the mornings, but soon stops doing so and it becomes the task of her "Uncle," a man who works with Estrella’s father. Each friend remembers something different about her: her letters, her hair, her kisses. SPACE INVADERS is difficult to read this with any childlike innocence because you know something is fundamentally wrong, even if you don’t know what that something is. There is confusion, and with confusion there is fear. The lack of concrete answers makes this fear all the more palpable, as does the inability to openly talk about it. Some of the kids' families are political activists, upending their relationships. Because we revisit this time through memory, with emotion filling us in, it may seem as if we cannot rely on these children. I think the opposite is truer: the feelings that permeated this time are a testament to the dictatorship's tormenting violence.

Fernández writes SPACE INVADERS in fragments, invoking uncertainty and disjointedness. Memories that dissolve into dreams further question reality, and it's quite masterfully done in such little space. And that, too ─ the title, the name of the video game the kids play by shooting guns, makes me think of the way brutality occupies space, whether physical or temporal. Nominated for the National Book Award for Translated Literature 2019, this novella from Graywolf Press is a must-read.

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Andrea Morales is a daughter of Guatemalan immigrants and from Los Angeles. She graduated from the University of Southern California with a B.A. in English Literature and a minor in Psychology. She now works at Macmillan Publishers as a Junior Contracts Associate for the adult trade division. Her book reviews and recommendations can be found on Instagram at @nastymuchachitareads and she lurks on Twitter as @nastymuchachita.

We Stand With #DignidadLiteraria

Latinx in Publishing stands with the creators of the #DignidadLiteraria movement and their call for change in the publishing industry.

As Latinx professionals in publishing, we believe we have the right to tell our own stories, and we believe in the power of literature to shape the story of Latinidad in the United States.

We are thrilled to see Macmillan commit to making substantial changes after their meeting with Dignidad Literaria leaders on February 3rd. We hope that these changes will include hiring more Latinxs across departments, from editorial to marketing to sales, and recruiting Latinxs to serve in management positions.

Ibi Zoboi’s 'My Life as an Ice Cream Sandwich' Explores Race, Identity & More

“Ibi Zoboi’s National Book Award Finalist, My Life as an Ice Cream Sandwich delivers in so many ways.” — Chelsea Villareal, member of Latinx in Publishing. 

Set in Harlem during the summer of 1984, Ebony-Grace Norfleet is a young, aspiring space captain. Raised in Huntsville, Alabama with her mother and grandfather, Jeremiah Norfleet, one of the first black engineers to work at NASA, Ebony is thrown for a loop when she’s told she’ll be spending her summer in Harlem with her father. 

Although she’s spent time in Harlem before, this time it’s different. Her best friend Bianca Perez isn’t feeling her aeronautical discoveries, imaginary and created with the support of her grandfather’s love for Star Trek and Star Wars. As Ebony-Grace struggles to maintain friendships in the streets of Harlem, where Double-Dutch, hip hop, and break dancing rule the day, she’s frustrated by the lack of her friends’ “Imagination Location.”

As the story plays out, the reader finds a connection to Ebony, in relating to and identifying with home and what it means to truly find yourself outside of your comfort zone, but engaged in a truly exciting scene of discovery. One can only fantasize about coming of age in Harlem during the mid-80s where passion was contagious and the arts were unlike anything seen before it. 

My Life as an Ice Cream Sandwich explores the notion of identity with intersectionality as its foundation, consistently highlighting and questioning the importance of individuality, while also presenting the importance of community. And most importantly, through this readers’ opinion, it champions inclusivity. While our southern, sci-fi nerd protagonist feels at odds with her free-rhyming, posing “No Joke City” friends, she finds acceptance and belonging. Perhaps not the belonging she initially drafted in her mission to outer-space, Ebony-Grace belongs in a new, uncharted journey of what it means to feel the beginning of coming of age. 

An exquisite and beautifully written novel, Ibi Zoboi tackles a broken but beautiful Harlem and all that comes with it; the never-fading Apollo Theater, the hustle and bustle of 125th street and the never stop stopping of a beloved universe inside of New York City. 

Chelsea Villareal is a Mexican American Children’s Media Strategist from Portland, Oregon – Hey Cascadians! She holds a BUPA in Political Science & Media Studies from Portland State University, attended the NYU Summer Publishing Institute and is currently enrolled in her Masters at Columbia University. She works on the Brand Marketing team at Penguin Young Readers and holds down the role of Program Manager at We Need Diverse Books. She lives in Brooklyn with her partner and two crazy, lazy feline beasts.

Exclusive Chapter Excerpt: Category Five by Ann Dávila Cardinal

Latinx in Publishing is pleased to exclusively reveal a chapter from Category Five by Ann Dávila Cardinal the eagerly anticipated sequel to Five Midnights.

Category Five is a new supernatural young adult thriller set against the backdrop of post-hurricane Puerto Rico.

After the hurricane, some see destruction and some smell blood. The tiny island of Vieques, located just off the northeastern coast of the main island of Puerto Rico, is trying to recover after hurricane Maria, but the already battered island is now half empty. To make matters worse, as on the main island, developers have come in to buy up the land at a fraction of its worth, taking advantage of the island when it is down.

Lupe, Javier, and Marisol are back to investigate a series of murders that follow in the wake of a hurricane and in the shadow of a new supernatural threat.

Chapter Two

Marisol

When she arrived in Yabucoa, Marisol parked her 2001 Toyota Corolla under the only available shade, a caimito tree that was still able to protect her car from the sun even as it worked hard at pushing through the sidewalk with its tangle of roots. Not that she was worried about the paint job; no, the once-steel-gray finish had been beaten to jellyfish translucence by the Caribbean sun. It was more about the broken air-conditioning and a long-ass drive back to San Juan on Friday.

Not that it was sunny. There had been threatening dark clouds hovering on the edges of the overcast sky for days now, like an actor waiting for their cue. But hadn’t they had enough storms for several lifetimes? The drive along the east coast was beautiful despite the weather. You could see the scars from the hurricane, sure, but all the new growths were neon green and it made her happy to see life going on.

Life going on.

She was trying to figure out what that looked like. Life had been anything but smooth for her thus far, but after Maria . . . well, any kind of complaining felt frivolous. So, this summer she was determined to make a difference. To that end, she grabbed the petition she’d created at 2:00 a.m. that morning when she couldn’t sleep. This kind of protest seemed to make the most sense until the island was back on its feet again. So many people were busy trying to meet basic needs, she wanted to help give them a voice.

Marisol took a swig from her bottle of water and walked through the center of town toward the church that had become the operations hub for all the volunteers and organizations doing repair work in the area. Pablo, an ancient man who set up his folding chair near the town’s barber shop every day, waved at her and smiled his warm, toothless smile. She waved as usual and started toward the church.

No.

She stopped, convinced herself to turn around, and made her way toward him. Deep breath. “Señor, I have a petition to stop the purchasing of land by companies attempting to profit from the devastation of the hurricane.” Here it comes, the ask. Best to practice on this mild old man first. “Would you be willing to sign it?” She thrust the clipboard toward him. “You’d be my first,” she added, somewhat pathetically. He peered at the paper, and then looked up at her. She gave him the broadest, do-gooder smile she could muster, but, truthfully, she worried it just looked like she was in pain. But he smiled back, took the proffered pen, and signed the first blank line with a shaking hand. When he gave it back to her with a nod, she let out a breath, smiled, sincerely grateful, and stepped away.

Available June 2, 2020 from Tor Teen

One down. She looked at the shaky scrawl on the first page, then held it to her chest in a hug. She could get used to this.

She’d been coming to this town and staying during the week since school let out for the summer, and she was getting to know the locals and the other volunteers from the island and beyond. She was usually more of a loner, an introvert who preferred a good book to human interaction, but there was something about being here for a shared purpose. And having to talk to hundreds of strangers for the petition was a perfect demonstration that she was not the same person she’d been a year ago.

But who was?

There was a nice breeze on the east coast, and she loved how she would occasionally catch the scent of flor de maga blooms riding on the air. Then it would disappear so quickly she would wonder if she’d imagined it, if it was a ghost scent of a bush destroyed by the storm. But then she would see a splash of bright red peeking out from among the damaged foliage like hope. As usual, she planned to stop at the church’s senior center before heading to the worksite to check in. She stepped into the dark, cool building, with no lights on to save generator fuel and stave off the morning heat. The smell was so familiar—antiseptic, medicinal, with an undertone of urine and talcum powder. Okay, it wasn’t flor de maga, but it still comforted her. For most of her childhood her great grandmother Giga was stationed in a back room of their house, occasionally yelling out to the Virgin or her long dead husband, and Marisol would spend hours playing dolls on the old woman’s chenille bedspread or applying blush and lipstick on her wrinkled, thin lips. On the island old age wasn’t something you hid in a nursing home; it was right there in the next room.

“Mari!”

As her eyes adjusted to the dark interior, Marisol saw Camille, the stylish Haitian nurse who helped out with the elderly patients, walking toward her. Camille was a pro, had volunteered as a nurse in war-torn countries all over the globe, and it had taken Marisol awhile to earn the woman’s trust. But sometime over the last few weeks, she’d broken through. A smile here, a hand pat there. Now, Camille pulled her in tight for a hug, the Magi’s-gifts smell of her naturopath oils bringing a smile to Marisol’s face. Her graying hair was cut stylish and short, and her clothes were crisp linen, practical but elegant, the mango color of the shirt a warm companion to her dark brown skin. In other words, she was a total badass.

The nurse pulled her out of the hug and held her at arm’s length and then did her “staring into her soul” type thing. Did all nurses have that skill?

“Are you sleeping, Mari?”

And she was a mind reader, too. She laughed it off. “Too much to do to sleep!” Camille had no idea. Since the nightmares of the previous year had faded, she slept so much better. Just probably not long enough.

Camille did that cheek-pinching thing older women tended to do with teenagers. The woman’s skinny strong fingers had a pincer-type feel. But it also felt like family.

“You have to take better care of yourself, niña! Don’t make me drive out to Isla Verde and force chamomile tea on you!”

Family always includes just a dash of guilt and reprimand.

“I’m fine, Camille! Worry about your patients, not me.”

Her lips pulled into a reluctant smile. “Someone has to take care of you. You’re too busy taking care of everyone else!”

“Look who’s talking.”

Camille did that dismissive wave thing again.

“How’s Abuelita today?”

Camille turned to look at the tiny old lady in the wheelchair nodding off in the corner, her frail body wrapped in a thick cotton blanket despite the heat. Her real name was Ofelia Gutiérrez, but everyone just called her “Abuelita” because she was like everyone’s grandmother.

“Ay bendito, bless her, she’s doing well today, gracias a Dios. I think she’ll enjoy a visit from you.” Camille glided off to reprimand one of her charges for shuffling toward the exit in his old man slippers. Every hour or so he would insist he was going to walk back to Rincón, the town on the far west coast of the island he came from, and she would convince him to wait until after lunch, or a nap, or dinner.

Marisol pulled a folding chair next to Abuelita and took her cool, dry hand with its papery skin into hers. The woman didn’t move, her chin on her chest, rising slightly with every breath. Mari’s phone dinged with a text. She pulled it out with her free hand.

Hey! I’m here! Heading 2 Vieques w/ Tio. When can I c u?

“Vieques?” Marisol said out loud, smiling at the message from Lupe. She was so glad her friend was there for the summer, but why was she going straight to Vieques? At least it wasn’t far from Yabucoa.

“Vieques?” Abuelita echoed. She tended to repeat pieces of conversation that happened around her like a gray-haired parrot.

“Hola, Abuelita! Es Marisol. ¿Como se encuentra?”

“My grandmother is in Vieques. She’s . . .” She appeared to lose her train of thought. Another frequent occurrence.

Marisol smiled. Abuelita was eighty-eight. She doubted her grandmother was in Vieques or anywhere at this point. Besides, Abuelita was from St. Croix, not Vieques. But Marisol hated how most people talked to the elderly as if they were children, so she always responded to their questions and comments, no patting of hand and patronizing, Sure, honey, whatever you say.

“Why would your abuela be in Vieques?”

Abuelita didn’t seem to hear, she was nodding her head up and down in that way she did when she was lost in her own thoughts. Marisol decided she would sit with her for a few more minutes, then head over to the worksite. She was already focusing on what lay ahead on the repairs to the Vazquez’s house when Abuelita spoke again.

“She’s angry.”

“Who? Your abuela?”

“Yes. She’s so angry. . . .”

“At you? No, Abuelita, who could be angry at you?” She stroked the woman’s thinning hair, trying to comfort her. Mari often wondered where the woman’s thoughts went, or when. She would have to do some research into cognitive functions of the elderly.

“Not at me, at them. They made us leave . . . left her there alone,” Abuelita said again, then looked up at Marisol and with tears welling in her cloudy eyes.

“Oh no! Don’t cry! It’s okay!” Marisol’s throat tightened and she thought she would cry too. How had she upset the woman?

And then Camille was there, all comforting hushes, and lifted Abuelita to her feet gently, as if she were a bird, and walked her over to her room. Abuelita was snoring before the nurse had finished tucking in the white blankets.

Then Camille came back and looked over at Marisol and noticed the tears in her eyes. “Oh no, sweetheart, it’s nothing you said! The old ones, they get sad sometimes. So much loss . . .”

“She was talking about her grandmother being angry. And on Vieques. Isn’t she from St. Croix?” Camille handed her a tissue and she blew her nose.

“She is, but maybe she had family from there. Don’t worry, amor, she’s just confused.”

Marisol shivered, though the room was quite warm. No wonder the poor old woman was anxious. She’d lost her home to a hurricane. Marisol swallowed so she wouldn’t start crying again. She hugged Camille and left quickly, anxious to get to work.

The last ten months had been like something from a postapocalyptic nightmare. Volunteering was something, but Marisol had to do more. She looked at the clipboard in her hand and considered tossing it in the car but decided she would bring it to the worksite and gather some more names. But what good was the petition if she couldn’t get it to the right people? The people in power.

Marisol vowed right then that she would do whatever it took to help get the island past this, whatever she could do to help people like abuelita recover from Maria.

She just didn’t know how yet.

Used with permission from Tor Teen, an imprint of Tom Doherty Associates; a trade division of Macmillan Publishers. Copyright (c) Ann Dávila Cardinal 2020.

Ann Dávila Cardinal is the author of Five Midnights, published in June 2019 by Tor Teen. Cardinal is also the Director of Recruitment for Vermont College of Fine Arts (VCFA) and helped create VCFA’s winter Writing residency in Puerto Rico. She has a B.A. in Latino Studies from Norwich University, an M.A. in sociology from UI&U, and an MFA in Writing from VCFA. Her stories have appeared in several anthologies, including A Cup of Comfort for Mothers and Sons (2005) and Women Writing the Weird (2012) and she contributed to the Encyclopedia Latina: History, Culture, And Society in the United States edited by Ilan Stavans. Her essays have appeared in American Scholar, Vermont Woman, AARP, and Latina. Cardinal lives in Vermont, needle-felts tiny reading creatures, and cycles four seasons a year.

Interview with 2019 Ruth Lilly and Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Poetry Fellow, José Olivarez

We were lucky to chat with José Olivarez, award-winning poet and educator, author of Citizen Illegal, and a 2019 Ruth Lilly and Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Poetry Fellow, about inspiration, migration, invisibility, working with violence in poetry, and how lucky we are to be in the midst of so many great contemporary Latinx poets. An active member of the poetry community, José also co-hosts The Poetry Gods podcast with Aziza Barnes and Jon Sands, and is the co-editor of the upcoming BreakBeat Poets Volume 4: LatiNEXT (Haymarket 2020). He recently joined Latinx in Publishing to co-host the Writers for Migrant Workers Benefit in NYC in late 2019.

Read on for our full Q&A below:

1.     WHAT INSPIRES YOU AS A WRITER?

Tamara K. Nopper shared this Octavia E. Butler story on Twitter one day that I love: “Forget about inspiration, because it's more likely to be a reason not to write, as in, "I can't write today because I'm not inspired." I tell them I used to live next to my landlady and I told everybody she inspired me.” —Octavia E. Butler

2.     WHO ARE SOME OF YOUR FAVORITE CONTEMPORARY LATINX WRITERS?

Elizabeth Acevedo, Eloisa Amezcua, Tehlor Kay Mejia, Joseph Rios, Javier Zamora, Janel Pineda, Jacob Saenz, Sandra Cisneros, Erika L. Sanchez, Shea Serrano, and Raquel Salas Rivera come to mind first and foremost, but let me also say that there are so many incredible contemporary Latinx writers working right now. We are lucky.

3.     YOU TACKLE HEAVY THEMES IN CITIZEN ILLEGAL — MIGRATION, CITIZENSHIP AND BELONGING, RACE, IDENTITY (PERFORMATIVE AND REAL). WHY DID YOU DECIDE TO FOCUS ON THOSE ELEMENTS?

Shit. I don’t know how much I decided on that. My family’s migration (was it forced? was it voluntary?) has opened up so many questions in our relationships with each other (how? why? when? with? for?) and my relationship with the United States. I think migration shapes the way I see the world, so I don’t know how much of a choice it was. For me, where I exercised choice was in how I presented those themes. I didn’t want to enact violence for the sake of giving my book gravitas. I think that would have been bullshit, so in talking about these heavy themes where violence is always present, it helped to turn to the poetics of Afrofuturism to think about how I framed the poems. A lot of the poems are doubles. They start in the same place, but end in different places. That was on purpose.

4.     HOW DID CITIZEN ILLEGAL COME TO BE? HOW DID YOU COME TO POETRY?

I came to poetry because I was a huge reader and a good student and by good student, I mean I was invisible. I got tired of being invisible. I had never chosen invisibility. Poetry allowed me to ask myself if I was becoming the person I wanted to become or was I just accepting someone else’s vision of myself. I started writing through the Louder Than A Bomb Poetry Festival, my favorite festival in the world.

My book came together over about four years. Most helpfully, I got to work with young people during that time, especially in Chicago, and a lot of the poems came out of the same workshops I gave to the students. A bunch more came from the conversations we were having with each other.

5.     WHAT DOES IT FEEL LIKE TO GET THE RECOGNITION OF MAJOR AWARDS LIKE THE RUTH LILLY

It feels great. And it’s also a little disorienting. I dreamed of writing poems that people cared about and might be useful. And now that it’s happening, I miss the quiet. I feel more anxious now. I don’t miss being broke though. Being broke sucks.

6.     YOU’RE ALSO AN EDITOR AND RUN A PODCAST (THE POETRY GODS). CAN YOU TELL US A LITTLE ABOUT THOSE PROJECTS AND HOW THEY INFLUENCE YOUR WRITING?

Being an editor and a podcaster helps me zoom out. It gives me a chance to engage with poetry with a different set of eyes. I think it helps me clarify my own writing project to myself.

7.     FOR NEW READERS BEING INTRODUCED TO YOUR WORKS, WHERE DO YOU RECOMMEND THEY START AND WHY?

I recommend starting with “Mexican American Disambiguation,” “You Get Fat When You’re In Love”, and “Mexican Heaven.” Those poems are anthemic. I think about my book like an album. Those poems would be the singles.

8.     TEACHING IS ALSO SEEMS TO BE AN IMPORTANT PART OF YOUR PRACTICE. DO YOU HAVE ANY ADVICE FOR YOUNG POETS?

My advice is read everything. Especially Aracelis Girmay. Ultimately, your writing practice is yours, so you have to experiment and figure out what works for you. I can’t give you that answer, but for me reading is the foundation of everything. Especially reading Ada Limón and Natalie Diaz and Eve Ewing and Nate Marshall.

9.     WHAT LATINX WRITERS (OR BOOKS) INFLUENCED YOUR WRITING (OR YOU AS A PERSON)?

Willie Perdomo was hugely influential. Emma Pérez. Carmen Gimenez Smith. Paul Martínez Pompa got bars. Vanessa Angelica Villareal. Daniel Borzutzky. Not to mention visual artists like Sentrock, Kane, Yvette Mayorga and Runsy.

José Olivarez is the son of Mexican immigrants. His debut book of poems, Citizen Illegal, was a finalist for the 2018 PEN/Jean Stein Award and a winner of the 2018 Chicago Review of Books Poetry Prize. It was named a top book of 2018 by NPR and the New York Public Library. Along with Felicia Chavez and Willie Perdomo, he is co-editing the forthcoming anthology, The BreakBeat Poets Vol. 4: LatiNEXT. He is the co-host of the poetry podcast, The Poetry Gods and a recipient of fellowships from CantoMundo, Poets House, the Bronx Council on the Arts, the Poetry Foundation, & the Conversation Literary Festival. In 2019, he was awarded a Ruth Lilly and Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Poetry Fellowship from the Poetry Foundation. His work has been featured in The New York Times, The Paris Review, and elsewhere. In 2018, he was awarded the first annual Author and Artist in Justice Award from the Phillips Brooks House Association and named a Debut Poet of 2018 by Poets & Writers.