Without a sense of place the work is often reduced to a cry of voices in empty rooms, a literature of the self, at its best poetic music; at its worst a thin gruel of the ego.
William Kennedy
If a statue of St. Joseph is buried somewhere in Sandra Cisneros’ yard, please unearth it.
That’s unfair and selfish, I know. But she’s not just writing about her neighborhood, it’s mine as well.
Her writer’s quill is one contributing immensely to this porcupine of a city.
Postcards from Barton Springs 
Thanks for this! When Mamma was in the nursing home I had to make all kinds of changes for her in her personal affairs, her possessions, without consulting her. That part of her illness and death caused me grief and guilt, because she was a very strong woman, always in on everything before. After she died I was outside hand-watering, and said out loud, Mamma I’m sorry you weren’t in on all this. A rainbow came over the garden hose. Mamma was telling me it was ok, I did the right thing. It has been 8 years and I miss her every day, but she helped me through the grief.
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Enjoyed see Sandra’s YouTube promo for the upcoming book. Well done! Thanks for plugging it, and nobody dare buy her house.
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Wonderful story, wonderful article! Many thanks.
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