Earlier this year I went to see one of my favorite writers, someone who I first met in 2004. Stephanie Elizondo Griest was promoting her new book, Art Above Everything.
I went to hear her read at a Nuestra Palabra event. Ironically, I first met her at KFPT, when I was pregnant with my second child Seth, also with Nuestra Palabra. I met her in the lobby of the radio station, after speaking on the NP show and then later, I was one of the beginning writers who opened for her at MECA here in Houston.
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| At MECA, Houston, 2004. |
I've always admired Stephanie, and our paths have crossed often in the past 21 years. One time I was in New York having dinner with my cousin, and she invited me to go to a friend's reading. The friend was Stephanie, and my cousin Cindy didn't even know I knew her. Stephanie was promoting one of her books, it may have been Mexican Enough, because it was published in August 2008 and that was around the time I was traveling to New York a lot for work.
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| Kids at Brazos Bookstore for Reading, 2018 |
In 2018 the kids and I went to see Stephanie read here in Houston at Brazos Bookstore promoting All the Agents and Saints. It was so cool to have my kids there, Miranda who was a baby and Seth in my womb, when I first met Stephanie.
Fast forward to this year, when I went to hear Stephanie from her latest book. So many of her words stuck with me—they’ve been echoing ever since.
In Art Above Everything, Stephanie Elizondo Griest names a truth I’ve long wrestled with: that choosing art over motherhood is a radical act of creation. She affirms that her writing is her lineage, her legacy, her offering to the world. And I feel that. I do.
But my story holds a different tension. I did choose motherhood. I chose provision, protection, presence. I chose to be the altar, not just the artist. And in doing so, I’ve questioned—quietly, painfully—whether I truly love my art. If I did, wouldn’t I have fought harder for it? Wouldn’t I have carved out time, even in the chaos?
I’ve sacrificed my writing for survival, for service, for love. And now I ask: When will I write? Not just scribble in the margins, not just archive rituals in passing—but truly write. As if my pages are my children too.
Griest’s declaration—Art Above Everything—is a mantra I admire. But mine might be: Art Alongside Everything. Because I’m still here. Still capable of creation.
I have so many writing project planned and I don't want to be retired to start them. I have a novel now, one I've been writing since 2021, that deserves to be finished and launched into the world. I don't want to wait 20 years, like I did with Broken Cousins. I want to finish it and find a home for it, whether it's through the traditional channels or publishing it myself.
I have three more projects after that one. I want to write something about my matrilineal line and our tie to Houston, a book about Texas vodkas, and another about the history of Mexican bakeries in Houston.
I have plans.
I know that realistically I can partially retire in 4.5 years, if I can find a part-time employer who pays health insurance, and as long as I make under a certain amount. If and when I do this, I can write full time. However, I don't want to wait until then. I want to write as much as I can now, while I know I'm still alive. While I know I still have a voice.
I think of the times in my life that I had the time to write full time, but I worried about survival and didn't just write. The first time was when I quit working full-time for the Houston Chronicle at the age of 24. I was so young! I wish I could go back to that girl and tell her. I worried about my future, and we didn't have the technology (Internet) we have now. I thought I should go to graduate school and started studying for the GRE, instead of writing. I regret that now. Plus, I fell in love with Miranda and Seth's father.
The second time I tried to take the time to write, was in 2013, a couple of years after my divorce, when I quit working to take care of Seth and my elderly dad, who decided to come live with me. I wanted to write as much as I could, but I found myself working contract, because I was worried that I wouldn't have the money to support my children. In retrospect, I should have just concentrated on my creative writing that year, just one year, and I would have loved to see what I could have accomplished.
I can’t rewrite those years. I can name them. I can honor what they gave me—motherhood, memory, meaning—and now, I can finally ask for what I need. I don’t want to wait for permission. I want to write while I know I’m alive. While I still feel the urgency in my chest and the words pressing against my ribs.
I will write. Not someday. Now.
