3 Questions with Natalia Sandoval
Natalia Sandoval is a Mexican writer and economist, and her previous career was in finance. Her debut short story, “Deliverista,” was a finalist for Witness Magazine’s 2022 Literary Awards in Fiction and appeared in the magazine’s winter issue. Her fiction also appears in the latest print issue of Prairie Schooner (Winter 2023). Her work has received support from Guernica, the Kenyon Review Writers Workshop 2023, and Tin House Summer Workshop 2024. She’s currently at work on a novel and a collection of short stories. She lives in New York City with her partner and two kids.
Associate Editor Issa Shulman talks with Natalie Sandoval about their work from Issue 74, out now!
Thank you so much, Natalia, for sharing “Mustia” with us. I am continually in awe of the thematic complexity and depth of your story, and I appreciate how deftly you handled a number of difficult subjects (including homophobia, disordered eating, physical assault, patriarchy, bullying, to name but a few). At what point in the writing process did you decide upon the ideas and issues you wished to explore on the page? Did you enter into the initial draft with that multiplicity of themes already in mind, or did you write your way into them?
First, thank you so much for giving my story a home and for this space. I appreciate all the thought and care you’ve put into editing this issue.
To your question, I think that rather than seeking to include or explore a list of themes, I found that they’re all interconnected. In an environment in which one is forced to assume a role that is not accepting of who you truly are--and that's the patriarchy for everyone--it's no surprise that all that frustration and repressed anger manifests as physical violence, bullying, eating disorders, homophobia, etc.
I often examine family dynamics to understand a society’s psyche. How was this character raised? What did they grow up thinking was acceptable or justified, and why? Who modeled behavior for them? And there’s always the question of power: who has it, and where does it originate? This story takes place in provincial Mexico in the late nineties, so the issue of class and race is explored through the interactions with Maria, the living-in maid.
I also wanted to examine the idea of conditional love, which I find so tragic, especially in the formative years, and which is pervasive in patriarchal societies. The father only loves the parts of Lulu in which he sees himself. As soon as the father is presented with an idea of his daughter that conflicts with what he deems as good female behavior, he withdraws his support of her, abandoning her to the mother and son’s bullying. And how ironic, but all too common, when the very people (as here with the mother) who are most oppressed by a belief system internalize it and, instead of fighting it, perpetuate it.
“I’ve never felt bad about hitting my sister” is our first introduction to the narrator of “Mustia,” Reynaldo. I was captivated by his voice and perspective; he is a deeply hurt individual, protecting himself through endless self-justifications even as he perpetuates these cycles of harm, pain, and abuse. What were the narrative challenges and opportunities in telling the story solely through his point-of-view?
The choice of whose perspective I would tell it from was very intuitive. That opening line, "I've never felt bad about hitting my sister," came to me like a seed, and the story grew from there. At first, I thought I was writing a villain, not in the true sense of the word, but still, this is nasty behavior. I channeled boys I grew up with in Mexico. What ended up happening, which was both surprising and quite healing, was how much empathy I felt for Reynaldo as the drafts went by. Writing “Mustia” from his perspective was, at first, an exercise in portraying how the patriarchy operates down to its basic building block: the family unit. I wanted to point a finger at it.
The first iteration of this story was one-dimensional, and though it didn't ring true, it was strangely satisfying because, in a way, I wanted to punish Reynaldo. Whereas Lulu lacked agency, she was Miss Goodie-two-shoes in the background and a victim of her environment. But that's okay; that's what first drafts are for.
That first draft didn't feel good or finished, but it was a starting point. I had raw material, something to work with.
Maybe Lulu was too passive, and she needed to speak too; perhaps we needed to get her perspective, which would bring balance to the story and give it more complexity. So, I rewrote it in the third person, with Lulu's interiority accessible to us. However, when that was done, I realized that whatever was special about the story was gone.
So, after letting it sit for a while, I realized what the story needed: the truth. I had known it since the beginning but was unwilling to aim for it because I was too angry. Sometimes, we need someone to blame for our hurt, and letting that go can be as tricky as forgiving. But anger doesn't create very good art as a writer, at least not for me. Anger, like sadness or heartbreak, is fuel, the energy needed to get to a word count. It's first-draft stuff, and that's great. I need the thing to exist first. Then, if I want to do good by the story, I'd have to go deeper in subsequent drafts, to suspend judgment and my need for validation or revenge. A good story portrays the complexity of living as closely as possible. And though I'm not claiming this is what I achieved here, I tried.
Telling the story from Reynaldo's perspective challenged me. It's hard to cede the microphone to a character like him instead of amplifying Lulu's voice and hearing from her. But I found that by doing that, I learned much more. So, it was well worth the stretch of my imagination. This exercise also reminded me of why I write and was revelatory. Embodying Reynaldo's voice, I saw clearer than ever the many ways in which the patriarchy is also oppressive for boys. It reaffirmed my belief that gendered notions are narrow social constructs that lead to the opposite of fulfillment.
Is there anything else about “Mustia” that you'd like to share, about content or process, that we wouldn't know at first glance?
I think your questions cover much of what the process has been like. But I could summarize what I think this story taught me about craft. First, I went through many drafts, so many that I lost count. I’d say ten to twelve, not counting my attempts at writing this from other perspectives: third close (from Reynaldo’s POV) and omniscient, which was a complete flop! However, I learned that POV is sometimes a decision made at the gut level. Something about the rhythm of the prose, the musicality, and the sense of danger and discovery makes you giddy as you write. Lulu’s perspective, as valid and important as it is, felt safe and boring because that’s what I know or, in a way, what I’ve experienced. Reynaldo was charting new territory, and in woo-woo terms, it made me feel that sense of oneness the great spiritual teachers often talk about. I felt his pain, and though I won’t justify his actions or behavior, I could understand better where it stems from.
The ending was another element besides POV that I found challenging. I wrote a few versions, and in the end, none made it to the final version. Sometimes, you have to write yourself into a beginning. I’ve been in situations where I write many pages only to find my beginning. But with this ending, it was the opposite. All the different endings were plausible, but they felt contrived or like a fruit left to grow and ripen on the vine past its prime. What ultimately felt right was to go back to the line that made me gasp and cut there. It was never going to be a reconciliation story. I knew that. So, ending the story on that line ultimately felt like the right decision.