Gilbert Cruz

So, you wrote your first novel, House of the Spirits, at the age of 39. In Venezuela. And I think a lot of people have a feeling that at a certain point, maybe it's too late for doing the thing that they want to do. They were meant to do. They've always dreamed of doing.

So, you wrote your first novel, House of the Spirits, at the age of 39. In Venezuela. And I think a lot of people have a feeling that at a certain point, maybe it's too late for doing the thing that they want to do. They were meant to do. They've always dreamed of doing.

When you got to that point where you started to write a letter to your grandfather that then turned into this incredible novel, did you think, what am I doing here? Like, this is not, I'm 39 years old. I'm not going to become a novelist at this age.

When you got to that point where you started to write a letter to your grandfather that then turned into this incredible novel, did you think, what am I doing here? Like, this is not, I'm 39 years old. I'm not going to become a novelist at this age.

You say you had a feeling that your life was going nowhere. You had nothing to show for it other than your two children. I think if I felt that way, I would be overwhelmed, and I didn't know that I would be able to start anything. I'm wondering if you could talk about that feeling a little bit more.

You say you had a feeling that your life was going nowhere. You had nothing to show for it other than your two children. I think if I felt that way, I would be overwhelmed, and I didn't know that I would be able to start anything. I'm wondering if you could talk about that feeling a little bit more.

It's been a little more than 30 years since you published that memoir that you just referred to, Paula, which is named after your daughter. Yes. It's about your life with her and the situation you found yourself in, where she was in a coma for quite a long time, and then she eventually passed. I'm curious how your grief has changed after or evolved in the 30 years since you lost your daughter.

It's been a little more than 30 years since you published that memoir that you just referred to, Paula, which is named after your daughter. Yes. It's about your life with her and the situation you found yourself in, where she was in a coma for quite a long time, and then she eventually passed. I'm curious how your grief has changed after or evolved in the 30 years since you lost your daughter.

I get the impression, I think you've said this maybe before, that it's a book that still resonates greatly with people after all this time.

I get the impression, I think you've said this maybe before, that it's a book that still resonates greatly with people after all this time.

Speaking of letters, your first novel, of course, started as a letter. Your memoir was a letter to your daughter. And I'm wondering if we could talk about the exercise of writing letters for you. It's just not something that people do anymore. Sure.

Speaking of letters, your first novel, of course, started as a letter. Your memoir was a letter to your daughter. And I'm wondering if we could talk about the exercise of writing letters for you. It's just not something that people do anymore. Sure.

That's so many words to have exchanged with another person. What did you learn about her from these letters?

That's so many words to have exchanged with another person. What did you learn about her from these letters?

Do you feel like there's just something inherent in, as you say, the intimacy of letter writing, the access you have to someone's inner feelings that just cannot be replicated when you're with that person, for the most part?

Do you feel like there's just something inherent in, as you say, the intimacy of letter writing, the access you have to someone's inner feelings that just cannot be replicated when you're with that person, for the most part?

Got it.

Got it.

Is it true that Roger reached out to you after hearing you on the radio by writing you a letter? Yeah. Well, an email. An email. Okay.

Is it true that Roger reached out to you after hearing you on the radio by writing you a letter? Yeah. Well, an email. An email. Okay.