In the case of Valley of Shadows, I sort of imagine, could the situation have been different had there been more people of color in positions of power? So it kind of turns the Western on its head by having a Mexican American sheriff be the person that's trying to solve these crimes and bring justice to his town. … And by doing that, I wanted to create a story where the people that have often been marginalized in the telling of these histories have an opportunity to reclaim their place and their role in history.

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In a way, diving into that Western and horror aspect of it, it felt like it freed me. It freed me up to have more fun with it in a way, maybe because I wasn't taking myself or my writing as seriously and I was just having fun within those genres. I found it liberating. It's weird to say, because you're putting some constraints around yourself. But then within those constraints, you just opened up this universe within which I could have a lot of fun.

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This place is too pure for the Church. No, let the Church own the giant basilicas and ornate cathedrals. Let the Church own altars encrusted with gold and chambers draped in velvet. This place is for God and His creatures...for you and for me. This patch of salt will be here still after we've all expired, and after the church bells have tumbled to the ground, and after the towers have crumbled and washed out to sea. And even when the sun is silent and nothing but a ball of frozen, burnt-out gas, we'll roam these flowing wisps of grass....

So strong had his voice become that people on neighboring ranches and farms would drag their rocking chairs onto their patios on the nights they knew he was visiting and listen to the corridos he and Fernando Cisneros sang, their voices carried on the gentle breezes of the Gulf for miles on end.

Borders are a motif in my writing. I was born and raised on the border, and my writing always takes me back there. They say you can take a person out of the border but you can't take the border out of a person. That saying definitely applies to me. Growing up, the border was an invisible line my family and I crossed every day. Because of that, I see borders as porous membranes through which people, animals, goods, services, and the environment must continuously traverse and transmit back and forth.

His father had yearned to give his family the American Dream, to make up for the Mexican Nightmare he had lived as an orphan, roaming from town to town begging for food during the Revolution, sleeping wherever he could find shelter or work. And still he toiled in the darkness of his tire shop on the south side of the river to support the family he both adored and despised on El Otro Lado. But, it was obvious to Fulgencio that his father's daily crossing of the river failed to cleanse him of his demons, failed to purify him of his tormented thoughts. There were times when his father just had to hit someone, anyone standing nearby.