On Chasing Tropes and Heartbroken Ghosts
Last month I attended a dear cousin’s baby shower in Mystic, Connecticut, another seaside town that welcomes visitors with nostalgia, a breath of salt air, and some Atlantic clams dipped in butter.
I made a point to see Mystic Seaport’s new Entwined exhibit, which celebrates “African and Indigenous maritime cultures whose histories are forever interwoven in the stories of freedom, sovereignty, and the sea,” giving voice to those who once knew New England as The Dawnland. Towards the end of the gallery I came across some shards reconstructed into a jar. The piece was labeled “Artist Once Known.”
I’d never seen that before, in place of “Artist Unknown.” And even now, writing this newsletter, I’m struck by it. It’s a reminder that these people were once real, and known, and loved, and they too have stories to tell.
And now, let’s head back to our usual port city on the opposite side of the continent. Like Mystic, Mazatlán is known for seafood, the mariscos fresh and sharp and bright with lime.
One such restaurant is el Presidio, which blooms up from the old buildings in el centro in an homage to traditional architecture. Half-crumbled brick walls and leafy vines glimmer alongside low hanging lights and wrought iron tables, and pools of still water seem to reflect the past right back up at you.
Favorite longstanding dishes include grilled ostiones con chorizo, esquites with bone marrow, and fish with dried chiles and garlic. But as much as the food is the star of the show, our dinners there are also a night out on the town – a place folks go to linger over cocktails and stories.
One evening, after several glasses of crisp, cold white wine from el Valle de Guadalupe, I got up to use the restroom, placing my napkin on the table and trying to make an exit in the seam between stories.
“No!” One of my tías cried, swirling her own copa in an exaggerated warning. “No vayas sola! Hay un fantasma!”
I smiled skeptically, more worried about my heels on the rocky gravel path than visiting the haunted bathroom on my own. But one of my more level headed primas nodded at me.
“It’s true,” she said solemnly. “The swinging doors and leaking pipes. No matter how often the restaurant fixes them, she always breaks them when she cries.”
Amidst interruptions and corrections and at least five different versions, somehow the story unfolded. Mazatlán is a port town, with a long history of trade. This very spot, the ground of el Presidio, was home to a wealthy family who were known to host sailors for a meal or two. Their young daughter fell in love with one of these seamen - my tías couldn’t agree if he was Dutch or German or Spanish, but he was definitely European - and the two young lovers had plans to get married. But one day, the sailor went out to sea and never came back. Some say he left her, and went back to his real family in Europe. Others were sure he had been lost to the waves, as had so many before him. But to this day she waits, sure that one day he will come back to her, just as he promised……
“Pues, give it a rest with that one,” my Abuelita interrupted, rolling her eyes, her gold and green silk jacket shimmering in the evening light. “Not all ghosts wail around all dramatic. I have presencias at my house too, and they don’t pine after men all day!”
She says that real ghosts don’t haunt bathrooms - that’s just for the drama. But she has no doubt that there are presencias in the old Mazatlán stone, wandering from centuries past, that you just have a sense about. You might get a glimpse of one in a passing shadow, or as they round a corner faster than the eye can see, but it’s important to let them be. Even if you’re afraid, she says, you just have to tell them: “I’m going to be here, and so are you. And that’s it.”
I like the idea that there are memories that linger through generations, even if I don’t necessarily believe in scorned women haunting bathrooms. Words and books are like that, too – an inexact record that someone once tried to bind in ink and paper and permanence.
A lot of writers, though, like the ghost in el Presidio, have their eyes set on something even as it’s already sailing off into the distance. They try to force themselves to write thrillers in the wake of Gone Girl, cozy mysteries based on The Thursday Murder Club, romantasy in the style of Sarah J. Maas, all with the goal of replicating a formula for success. But these bandwagons tend to vanish over the horizon, and getting published can’t be the only goal. What is a story that only you can tell? That’s the one to bind to the present, before its lost to crumbling stone and half-remembered musings.
A few days ago, while drafting this newsletter, I called my Abuela to ask if she ever felt that one of the presencias in her home was someone in particular. Our family has had roots entwined in her exact street for generations, after all. “Some people imagine my mother, since this house was hers,” she said. “But I don’t think so. She lives in other ways, like in your name. I think the presencias are something spiritual. I’m not a woo-woo person, remember that. But I think they just want to share that they’re here, too.”
They were artists, and they were once known.
One more thing before the usual TLDR! My next dispatch will be the first to be written and published from Mazatlán! I’m looking forward to sun and sea, and most importantly, to time spent with family. I’ve loved sharing my grandmother with you these past few newsletters, so if there’s anything in particular you’d like to ask Clayna, or see in my next post, please drop a comment below!
TLDR:
Romantic advice: Make your presence felt, especially to those who matter – just probably not by haunting the bathroom.
Writing advice: Chasing trends is like chasing ghosts. As soon as you creep up on them, they disappear. Write what only you can write, and the rest will follow.
Food bribe to keep you coming back:
