Hablemos, escritoras: Episode 144
Today, we have the pleasure of interviewing Brenda Lozano, a writer and essayist born in Mexico City. She was recognized in 2017 as part of the Bogotá 39 list and is one of the most representative voices in contemporary Spanish-speaking literature by young writers. Some of her works include Todo o nada (Tusquets, 2009), Cuaderno ideal (Alfaguara, 2014), ¿Cómo piensan las piedras? (Alfaguara, 2017), and Brujas (Alfaguara, 2019). She is also part of the anthology 22 voces: Narrativa mexicana, volumen uno, compiled by David Miklos (Libro mala letra, 2015), and the critical work Tsunami, anthologized by Gabriela Jauregui and published by Sexto Piso in 2018. Her book Cuaderno ideal was translated into English as Loop by Annie McDermott and published by the Scottish press Charco Press.
This is an adapted excerpt from a conversation held on the podcast Hablemos, escritoras, hosted by Adriana Pacheco.
Adriana Pacheco: A few years ago, I remember having the pleasure of meeting you at the FIL Guadalajara, and now I have the pleasure of interviewing you. Thank you so much, Brenda, for accepting this invitation to talk. Brenda, tell us a little more about your background and how you came to literature and writing.
Brenda Lozano: Honestly, I’m not entirely sure. Unlike other writers, I didn’t grow up in a family where there were books or an atmosphere filled with writers, intellectuals, or filmmakers. And I don’t say that with sadness—it’s simply that in my house, the books that were there were mostly for decoration. My discovery of the world of books came later, in my teenage years. I was about 12 or 13 years old, and I had an aunt who gave me a book of poems by Fernando Pessoa as a gift. In it, I read a poem that says, “If God has no unity, how could I?” And that poem turned my world upside down. From then on, I had a very teenage-like voracity to read everything.
A.P.: That’s wonderful! We would love for all readers to approach books with the same passion, enthusiasm, and voracity you just described. Brenda, from there, you went on to complete a degree in Literature at Universidad Iberoamericana, and you became a novelist, right?
B.L.: Yes. In that teenage voracity, I wrote a novel—or at least, something you could call a novel—when I was about 16. Of course, I wouldn’t wish for anyone to read it. In fact, I don’t think it even exists anymore. But, at that point, I felt an urgent need to study with people who really knew what they were doing and to acknowledge, with great humility, that I had a lot to learn. It’s true that when you’re a teenager, you feel like the world is yours. But, at the same time, you realize that’s not the case, that you’re only able to walk this path because so many women and men walked it before you. In my case, and at that particular moment, those writers tended to belong to a more male-centric canon. But I needed that, and honestly, I was very happy. I was truly a happy student, and I had some incredible professors—some not so much, but that’s just how things go along the way.
A.P.: Speaking of your books, you started with Todo o nada (Tusquets, 2009), then Cuaderno ideal (Alfaguara, 2014), which was translated by Annie McDermott and published by the Scottish press Charco Press. Then came ¿Cómo piensan las piedras? (Alfaguara, 2017), and later a book that made quite a splash, Brujas (Alfaguara, 2019). And, in 2017, you were included on the Bogotá 39 list. Congratulations on your career! Let’s start with Todo o nada, a beautiful book that explores the fragility of an older man while also portraying the strength he transmits to his granddaughter. How did this book come about? Is there anything autobiographical about it?
B.L.: Oh, I really appreciate that question because it takes me to a very special place! The truth is that, even though at the time it may have seemed like a period of turmoil or insecurity, looking back, I see it differently. That’s the great thing about storytelling—there’s never just one narrative, but rather multiple narratives, even within the same moment. I thought about this novel for a long time before writing it. I told myself, I want to write a story without dialogue, but at the same time, I want the grandfather’s voice to appear within the granddaughter’s narration—not as dialogue, but as presence. I also wanted a very extreme character, which is what the grandfather is. So, I had this idea of making the two main characters extreme and distant from each other—one man, one woman. And I didn’t want it to be a love story.
So, I asked myself many questions: From where do you position yourself? From where do you tell a story? How do you tell it? I also wondered, What happens when someone who gave you life can, at some point, turn against you and even threaten your life? I wanted this character to embody that contradiction—on the one hand, luminous, but on the other, with a dark side that emerges at the end of his life. I wanted an almost agonizing character, but not in terms of illness—I needed him whole, and I needed him complete. That’s how this character came to be.
A.P.: Magnificent. Brenda, let’s talk about another one of your books, Cuaderno ideal (Alfaguara, 2014). In this book, you explore themes of solitude and romantic relationships. The format of the book is very interesting—you experiment with writing, aphorisms, short phrases, shifts in time, and multiple overlapping voices, like layers. And even the title, Cuaderno ideal, is interesting—because for those of us born in Mexico, the cuaderno ideal was something included on our school supply lists. How did Cuaderno ideal come about?
B.L.: Well, I think that a lot of times, titles come to me before the novels themselves because, in a way, they set the path. For example, Todo o nada was, for me, the essence of the novel—I almost didn’t need to write it because everything I wanted to say was already in the title. And Cuaderno ideal was another phase of life. I wouldn’t call it a form of literary growth because I don’t think there’s such a thing. But I do like to visualize growth, graphically speaking. It’s like when you mark your height on a door frame and, months later, you add another mark above the last one. You can look back and see how much you’ve grown.
So, for me, Cuaderno ideal was almost like the anti-novel—a novel happening in the present moment, fragmented, without necessarily having a beginning, climax, and end.
A.P.: The cover is beautiful and evocative. Speaking of covers, I also think the cover of Brujas is fantastic. Amalia Pica designed it, right?
B.L.: Yes! Look at this beauty. For me, my book covers are like my little personal art gallery because they’re designed by artists I love. These are contemporary artists, young artists, and I find all of their work incredible. I’m a huge fan of each of them. Honestly, I want to keep writing books just so I can have more art on my covers. And yes, Brujas was designed by an Argentinian artist named Amalia Pica, who I think is amazing.
A.P.: Tell us, how did Brujas come about?
B.L.: Well, let me tell you that Brujas was a journey—an exhilarating, painful, and joyful journey all at once, much like life itself. And it was deeply gratifying for me to arrive at Feliciana, who is the grand witch, the shaman, the healer that Zoe, the journalist, comes to interview. I was very interested in creating a healer who was like a rock star, especially in an era where economic power and fame can be instantly achieved simply by having an Instagram account or by amassing a huge number of followers. These days, money can bring you fame, and fame can bring you money—it’s this strange cycle we live in.
That idea led me to Feliciana, this healer who, to me, is like a rockstar—someone who everyone wants to see, who everyone wants to take a photo with. I loved the idea that, in Zoe’s first Google search, she would find images of Feliciana embracing Prince, or being surrounded by famous film directors and photographers—everyone wanting to meet her. And so the question becomes: Who is this woman? How did she get here? That, for me, was the most incredible part of writing this book.
A.P.: But Brenda Lozano isn’t just a novelist. You also write columns for El País, and you were part of the critical book Tsunami, edited and introduced by Gabriela Jauregui. Tell us about your work as an essayist, as a chronicler, and as a collaborator in this vital movement advocating for women’s rights.
B.L.: Of course! Collaborating on Tsunami was an incredible experience of solidarity. It felt like being part of a book that we, as women, wove together, and fortunately, it has sparked so many discussions and collective questions. Understanding that writing can also be a collective act is such a powerful realization, even though the texts themselves were written individually.
Right now, if I were to write something for Tsunami or a book with a similar nature, I would likely write about something else. But at that specific moment, I was obsessed with understanding where the silencing of women came from. Why do abuses happen? Why were women’s voices not heard before, but with movements like Me Too, they are being heard now? Why? That was my burning question: Why now and not before? Where does this shift come from? And, of course, texts don’t always provide answers—sometimes they lead to more questions. But when you reach a new question, that in itself is a kind of personal exploration, a way of positioning yourself differently in the world. And yes, in a way, it leaves you feeling a little shaken up.
A.P.: And what about El País?
B.L.: I think that historically, newspaper columns have been a space where someone speaks from a position of authority, explaining what’s going on from above. But I believe these spaces can be rethought, opened up to voices that haven’t been heard and that deserve a platform. That’s something I care about deeply.
I think it’s incredibly important that a very young writer can be quoted in a newspaper like El País. Or, for example, I wrote a piece on motherhood in Mexican prisons, and I also find it crucial that these stories have a space in major publications.
If there’s one thing women’s literature has taught me, it’s this—something Vivian Abenshushan describes beautifully when she talks about writing as listening. And I find that to be such a precise and truthful way to look at it. Writing that is not about imposition, not about having the final word, but about listening, about making space for other voices, about acknowledging different narratives—because there is not just one way to tell a story.
A.P.: Brenda, you’ve given us so much to think about—so many ideas to reflect on. Congratulations on your work and your career. There are surely many more books to come. It has been a true honor and a great pleasure.
B.L.: No, Adriana, I want you to know that the gratitude, the honor, and the pleasure have been mine. I have truly enjoyed this conversation, and I am deeply grateful to you for this space.
You can listen to the full interview on Hablemos, escritoras.
Translated by Andrea Macías Jiménez
