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Photo: Paul Kline

To interview Peruvian American writer Marie Arana is to be reminded that every talented writer is first and foremost a passionate reader. She speaks about books with a clarity born of a fruitful career as editor, critic, and, most recently, writer—a clarity that is not lost when she speaks of her own highly autobiographical work.

Q:	You’ve had a long and distinguished career in publishing. How do you balance your roles as writer and editor?
A:	I’m generally writing in the wee hours of the morning and then coming to work and working on somebody else’s writing. It’s a very difficult grind. The editor’s head—the critical head that makes you a sharp observer of writing—is not necessarily the head you need to be creative. I had to cast off that critical sort of mean, witchy self that made me a good editor to be any kind of a writer, because you have to really be naked and be sometimes foolish and do the brave, unexpected thing. And if you’re not willing to do that, then you probably shouldn’t be writing. I’m really looking forward to my early retirement. Now, at age 50-plus, I’m finally able to cast off the editorial part and devote myself completely to writing.
Q:	Tell us about your latest novel, Lima Nights.
A:	What I wanted to do with Lima Nights is to write a kind of quick fist of a novel because Cellophane, which was my last novel, was complicated. That story takes place in the Amazon jungle, and it’s sort of an epic story of a family with several generations. It’s a satire of a kind of magic realist novel and, at the same time, it’s a magic realist novel. Lima Nights, however, is the story of two very hungry hearts who never would have imagined they’d be together and would find themselves attracted to one another. But, as it happens in life, they are. And these two very hungry hearts are looking for a kind of love from one another that they may not realize they have achieved. They live these 20 years together not really understanding. It’s a sort of failure to communicate one’s love. That’s what I wanted to get at: a love that you want and that you don’t know how to get.
Q:	What sparked the idea for this novel?
A:	My father’s best friend. I’ve known him all my life—they’ve been friends since they were six—and they’re both 90 now. Well, this man had a moment when he was unfaithful to his wife and it completely transformed his life and everybody else’s around him. It’s a totally different story than the one I’ve told here, but it was the germ. This gentleman was a man who was raised in science; he was actually an engineer. One day about 10 years ago, my father said to me: “You will never believe it, [my friend] has gone to see a shaman.” That sentence was all I needed. He was going to see, essentially, a fortuneteller. And just that little glimmer was what made me think, “Oh my God, that’s what I want to capture in this book.” Something about having to step into a world that’s so foreign to your own to get yourself back out.
Q:	When the two main characters, Carlos Bluhm and Maria Fernandez, first meet, he is 44 and she’s 15. Did you set out to write an intergenerational love story?
A:	No, not at all.  This is what’s so exciting and breathtaking about writing fiction. When I was writing, it just popped out of my pen that she was 15. It surprised me so much I had to put the paper down and walk away. I said, “I don’t want to do this.” But then I thought, “Well of course, because in the indigenous Peruvian world, life is so hard that at that age of 15 you’re thinking about survival, marriage, and how can I possibly win this really difficult lottery of life?” And so it made sense. But it horrified me when I first wrote her age. I stayed away from the page for 24 hours and then I said: “Okay, if that’s what the story wants, if that what these characters want, let’s see what happens.”
Q:	In this sense, this could also be read as an upward mobility story, Maria’s upward mobility story.
A:	Yes, and that’s a side of it too; but don’t forget Carlos’ story is a complete downward mobility story—that genteel white Latin American stratum that has nowhere to go but down.
Q:	That’s true. And I couldn’t help but feel, as I read it, that this is also saying something about the institution of marriage.
A:	The whole subject of marriage interests me enormously. You could also say that that has been the subject of my three books. I mean, for American Chica it was the story of my parents’ marriage. In Cellophane, it’s very definitely the story of marriages, because of the number of them and what that means. [In Lima Nights], that unbelievable moment when Bluhm’s wife just takes everything and leaves… I mean, it might seem strange in the American context, but it’s absolutely possible in Peru that something like that would happen.

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