Manuel Muñoz’s latest story collection, The Consequences, provides a raw and powerful glimpse into the lives and experiences that come out of California’s Central Valley. The book sheds light on a region whose communities are often overlooked, telling stories of hardship, struggle, and survival. These small-town experiences are real and undeniable depictions of life in the United States. At their core, Muñoz’s stories are human stories.
In our conversation, Muñoz discusses navigating doubt, the act of creation, storytelling across geographies, and the importance of writing and sharing overlooked stories.
Manuel Farias: So, it has been more than a decade since you’ve published a new collection of short stories, with a novel and many years of teaching in between. Did something change or inspire you specifically to return to a story collection? What compelled you? What can you say about the time gap, but also how your writing process may have changed in assembling the new collection?
Manuel Muñoz: There’s a lot, and it’s a very long answer. I’ve talked a lot about doubt. Just looking over my work and not feeling sure about it. Sometimes the question is, “Do I know the purpose of the story?” “Why am I writing it?” “Am I enjoying it?” “Am I being challenged by it?” And sometimes you can ask those questions so much of yourself that that’s all you do is question. You don’t let the work just sort of develop on its own.
I was a little more ready to embrace that I had a short-story mind. You know, I think writers have different ways of thinking about narrative, and I wish I had the expansive mind that can hold a novel. I mean, I think I do. But it’s different to hold something like a big narrative in your head, and then make it appear on the page; whereas with a short story, some people might find it really, really challenging to be so constrained and so compressed. But that, to me, is where things become so much more crystal clear. It was the perfect way for me to be attentive in the way that I need to be attentive, but still meet that sweet spot where I felt like I was creating freely. It took a while. At the core of it was doubt and uncertainty
Farias: I think that’s very relatable, just giving yourself that space to write.
Muñoz: Well I mean, in your case [as a student], sometimes when we’re under a deadline, or we’re under an expectation that you have to finish something, that can change things. And sometimes people will ask me to write an essay about something, and I normally say no because one, I don’t think I’m a very good essay writer, but two, it’s just the fact of a deadline. Like this has to be done by October? Ay Dios, you know? I just sort of like the freedom of thinking. Well, this will be done when it’s done, and that’s a different thing that has come with age.
Farias: That’s great insight. Touching upon the ideas of short stories, the collection’s first story, “Anyone Can Do It,” is such a powerful opener. It feels like a gut punch within one particular moment in the story, and throughout there is a sense of anxiety stemming from the uncertainty and the ambiguity of the character Delfina’s situation, on top of her having to provide and care for her child and pay the rent. But she carries on, and it will be tough, which seems to be a theme throughout the entire collection. What can you say about having that particular short story open the entirety of the book, and about Delfina and her placement in the Central Valley?
Muñoz: There are a couple ways to think about the story for me. One is, I’m just surprised at the reaction that it got, because of where it’s set— I mean all the stories, but what I mean specifically, is that it’s set in the fields. I mean, this is the work, you know, that I did, my family did, and that has always felt risky to me in terms of journals, and editors who just don't understand it, and I was surprised— I mean it landed in Best American. And I felt really, really proud of that. That our world of work can be merged into an idea of— finally— of what we can think of as U.S. lives. That's really important to me.
The other thing is that when I was looking at all the stories, remembering what I said about doubt, and as I kept trying to start stories, I remember starting this one, I said: “Well, get basic. What’s the basic thing?” And that’s why that first line, “Her immediate concern was money,” is so simple. But I think in that sentence, everything that I’m concerned about is there. What are you concerned by? Money. And when’s the concern? Like, right now! [Laughs]
I think that’s why it’s like, wow, that’s a good way to introduce what this whole collection, or what my stories, tend to be about. You’ve got to solve something, and sometimes you’ve got to solve it really, really fast, even when you have lots of other kinds of conflicts and troubles. But one thing might dominate, and it might just be survival. I knew when I was getting the stories in order, I was fairly sure, I said, that one, it's going to be the first one, and I never dislodged it from its slot.
Farias: Such a great first story. It’s interesting how you mentioned its popularity, and how you were surprised by it, because with a lot of the stories— and mundane is not the right word to use— but they are a depiction of everyday life. There’s a struggle and hardship in it, but it happens on a day-to-day basis. I think of the stories “The Happiest Girl in the Whole USA,” or “The Reason Is Because,” in particular. And yet the stories are so powerful and raw, and they're intimate and personal. So my question is: How do you begin to craft these stories? How do you navigate the telling of such emotion and experience, and put them on display for the reader?
Muñoz: I think it really depends on the story. And again, this is why the process was taking so long. I’d really push myself to the edge about— it's a question I ask my students, but never in a confrontational way. Why does your story matter? But it really is when you’re trying to figure out the events of a character’s life, you’re making a choice. I’m going to put this angle in, or this section of their life in, or not talk about that. And the moment you make the choice is the moment you make something about importance. For every character, it’s very, very different. Every situation’s very, very different.
With “The Reason is Because,” I knew an event that was going to happen. Lando is the character’s name. I knew that he was going to hold the baby over the banister. I knew that. But how do I get there? What makes him do that? Why would he do that? What’s the consequence of him doing that? Drafting that story— you might even see it in the sentence because I remember a sentence from the story, even without looking. Her friend, Luz, asks her, “Why did he do that?” And she thinks to herself, you’re asking “the wrong question to the wrong person.” She should be asking him. But she’s the one who’s bearing the brunt.
That’s what I mean. When I can figure out the complexity of a character enough that I know I can carry a story, that’s when I feel a lot more confident in the draft, and hopeful that whatever kind of emotion I’m hoping is going to be raised will come to the reader as well. I think that’s the answer right now. And we can maybe get into other stories if you want to see if I can think them through. But that’s a good example, I think, with “The Reason is Because,” and how I built it up that way, with an event or incident.
Farias: In figuring out the characters, is there a certain inspiration you draw them from? Perhaps even real life experiences or something you’ve seen, a moment, or something that you expand upon?
Muñoz: Oh yeah, sometimes, because of something I've observed, something I've heard has struck me, has moved me, has confused me, has made me stop in my tracks, and I start to think about what it truly means. Here's a very simple example, and then I’ll go to a big one.
Going to Walmart and seeing someone really dressed up with high heels and a dress, like bien vestida, to go to Walmart, you know? I start to wonder, why? Maybe she’s coming home from work? But what does it mean if that bien vestida woman comes with three kids behind her? What does it mean? I just start to think about who that character might be if they were out of that situation.
But more closely, maybe you saw this with the story “Field Work,” there are a lot of people who knew, in my own life, that my dad had a stroke. So they knew. “That story’s about you, isn't it?” Yeah, but not really, because that narrator is very in the shadows. All they do is listen. It’s really about this explosion of storytelling that comes from somebody who maybe finally feels like he’s got to start telling a whole lot of them because he feels he’s on death’s door. I mean, that was very real. Now, all the things that my dad started talking about— well, how do you put an order to them? I kind of did it in almost a memoir-like way.
Farias: It adds so much complexity. There’s a level of humanity given to these people you might never see again. And then to take them and humanize them in that sense. That’s a big spotlight, especially on people from an area like the Central Valley. You mentioned “Field Work,” and I saw there was a particular connection between “Susto” and “Field Work,” which is the idea of remembrance. I have three passages, so you’ll have to bear with me as I read them [laughs]. But I think they're all connected in this sense.
So the first is from “Susto,” and it's: “That’s my point, said the elder. You remember her. People knew her.”
The second, which is also from “Susto,” is: “I’ve been with you. I’ll be with you. I want to be with you. He felt himself break into understanding that he could beg forgiveness from Facundo Nieves for not having known him, some mercy to match his longing.”
And the third quote is from “Field Work”: “But my father, the man with the spry hands who struggled to recover any use in his legs, the quiet man who remained just as quiet through his pancakes; these men, who worked all their lives in the fields of the valley, making do with whatever the state could provide, now that their bodies had given out. But their minds hadn’t. Their stories were not yet lost in their heads.”
So this idea of remembrance, of knowing a person and their stories, is such a powerful idea. Is there something unique about their memories and their stories in relation to Central California?
Muñoz: You know, this is the second time that someone has pointed out that line. That the stories are still in their heads. I don’t want to say that, oh, I didn’t really notice that line, because of course I did. [Laughs] I put it in the story. But it’s amazing to me that it has popped up twice, that it’s a simple line, that it’s a declarative line, and it’s the clearest way I know how to communicate something that maybe I’ve been seeing this entire time, but I’ve never expressed. Which is, we all have essentially two stories. The lives that we live, and that people observe us do things, and they see that. But then there’s this other one, which is how we live in the memory of other people, as long as stories keep being told about us.
It's not my idea. It's not new, I mean. [Laughs] It's not new, but just as we’re having this conversation, I realize it’s the very thing that I loved about Gwendolyn Brooks’ Maud Martha. This is my favorite book of all time. I came across it in college when I was an undergrad, in a seminar called “Black Women in Their Fiction,” and something transformed. I thought, oh my God, I cannot believe how beautiful this book is!
But I remember a passage where Maud Martha is in a bar with her husband, and you know, he’s come back from war, and she’s watching him smoke. She just thinks about him. It’s like right now, you know, I’m gonna remember him but in a little bit he’ll die. And then when I die, there’s not going to be anybody to remember anymore. And there’s something really powerful in that idea, that we all have stories that we live. We all have stories that we tell, and that we also have stories that others tell about us. But at some point all those tellers might go away. And that’s really poignant to me. I think that's why that line— they’re still in there; those stories are still in there, and there’s more of them that you might even think— is incredible to me.
To think about how all of us are like that! All of us have things that people don’t know. It’s inspiring to me that two people have asked me about that very line, and I didn’t even think it was important. But now that you’re making me meditate on it, I’m like, oh yeah! [Laughs]
Farias: It’s really that idea of someone not really being dead as long as they have someone to remember them and their stories. So that really struck me. It’s a really powerful idea.
So my next two questions revolve around a connection I see in the book between California and Texas. My father was born in the Central Valley and lived in Kerman, on the valley’s west side, and my mother was born and raised in Corpus Christi in Texas. And so, reading your stories, I found that there were many mentions of Texas and other Mexican border states. Is there something to be said about the connections between the Central Valley and particular areas in Texas? And where do these connective ideas come from?
Muñoz: Mathis, the Texas town in the novel, is my mother's hometown. So that was a very deliberate gesture. It tells us a whole lot about migration, and how families are moved from one place to another because of different reasons. My mother moved in the late 1960s, but we still have family in Texas. It’s a window to me of what work meant, because work was different in California.
The way that my parents described it, is that it didn’t require as much migrant movement like they used to have. I mean, she told me they were— well, you know, Mathis is right by Corpus Christi. They would drive all the way to the north of Texas to do sweet potatoes, or whatever might be in the northern part. And she said one reason we went to California is so we didn’t have to do that anymore, because the valley was right there. So you just do maybe a twenty mile drive or something, but you stayed in one place. It’s interesting to hear that kind of family history of what that meant, and it’s remarkable to me that here we are two peoples, two strangers, but look at the geographies that we share. I mean Corpus and Mathis are twenty minutes apart. Kerman and Dinuba [where Muñoz grew up] are what, thirty-five minutes apart? Something like that. I mean, that’s really remarkable.
It says a lot, I think. I did it with some hesitation, because I really remained committed to depicting the valley, and I didn’t want to break away from it. I was like, don’t set a story somewhere else. But I kind of just let go of that, and I had to embrace the idea. Our families came from other places, and that’s what my dad was telling me. And sometimes it’s by chance, like that story at the beginning of “Field Work” where the narrator’s friend says, “The reason we wound up in Selma is my parents’ truck broke down,” which is true! That’s how they wound up in Selma. They had no money to fix the truck, so it’s like, ni modo. Selma’s home. [Laughs] That’s incredible! So, if I’m going to break away, then those sites have to have something important or reflect back on those characters in Texas. Specifically Mathis. It was because of that little town. I hope that answers the question.
Farias: For sure. It adds a lot of insight. I had asked my mom if she knew about Mathis, and she said— you know, being from Corpus Christi— oh, it’s kind of like Taft [a small Texas city north of Corpus Christi]. And that’s what she had to say about that.
But I think there’s a lot of similarities in that interaction and in the valley. It’s not so much a dismissal of small towns, but like, oh— it’s like so-and-so town. I think there’s a lot to be said about that relationship in the collection.
Muñoz: What we think is a really small, isolated place turns out to be the center of somebody else’s world. The author Tomás Q. Morín is from Mathis. I don’t know where it was that I mentioned something about Mathis, or he saw it in a story, and he wrote to me. He said, Manuel, do you know I’m from Mathis? I said, I did not know that! [Laughs]. But here we are. It’s like, oh man, this is really cool, to watch that happen.
The author Tim Z. Hernandez is from my hometown, Dinuba. Or he has family in Dinuba. I think he might be from Reedley? I could be wrong. But his cousins were next door to me.
Farias: That’s really cool.
Muñoz: It’s a very small world, yeah.
Farias: I think that’s why your earlier comments really struck a chord with me, about how your work gained in popularity. In taking these places that are kind of small, right? But they’re people’s lives. It’s the center of their world, like you said.
Muñoz: They’re dismissed. They’re dismissed. It is— it’s the center of their world.
Farias: I was hesitant to use the word dismissed. Maybe overlooked?
Muñoz: Overlooked. I mean, it depends on who you’re talking to. [Laughs]. Because sometimes it is a dismissal. But overlooked for sure.
Farias: For me, it’s even in one of your short stories— I believe it was “The Reason is Because”— you had written Kerman. And for some reason I’m like, oh hey, Kerman was mentioned, that’s my town. I mean, it’s a story about the Central Valley, but just seeing Kerman written, in a book—
Muñoz: You know why I do that? I’ve done that in three or four stories across the books. It’s because I had the same experience when my eyes ran across Pixley in Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath. I've spoken about this moment many times, but I was reading Grapes of Wrath, high school student in the front yard, and I came across that passage. When they reach Pixley, I was just kind of stunned, you know? I remember looking up to the sky like, oh my God! This scene is right over there, in Pixley. So I recognize that power, and that’s why if I get a chance to throw in Orange Cove, or mention Orosi, I will do it. I’ll do it. Because I know that there’s going to be one reader out there who’s like— that’s my town.
Farias: The connections to Texas are still relevant. So the first story, “Anyone Can Do It,” begins in central California with Texas as a memory, where they came from. And then the final story, “What Kind of Fool Am I?” begins in Texas, and ends not with the narrator going to and staying in California, but rather her coming to terms with her brother staying in California. And so with that as the first story, and this one, with her brother leaving for California being the ending of the collection, it was an interesting dynamic. I thought it was a sort of mirror effect. I’m wondering if there is anything to be said about that mirror effect, or something to be achieved with their placements?
Muñoz: I didn’t even see that. That one story involves movement one way, whereas the other one is kinda coming from the other— I’m so glad you pointed it out. That’s why these dialogues are so important. When we get a chance to talk to writers about what we notice in the work, I always gain something from it, because it might appear— and some things are deliberate— you know, where it’s easy for us to talk about particular moves that we’re making. But other times, things have just landed in place that give a reader a chance to say something. I’m just excited that you’ve phrased it that way, and that there’s a chance for other people to pick up on what that means, especially when I didn’t consciously construct it that way, like I wanted you to see the mirror. It’s like, well, here’s an astute reader who pointed it out, look at what’s happening. It makes me feel really good about myself. [Laughs]
Because the thing is, in the same way that you asked me about “Anyone Can Do It” being the first one, I also knew that “Fool” would end it. I knew. Because it was one of the longest stories. It was one of the last ones I had written, and by that point I felt a little more free in what I thought a story could do. I said, who cares if it’s thirty pages long? Just go for it. Let yourself take as much time as you need with the narrative it wants to tell. I wasn't thinking anymore about whether or not a journal wanted to take it. And I said, Who cares? And then, of course, ironically, is that it’s coming out in American Short Fiction this fall. I’m shocked. This is a long story for a journal, but they took it. So I’m really proud of that.
But I liked how there’s several revelations in the last scene that I felt underscored a lot of what I keep thinking about, with the assumption of somebody else’s story because we caught a glimpse of somebody. People expecting us to do one thing when we really want to do another. They seem to be underlined pretty neatly in that story, and not only in that story but also in the whole collection. But I’m glad that you pointed out that it turns out to have this other effect that I didn’t even notice.
Farias: There’s a lot to be said about these certain connections, and what your readers can identify with. I know you said you had hesitations about going to other places too much, and maybe perhaps I focused on it too much with those last two questions, but there’s a lot to be said about migration and people, and expanding them and getting to know them, and ultimately how those stories come to be in the Central Valley, right? And how that makes up central California. Living here, I had a great time reading the collection.
Muñoz: I’m glad to hear it. And again, I really have to stress how important it is for a writer to hear how the meaning got made. Because it’s out of my hands. It makes me really proud. I’m like, wow, he spotted that? It makes me feel really good.
Farias: Is there something, perhaps, that needs to absolutely be said, in terms of what you were going for with the creation of these stories? Is there a larger theme you wanted to express?
Muñoz: No. I’ve been in a couple of small chats with people. To be honest, I get very nervous about them because I don’t know what I’m going to say, or how I’m going to answer. I mean, right now, I’ve just been startled by the kinds of things that have been coming up in conversation. I guess maybe the thing right now in these early stages— I haven’t seen a bunch of reviews or anything, but the fact that the book is offering dimension and complexity to a place that I really care about. That’s been satisfying. Because that’s what I wish for all the work that comes out of where we live. I’m in Tucson, Arizona now. But central California is home. It’s home.
Farias: That’s excellent, thank you. In terms of craft and characters, then, how do you situate this new collection in relation to your previous works?
Muñoz: Oh, that’s a really good question. I think it’s the best book of the four. And— Why am I saying that? I’m saying that because I knew— because every time I come up with an answer, I think that’s not really why. I’m trying to soothe myself for why it took so long, and I recognize, okay, you were doubtful but you were deliberate, and you were intentional, and that mattered. Maybe what I’m learning is that I have to take more time. And that’s not to say that I didn’t take time with the other books. But maybe I just have a better capacity to ask more questions of the stories I want to put on the page. And that might be a very good thing.
Because, a couple of questions have stumped me. One of them is, what are you working on now? And I’m like oh, I might be in the same boat, actually, you know, of feeling that doubt again. So I think right now, I have to give myself time to see the kinds of conversations that come from this book before I really know. But I think that’s why they’re different. Story to story, I think they’re stronger, better constructed. They might be more conventional in appearance, but that’s not always the case. I still think I play with form in quite a few of them. Or length, or tone. So I just feel that I’m still learning things. It’s a nice feeling to have in the act of creation. I’m still learning something. I think that’s the best way to answer that.
Farias: Thank you. So much insight into how you go about writing and what the Central Valley really means to you— and then also, what it has to offer, right?
Muñoz: Well, there's a really long interview in Contemporary Literature by Rafael Pérez-Torres. And it’s long— I mean the thing is like twenty-five pages. One of my colleagues here when I— because it just came out, and I brought it over to his house, and he’s reading it. He’s like, hey, do you mind if I just read this? And he’s in literature, right? And we were talking about it last night and he was really surprised. He’s like, man, you’re really transparent. I said, what do you mean? He said, well, you say a whole lot about what you’re thinking and creating, and what goes into creation. It’s kind of like a little gold mine.
And it occurred to me— it actually made me a little fearful. Am I being too transparent? He said, no, no, no. It's just— when it comes to people who are going to be looking at your work, he said, these are very revealing kinds of conversations. But now that he’s made me aware of it, maybe I shouldn't say so much. [Laughs] Maybe I should just keep the answers simple, and not admit to things like doubt. [Laughs]
I don't know where I’m going with this, but they’re really enjoyable conversations about the book that I’ve had with a couple people so far, and I’m thankful for them.
Farias: Well, my last question was, what projects are you looking forward to next? [Laughs] But I guess you kind of went over that.
Muñoz: I’ll add, though, that it’s more than likely that I’ll stay in the realm of the short story. Because writing’s hard, and it’s the form that is helping me think. And that discovery is different for every writer, and maybe that’s where I am right now. That I figured out in order to let my creativity actually work and function, it’s got to work within the confines and the boundaries of what a short story demands. So maybe that’s where I’m landing right now. We’ll see.
But I’m also a lot more forgiving of myself. Because you know, I keep thinking, oh man, eleven years between books! But part of me also says, who cares? You know, who cares? I mean, it’s okay. [Laughs] Then why does it have to be two? Why does it have to be four? Eleven’s fine. Look at Helena Maria Viramontes, you know. She’s written three books in her time. But we know, when the fourth one comes out, we can’t wait, you know? So maybe I’m going to do the Helena route. [Laughs] Keep everybody waiting anxiously, until it’s announced that the next piece is coming,
Farias: Well, whatever comes, I’m looking forward to it. I like how you mention the short stories as having those boundaries and confines, but you describe it as almost a liberating experience.
Muñoz: It’s letting me know that my mind goes to form first, as I try to sort something out. I don’t want to simplify things by saying, oh, it’s like a puzzle. But it sort of is? You’ve got to figure out the mystery of what’s moved you to start thinking about X, Y, or Z, and realizing you can’t think about everything. You’ve got to choose one or two things that can carry this story.
And when in doubt, read. That’s what I do. I mean, I heard that all the time in graduate school. That was my mentor, Ken McClain, who always said, reading is writing. If you can’t put something down on paper, pick up a book and start thinking. He’s absolutely right. In those moments where I was feeling really doubtful, I’d read some collections or re-read some collections that I really loved, and just said— Okay, I can do this. I can come back and construct my own.
A native of Dinuba, in California’s Central Valley, Manuel Muñoz currently lives in Tucson, Arizona where he teaches creative writing at the University of Arizona. He is the author of the novel What You See in the Dark, and the story collections The Faith Healer of Olive Avenue and Zigzagger. His latest story collection, The Consequences, will be published Oct. 18 with Graywolf Press.
Manuel Farias is a graduate student at California State University, Fresno where he studies in the English literature M.A. program and is a Cheng Lok Chua Scholar for Multiethnic Literatures. He is an organizer with Fresno State’s Students of English Studies Association (SESA).
Author photo by Manuel Muñoz.