Jared Lemus is the author of the short story collection, Guatemalan Rhapsody, published with Ecco-HarperCollins on March 4th 2025. His debut novel, Magic in the Land of Eternal Spring, is forthcoming with Ecco-HarperCollins. Lemus’s work has appeared in The Atlantic, Story, The Pinch, and The Kenyon Review, among others. He holds an MFA from the University of Pittsburgh and is currently the Kenan Visiting Writer at UNC-Chapel Hill. @jaredilemus

Where were you born and raised? How did it influence your writing and your thinking about the world?
I was born in Queens, NY but lived most of my life--from the time I was about five--in Little Rock, AR, with intermittent stints in Guatemala. Because my parents were Visa-holders, it cemented the idea of porous borders in my mind. We would spend 8 months out of the year in the US and 4 months in Guatemala. That was my life. As I got older, though, I realized that things weren't as simple as they seemed and that the politics of "border-crossings" were more complicated than I had ever imagined. Because of this, my current collection blends America and Guatemala together: focusing on everyday people living their lives--either as part of the diaspora or back in Guatemala. I think it also opened my mind to reading literature from around the world instead of being so Anglo-centric and made me proud of being bilingual.

What kind of reader were you as a child? What books made you fall in love with reading as a child?
My parents were super-strict Catholics (later super-strict Christians), so I wasn't allowed to read anything that wasn't the Bible until I was in middle school, when I started branching out to Christian authors like Ted Dekker, Frank Peretti, and Tim LaHaye. Finally, in, like, 7th grade, I started sneaking books like the Series of Unfortunate Events, Harry Potter, Artemis Fowl, anything by Cornelia Funke and Margaret Peterson Haddix, and the Guardians of Ga'Hoole books. I hid this pages away the way other kids hid their Playboys and Hustler magazines.

Describe your typical writing day.
I am a "pantser;" hate the name, love the game. And, honestly, consider myself a recovering plotter. Up until about 4 years ago, I always had an ending in mind and I would shoot my plot in that direction; but, I soon found that it constrained my creativity; even outlining put restrictions on me that I didn't want. So, now, I don't plan out a single thing before I sit down. I reach the page and let the language, the prose, tell me what's next. I used to be a musician, so for me, it's all about that rhythm: do I feel it and can I hear it? If the next beat requires choice A instead of choice B, let's explore that avenue. So, in this way, the story writes itself; I'm merely the conduit for the character to tell their story. With that being said, I am definitely someone who edits as I go. I write and rewrite and rewrite each sentence until it sounds right in my ear. Once it's done, I move on to the next and make sure they're working in tandem. In that way, the language dictates the next part of the story, not me.

Tell us about the creative process behind your most well-known work or your current writing project.
My preferred way of writing is to have 4-8 hours of time set aside to just sit at the desk. I think I spend the first hour or so just warming up, then I start. That's why short spurts of writing don't work for me. I think, especially for someone like me who revises as I go, this is important. I like to stay in the world I'm creating for as long as I can, even if it exhausts me, because when I come back, I may be in a different mood or misread the room/situation my characters are in. I go until I finish a scene; I can't stop midway or I may never find that place again.

Do you keep a journal or notebook? If so, what’s in it?
I don't. I feel like Eudora Welty with her first drafts: allegedly, she would burn them, saying that if it was important enough, she would remember it and it would make it into her second draft. That's how I am about writing things down. I find that it's best if I don't pull from things I've already written. I want them as fresh as possible. If that image, that phrase, that title, that everything is important enough, I'll remember it.

How do you research and what role does research play in your writing? Most of my research comes from lived experiences--things I've observed, experienced, or survived. From my house getting shot up in Guatemala when I was 10 or 11 to volcanic eruptions to drunk uncles falling off horses and the like. With that being said, I also learn from revisiting Guatemala. I try to go back every 2 to 3 years (and am, in fact, going to be there this summer) to spend 3-4 weeks there. I reintegrate myself into the everyday life of people there. From there, stories arise.

Which writer, living or dead, would you most like to have dinner with? There are so many. As it stands though, I'll go with living (since they may read this and think, "Seems like a cool guy, let's do it." Selfish, I know). Jhumpa Lahiri, Tommy Orange, Kaveh Akhbar, Kristen Arnett, and Yaa Gyasi. They also happen to be some of my all-time favorite writers.

Do you draw inspiration from music, art, or other disciplines?
100%. Music is such a vital part of my life that I couldn't write without it. It's that musical rhythm that influences the sound, structure, and composition of my sentences. I also love art and aim to create an image like the ones on canvas on the page.

AI and technology is changing the ways we write and receive stories. What are your reflections on AI, technology and the future of storytelling? And why is it important that humans remain at the center of the creative process? AI is so bad for the environment, but, that aside, it's also bad for our creative brains. We, as a species, are meant to tell stories, paint pictures, and create music. Yet, the billionaires in charge want to relegate that to machines (making them more human-like) and make humans more work-efficient (more machine-like). Where did we go wrong? And, is the aim that, one day, we will be unable to differentiate between the two or become so symbiotic that our phones will be (literally?) sewn into our brains. I know this is hyperbolic, but it does seem that way, doesn't it? Will we, as a species, fail the Turing test? I think it's up to us--artists, writers, painters, dances, actors, all creatives and, honestly, human beings--to not let that happen. Type "-ai" into all of your search engines, read books, visit museums, do everything but conform; we're not robots, after all; at least not yet.

Tell us about some books you've recently enjoyed and your favorite books and writers of all time.
Some of my favorite books of all time are Fortune Smiles by Adam Johnson, There There by Tommy Orange, The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri, Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi, Poverty, by America by Matthew Desmond, and Jesus’ Son by Denis Johnson. I've also read some good books recently, like, Magical/Realism by Vanessa Angelica Villareal and Everyone who is Gone is Here by Jonathan Blitzer.

The Importance of Arts, Culture & The Creative Process
I think it's telling that one of the first thing the current administration did was cut funding to arts programs (along with DEI, the Paris agreement, and so many other devastating decisions). They're afraid of what art can do, they're afraid of what it reflects and shows and teaches. This is why I think art now is more important than ever before. Projects like these are keeping the arts alive (amidst threats of funding cuts and intimidation), and I think we will look back and be forever thankful for the efforts made by those who fought to keep the arts alive. We are down, we are not out.

Interviewed by Mia Funk

Ofrendas

By Jared Lemus

The old bring the clothes of their sick, the young bring cigars and cigarettes. Women bring ropes, sugar, and chickens; some want protection for their children, others against having children, then there are those who ask for protection from their children. The men bring scarves, hats, and aguardiente; they ask for love, for money, for a good harvest. Each of these petitions, represented by a candle—white, yellow, red and even a few black, the wax melting onto the ground with prayers that curse enemies, call for inflictions of pain against past lovers, invoke death. Couples ask for cleansings before marriage, others ask for visions of their future together. People bring chocolate and sugar to appease—this is the most subtle ask: please, give me favor. Some seek guidance and bring incense to help their prayers float up to the ears of the gods, others seek attention or help and give quetzales or salt. There is so much want in this world, and it is up to the sajarins to help fulfill requests; today is no different—both the temple and the courtyard is full of petitioners, and it is their duty to serve, much like the priest in the catholic church, as a conduit between the people and the ears of San Simón.

Yuma, metal rod in hand, is seated in front of the fire pit he has built. A woman, mid-30’s, sits across from him, both of their eyes shut in prayer. Yuma mutters a few final words of thanks, then stands. He bangs his staff against the ground—once, twice, thrice—and calls for Caji, Imox, Beleze Kat to hear the woman’s requests. Finally, he walks around to her and helps her stand. The woman opens her eyes long enough to hand Yuma the egg that she’s brought. Yuma takes it and runs it over her head and chest, her shoulders and legs, down to her feet, all while praying. He then places the egg in the fire and tells the woman to watch. They both stare, the heat emanating from the pit causing sweat to drip down their foreheads, it takes a few moments, but the egg finally breaks.“A yes,” Yuma says, and the woman lets out a small sigh. She bows her head a little. “Thank you,” she says. She swipes at her eyes with the back of her hand, then kneels down to pick up the bag of sugar she brought with her. She looks around in search of her son. “He must still be at the altar,” she says.

Yuma nods, then motions for her to follow him. They walk past other sajarins tending fires—six rows of pits, eight pits per row with just enough space between one flame and the next for people to walk by single-filed, all of the fires surrounded by sugar or salt. Some of the sajarins have signs of the god or gods they are attempting to contact drawn in chalk on the asphalt in front of the steps leading up to the cofradia. Others use staffs to pound on the steps to garner the attention of the divine, then. fill their mouths with rose water or alcohol that they spit onto their petitioners Yuma and the woman take one stair at a time, bypassing other sajarins who slap shrubs against people’s bodies to rid their souls of bad thoughts and evil spirits.

Inside, the cofradia looks like a gutted monastery—no pews, no bibles, only people whose eyes burn from the smoke of cigars and cigarettes brought forth as offerings and placed in San Simón’s mouth. The smoke wafts upward, is so thick, the petitioners can barely make out the four-foot tall San Simón figure carved from tz’ite’ wood sitting on the low table that serves as his altar. He is surrounded by tiny statues of his likeness left as tributes andcandles of all colors. Two sajarins stand beside the statue, theone on the left—hermano Zumez, 24, the son of the former leader of the cofradia—taps the remaining ash from the cigarette in San Simón’s mouth, then seals the jar; the one on the right—hermano Xavier, 31, a recovering alcoholic saved by San Simón—removes the cigarette butt and places it in a different container, both of which will be sold: the ash for luck and to cure insomnia, the butts to ward off thieves.The next person with an offering steps forward and hands a 100ml bottle of aguardiente to Zumez. He uncaps it while Xavier tips the statue backwards, so that the slits carved in the wood as eyes look up at the ceiling. Zumez pours half of the bottle into San Simón’s mouth, where a tube funnels the liquid down through the body and into a container hidden below the figure so that the liquid can be rebottled and resold to other petitioners. And even though the cofradia is full, it is reverentially quiet and the alcohol sounds like a river. Zumez then recaps the bottle of aguardiente and offers it back to the man, who says to keep it as an offering. Zumez nods and sets the bottle on the table next to the other quarter pints and candles.

Now, the woman’s son steps forward and produces from his pocket a folded bill. Xaviermotions for him to step closer. The boy does and places the money on the altar next to dried, hardened candle wax. And though he doesn’t say aloud what he is asking for, his mother knows—he is asking for a second chance.