author Silvia Villalobos is here
today. She’s chatting about writing, and her literary mystery novel, Stranger or Friend.
Villalobos, a native of Romania who lives immersed in the laid-back vibe of
Southern California, is a writer of mystery novels and short fiction. Her
stories have appeared in The Riding Light Review, Pure Slush, and Red Fez, among
other publications. She is constantly drawn to premises filled with questions
which arouse feelings that are often beyond imagination yet seem real. When not
writing, she can be found hiking the Santa Clarita Woodland Park trails or
preparing and giving speeches for Toastmasters International.
your current release.
distrust. It’s the story of a woman’s journey back home, to her ailing mother.
The story of a place Zoe Sinclair no longer recognizes; a town where her best
friend was murdered, where outsiders make life uneasy. A place where the
sheriff is inept or unwilling to help and the county investigator is more
interested in politics.
when she starts pocking around and disturbing “the way we always do it.” When
her city-lawyer experience kicks in, the questions multiply, but the answers
put her in the same danger that befell her dead friend.
us, fears that lie deeper than we know, secrets causing irreparable harm. And
at what cost? Stranger or Friend
answers this very question while looking beyond, to what comes next.
people giving up the familiar for a new and hopefully better life. Some twenty years back, when I
moved from Europe to the U.S., I embraced the new with some trepidation — new
home, new culture – and have been absorbed by the idea ever since.
theme of universality in fiction has always been of interest to me. The
idea that no matter where we are — big city, small town — we deal with the
same issues: love, hate, fear of the unconventional. Crime.
As a lover of books, I’m
immediately pulled into stories with strong yet flawed
characters, people from different backgrounds, different cultures, the effect
of such amalgam on us all, and that is what I worked hard to accomplishing in Stranger or Friend.
the gravel road Zoe’s childhood home looked smaller, as if shrunken under the
weight of life. Smoke from the chimney caught the moonlight in a slow dance,
blurring into the night sky. A place of happiness, but Zoe knew better. She
pushed the car door open and stepped out, ready for her final visit home.
porch light illuminated the road cracked by time and weather. Beyond it,
darkness stretched over the wilderness. She shut the door and walked to open
the trunk, her heels poking the frozen ground. How can it be so cold and dark?
twig snapped behind her. Zoe turned but saw no one. Sounds carried through the
cold air from the distance. A rustle of branches. Someone wheezing? Another
glance over her shoulder showed only the woods she’d explored as a child, the
winding paths of apple orchards stripped bare by winter. She opened the trunk.
Having been away from the nature so long, wildlife rustling unsettled her
shaft of light escaped between the window curtains. She should’ve called, but
Mother often misplaced the phone. Last time, Zoe found the handset in the
pantry. She pulled her carry-on out of the trunk, and shut the cover loud
enough to chase the memories away.
light turned on at the new neighbor’s house, followed by a series of distant
shrieks. Must be the winter wrens; she never tired of their wilderness call.
front door opened and Mother, leaning on a cane, waved. “Hello, dear.” She
grabbed the doorknob to steady herself. “I’m glad you didn’t get caught in
traffic. Radio man said it’s messy on Old Highway.”
road to the house. “I must’ve missed it.” She matched Mother’s smile but her heart sank at how frail she appeared. “You look
the rest of your bags. Must be piles of papers.”
shoulder. “Work’s in my computer.” She kissed her cheek. “This is everything.”
by the mark of life. She flashed her proudest smile, then turned to lead the
way. “Let’s go inside, dear, before icicles drip from our noses.”
Zoe turned to face the road, listening. That sound a minute ago, so strange.
Nothing but stillness lay over the countryside now. She shut the door, turned
the lock, and followed Mother into the kitchen.
come, make themselves comfortable, then fly away for some time. Most actively,
I’m working on the next Zoe Sinclair novel, a story that will take the reader
from California to Wyoming to Europe and back to California. This is the most
ambitious writing project for me so far, in terms of setting but also
character. Every day, I’m letting it build like a jazz riff, with the melodies
of one word playing off the melodies of the others, until the composition is
way I jotted notes on anything that would make, in my mind, a good story.
However, writing became more than the act of shedding thoughts in high school,
when my English teacher singled out an essay I wrote on Mihai Eminescu’s Evening Star. She said something to the
effect of seeing promise there, and encouraged me to push the creative envelope
with each paper I wrote. And so I’ve been trying to do ever since.
your work day like? If not, what do you do other than write and how do you find
time to write?
office-type schedule or structure where it’s my responsibility to produce copy
every day. For me, writing is more than the physical act of putting pen to
paper or typing. I think about writing a lot. I spend time researching,
outlining, changing my mind, and going from there. When nothing comes to me, I
sit down and write a bunch of nonsense, sentences that may or may not make
sense. After a short break, I read the mess and try again until the story takes
probably never write. I have to make time for writing, just like I make time
for anything that matters in life.
family, hiking, and last but not least, preparing and giving speeches for
must be fast-moving, but slowing it down to enjoy the whisper of each word, the
image it evokes, that’s a must.
strange when I find myself having audible conversations with them, sometimes in
public places if an idea strikes. But I’m learning to save my character
conversations for the privacy of my home.
conversation because a great idea just popped up in my head. However, the image
of the recluse, antisocial writer doesn’t fit me. I’m very social, and highly
opinionated. Then again, I think most writers are opinionated. Writers are
informed beings, in possession of an encyclopedic range of ideas on every
imaginable topic, but more so on writing.
when you grew up?
went through the usual dream-job list: teacher, doctor, mostly because I loved
my teacher and had a lovely pediatrician. I don’t remember my mom ever asking
or pushing in any direction. She made sure we had lots of books around the
house. We spent an inordinate amount of time telling stories, fostering ideas,
playing alphabet games — where someone starts telling a story with the first
letter of the alphabet, the next person continues by beginning her sentence
with the next letter, until, inevitably, someone uses the wrong letter and is
career. The idea was that if I do well in school and go to college, everything
would take care of itself, career and hobbies.
with the readers?
invite everyone to visit me at silviatomasvillalobos.worpress.com. Please leave
a comment, and if you would also include your link, I’d be happy to connect.
Also, for more on Stranger or Friend (about the author, media, a free
short story, and behind-the-scene information) visit strangerorfriend.com.
enjoy the story and take a moment to share your thoughts on it with me. Hearing
back from readers is what keeps us writers going.
Lisa, for having me on. It’s been a pleasure talking to you.
joining my blog!