It’s the end of July and I’m posting this from northern Spain in the foothills of the Pyrenees, where the weather is cool and rainy—a nice change from the high temperatures in Málaga, where I spent afternoons indoors reading or writing, or in a movie theater sheltered from the heat.

At the beginning of the month, I read The Little Virtues by Natalia Ginzburg for the European Writers Salon quarterly book club. It’s a collection of essays written between 1944 and 1962. Here are some gems from the book:

In her essay “My Vocation,” Ginzburg talks about the characters in a story she wrote as a teenager.

“And the man and the woman were neither good nor evil, but funny and a little sad and it seemed to me that I had discovered how people in books should be—funny and at the same time sad.”

I love this because I think this is what we all strive for as writers.

In “England: Eulogy and Lament,” Ginzburg suffers England’s sad beauty.

“England is beautiful and melancholy.”

She goes on to say that the beauty “is according to some precise plan and not by chance” which “makes its beauty seem sad.”

“The English have no imagination.” Except “in the evening clothes worn by old ladies, and in their cafes.”

“Indeed, nothing in the world is sadder than an English conversation.”

What’s beautiful to Ginzburg are the cathedrals and cemeteries.

“In the country of melancholy the mind always returns to death.”

I have yet to write much about Spain, but my observations would be nothing like Ginzburg’s about England.

In “The Little Virtues,” Ginzburg offers her perspective on raising children.

“…it is necessary that… we show ourselves for what we are, imperfect, in the hope that our children will not resemble us but be stronger and better than us.”

I’m sure my imperfection was in daily evidence when I was raising children. Score!

“…it is best that our children should know from infancy that good is not rewarded and that evil goes unpunished; yet they must love good and hate evil, and it is not possible to give any logical explanation for this.”

The first is a sad fact. The second, unfortunately, does not always come to pass.

Here’s a nice essay by Belle Boggs published in the New Yorker in 2016 about Ginzburg’s book. It’s titled “The book that taught me what I want to teach my daughter.”

A few weeks ago, I went to see the movie Sirat on a recommendation by my friend Fiona. I had forgotten the part in her message that said watching it necessitated two stiff margaritas afterward. Sirat is a Spanish and French production with mostly Spanish dialogue and some French subtitled in Spanish. So, naturally, I missed some of the dialogue, which, in fact, is rather sparse. Still, it was apparent what was happening throughout the movie. So much is conveyed through the landscape and the characters’ facial and body language. Then, of course, there are the visual shocks. Suffice it to say, it’s a rather hard movie to watch. But I agree with Fiona. It stays with you and makes you think, makes you feel. Even if you don’t need reminders that the world can be a cruel and shitty place. The movie won a prize at Cannes and is supposedly destined to be a cult classic. See it, but be warned.

It’s always great to have friends from the US drop by during their travels. This month I was delighted that Málaga was one of Emma Moreno’s stops in Spain. This smart, joyful, compassionate dynamo brought me a copy of her book Dare to Be You: 21 Days to Unshakeable Self-Love. Follow her on Instagram and crece con Emma.

While I prepare for the release of my next book Ofelia and Norma in September 2026 from Regal House Publishing, my writing group has been providing feedback on a recently completed draft of another novel, working title Happy Birthday, Love Arnie. And while that draft awaits revision, I have started writing yet another novel. This one is still in the early stages of story and structure discovery that is both fun and frustrating, a great time to find focus at a writing retreat.

I’m finishing out the month of July and heading into August at a writing retreat in the foothills of the Spanish Pyrenees. After spending a day and night in Bilbao, I took a bus to San Sebastian, had a leisurely lunch after a walk on the beach, and then met the taxi taking participants to the retreat near the Spanish/French border. I’m trying to figure my way into a new novel I began writing several months ago. When I’m in a setting meant explicitly for writing, I am compelled to fulfill my obligation to the place. But one can’t write all day. There is hiking to do. And getting to know the other writers here. And enjoying wonderful meals. And crossing the border into France to tour the cake museum. And sometimes just sitting and staring at the incredible landscape from my terrace.