Latinx YA fiction is in the midst of an exciting movement, with a growing number of authors illuminating diverse voices, cultures, and stories. Natalia Sylvester is at the forefront of this movement such standout author. A celebrated Latina (Peruvian-American) writer, her YA novels include Running (2020), a compelling exploration of identity, politics, and activism, and Breathe and Count Back from Ten (2022), a Pura Belpré and Schneider Family Honor-winning story about a disabled Latina (Peruvian-American) teen navigating self-acceptance, love, and cultural identity.
In addition to her YA work, Natalia has authored several adult fiction titles, including Chasing the Sun (2014), Everyone Knows You Go Home (2018)—winner of the International Latino Book Award—and her Junior Library Guild Gold Standard picture book, A Maleta Full of Treasures (2024). Across genres, Natalia’s work often explores themes of belonging, empowerment, and the untold stories of young Latinas. Her non-fiction has appeared in The New York Times, Bustle, Catapult, Electric Literature, Latina magazine, and McSweeney's Publishing, with her essays anthologized in numerous collections.
I had the privilege of speaking with Natalia, who shared valuable insights into her writing process, the transformative power of representation, and the challenges and joys of telling Latina-focused stories in today’s world.
Frederick Luis Aldama: You’re well-known for your fiction, but you also write nonfiction. I’m curious: do you see your fiction and nonfiction as different ways of doing intervention work? And how do you hope your writing transforms worlds—creatively, politically, intellectually?
Natalia Sylvester: That’s a great question. I started writing poetry as a child, and that’s how I fell in love with writing. By college, though, I realized I wanted to write fiction. At the same time, I minored in journalism because it seemed like the more practical path. Growing up in an immigrant family, there was an expectation to pursue something secure and support those sacrifices made for you. Journalism fit that lens.
But in college, I also took creative writing classes and discovered fiction as a craft. It was life-changing. Learning both journalism and fiction at the same time opened my eyes: journalism relies on facts, but it often limits whose stories are told and how. Fiction, on the other hand, became a way to bridge gaps—between facts and deeper truths, between lived stories and those silenced in traditional narratives. Fiction let me honor the untold and unseen stories I carried or witnessed, allowing readers to feel seen and heard too. It allows me to weave personal experiences into something larger—a way to explore meaning and give voice to moments that transcend me.
FLA: Nonfiction?
NS: When I turned to personal essays a few years ago, I didn’t always know why I chose nonfiction over fiction. Often, it came down to boundaries: Is this my story to tell? Do I have permission? Nonfiction allows me to witness stories with mindfulness, but it doesn’t always go far enough. It’s about trying to say, “I see you. I hear you,” while honoring the limits of my perspective.
FLA: In both fiction and nonfiction modes, you invite others along on a journey.
NS: Exactly. What’s fascinating is how writing, though solitary, creates connections. I need quiet and privacy when I write—I’m not someone who can write in public spaces. But when readers point to specific lines and say, “I’ve been there,” it reminds me that writing can make both the reader and the writer feel less alone.
FLA: In another interview, you used the phrase “gentle excavation of myself.” You’ve also described writing as digging into wounds but doing so slowly.
NS: That awareness became intentional when my second novel, Everyone Knows You Go Home, was being shopped around. The book follows an immigrant family crossing from Mexico into South Texas and spans generations as they build their lives. An editor expressed interest but suggested cutting “mundane” moments—scenes of birthdays, dinners, or a mother combing her child’s hair—in favor of more border-crossing drama.
I was struck by the expectation that our stories are only valid when centered on pain. Why are we only seen or heard when we’re hurting? That reduction of my characters and community felt like erasure. Our lives have duality—joy and pain coexist. Ignoring one side is unfair and inauthentic.
Since then, I approach writing pain with caution and boundaries. Publishing often demands we reopen wounds as proof of humanity, but I resist that. Writing about scars and literal wounds in Breathing Back from Ten could have retraumatized me, but instead, it became a step toward healing.
FLA: Swimming as a place of healing and a metaphor for your writing process.
NS: I love swimming because underwater, the world is silent, and I feel closer to myself. Writing requires that same awareness: listening to your body, your instincts, and your words. For me, it’s about respecting my characters as if they’re real people. I don’t want to expose them; I want them to feel seen. Writing gently, like swimming, allows that.
FLA: This might seem like an odd question, but it relates to your experience with editors and their expectations. Do you think Everyone Knows You Go Home could have been your first novel? Or was Chasing the Sun a necessary debut? It seems like Chasing the Sun fits a certain framework—it has a thriller element, and it beautifully brings mundane yet transformative moments to life. On the surface, I can see an agent or editor thinking, “This works. I can sell this.” But something less obviously aligned with expectations might have been a harder sell.
You and I know, having served on awards committees together, that there are plenty of good works out there, but not all of them push beyond the expectations or formulas that the industry seems to favor.
NS: Honestly, I don’t know if I could have written or published Everyone Knows You Go Home as my first book. With debut authors, especially marginalized ones, there’s often this sense of being “lucky” to be allowed in. I felt that way when Chasing the Sun came out. It’s a mindset tied to my own immigrant experience—watching my parents navigate the immigration system and internalizing a sense of inferiority, of needing permission to enter spaces.
When I was shopping Chasing the Sun, I was told by some editors that the story needed to include an American angle—maybe have the Peruvian family immigrate to the U.S. or add American characters. I didn’t want to do that, but I was fortunate to find a publisher who didn’t make that demand. I wish I could say I flat-out refused, but honestly, I had options. I don’t know what I would have done if I didn’t.
Publishing in the 2010s was very different. There weren’t as many conversations around representation or challenging conventions. Even small things, like italicizing Spanish in Chasing the Sun, felt like rules I had to follow because I didn’t know I had a choice. The coded feedback I received back then made me determined to write against those expectations in my second book.
I switched agents during that time because we couldn’t see eye to eye on the story I wanted to tell. I didn’t want to write to appease a specific palate if it wasn’t true to what I wanted. And while I’m lucky that my books have been published, I still think many stories are excluded because they make those in power uncomfortable. Even now, in an industry that’s overwhelmingly white, there’s a gap between the “authentic” stories publishers claim to want and the stereotypical or palatable ones they’re more comfortable with.
FLA: Was there a shift or lightbulb moment when you realized you could do something powerful with Young Adult fiction?
NS: When I started writing Running, I didn’t initially know it was YA. I just had a story—a 15-year-old girl navigating her father’s presidential campaign and what it means when a parent fails you both publicly and personally. I sent the first few pages to my agent, and she loved it. She told me, “You’re writing YA.” That excited me because I’ve always loved reading YA. It made sense that this story was for readers like my main character—it wasn’t primarily for the adults in the book. That doesn’t mean adults can’t enjoy it, but my focus was on the character’s perspective: What does she want? What’s her journey?
FLA: You write across genres and multi-generational audiences.
NS: For me, it’s less about where a story fits and more about listening to the story and the character. A friend once asked me, “Who are you writing this for?” She didn’t mean in a marketing sense but in terms of creating a gift—like those books you want to hug because they came into your life at just the right time. That question grounds me. While I write for myself to an extent, my stories feel most alive when they become bigger than me—when I can hope they’ll mean something to others. That’s when they stop being just mine and become shared.
FLA: Natalia, where do you see risk-taking in YA? Or is that even the right question? Writing for young adults who haven’t seen or heard themselves in stories already feels like a form of risk-taking. How do you approach that?
NS: I think YA is fascinating because so many of the stories are radical by nature. They feature authors telling their truths unapologetically, creating spaces where young readers can see themselves in ways that don’t conform to traditional narrative expectations. That alone is powerful—and threatening to some.
Unfortunately, this is why we see so many efforts to ban books, especially those written by and about Black, Indigenous, and People of Color, as well as queer and trans communities. It’s heartbreaking. Writing for our most vulnerable and marginalized youth shouldn’t be seen as risk-taking, but we live in a world that often frames it that way.
When a young person sees themselves in a story, it’s transformative. It can empower them to stop apologizing for who they are, to shed the shame imposed by a white, cis, heteronormative society. That’s why YA is so vital. It helps kids feel seen and reminds them they’re not alone. It allows them to embrace their truths—and that’s revolutionary.
FLA: It’s frightening. Elsewhere you’ve mentioned Texas-based authors such as Johnny Garza and my colleague Oscar Cásares as among some of your favorites. Are there other YA authors you turn to when you need nourishment or inspiration?
NS: I love Meg Medina’s work. Sometimes I’ll pick up one of her books and read a line just to feel nourished. I don’t understand writers who don’t read while writing—it would feel like not eating. For me, consuming words and stories inspires and sustains me. If all I absorbed were tweets and headlines, I’d be writing from an empty place.
FLA: Your work reminds me of Cristina García and Julia Álvarez, especially in how they explore the everyday in transformative ways. It’s frustrating, though—nobody criticizes white male authors like Faulkner for exploring the mundane, but marginalized authors often get that critique.
NS: Exactly. When my agent relayed feedback from an editor who suggested removing mundane moments from my book, I told her, “If a white man wrote those moments, they’d be considered universal. Why not our stories?” Thankfully, my agent supported me, and we didn’t go with that editor. Who decides what’s mundane? Ordinary moments are beautiful. When I’m stuck with a character, I imagine them bored—what they think, dream, or long for when no one’s watching. As Alexander Chee once said, “The ordinary can lead you to the extraordinary, and vice versa.”
FLA: How has social media, for better or worse, impacted how readers engage with your work?
NS: Social media has both its gifts and challenges. With Breathe and Count Back from Ten, I’ve received heartfelt messages from readers who share my character’s identities or parts of them—disabled, a person of color, or an immigrant. Hearing that they felt seen is incredibly moving.
But social media can also be draining. Recently, someone tagged me in a review saying they loved my book but found the cultural aspects of the character “inaccessible.” That hurt. Why tag an author with something like that?
It reflects a larger issue in publishing: who gets to decide what’s relatable? Publishing often caters to white authors’ needs because the industry lacks diversity at every level. That gap creates challenges for marketing, publicity, and even understanding the nuances of our stories.
FLA: Across all your books, is there a common thread or worldview that ties your work together?
NS: I think so. The ideas I choose to nourish and sustain into full novels are ones that feel deeply real and address gaps in representation. For example, in Running, I wanted to explore how Latinx communities are portrayed in politics—not as a monolithic bloc, but as diverse individuals with complex political and personal dynamics. Mari's father is running for president, navigating privilege and power, and Mari embarks on a journey to hold him accountable.
With Breathe and Count Back from Ten, I wanted to challenge narratives around disability. My protagonist isn’t overcoming her disability; she’s embracing her body unapologetically, stepping into her desires and dreams as a young woman. Stories about disabled people, especially disabled people of color, are so rare. For a long time, I didn’t write this story because I thought it was too specific. But then I realized that’s exactly why it matters.
FLA: What advice might you have for aspiring Latinx creatives and authors?
NS: Two things. First, find a community that inspires you and reminds you of who you are, especially when the journey gets tough. Second, don’t be afraid to write your specific truth, even if you haven’t seen it before. That’s precisely why it’s needed—it will matter to someone, probably to many.
FLA: Thank you, Natalia, for all your work crafting narratives that tell our hard truths and joys.
NS: Thank you so much for taking the time to talk with me about my work, Frederick. I really appreciate it.
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