Read the story first (or after):

When you first wrote “Pearl Hunter,” what was the first true image: the clinic bed, the sea, or the in-between state?

Actually, none of the above. If I remember correctly—because I wrote this story more than a decade ago—what prompted me to write it was just the visual echo between the shell of an oyster and a set of dentures. That was it. From there, I had to come up with a story that would allow me to give literary expression to that visual connection.

The challenge I set out to meet was making that connection feel seamless, so that it worked naturally within the story. Everything else followed from that initial impulse. The aging pearl hunter, the clinic, the dream—all of these elements grew out of that first visual realization. Even the laugh at the end, which brings the story full circle, emerged only in the process of writing.

That’s the kind of serendipity that can happen when you step aside and allow the inner logic of the story to dictate its own terms.

The piece moves by dream-logic — were you structuring that deliberately, or following the voice?

As for the story’s dreamlike structure, I was also following its inner logic. I needed the main character to function as a conduit between the oyster and the set of dentures, and a former pearl hunter in a nursing-home provided a natural (and funny) solution. The dream provided the actual path from one element to the other and from one world to the other while at the same time introducing an additional layer of echoes and reflections.

Deep diving operates both literally—as physical submersion underwater—and metaphorically, as a descent into the depths of the subconscious. Even in his room, Gaspar Santos is enveloped in shadow and dappled light. The story thus unfolds through multiple forms of submersion: psychological submersion, temporal submersion into the past, the abysmal submersion of the oyster deep on the ocean floor, and finally the anticlimactic, comic submersion of the dentures in a glass.

In this sense, the story also adopts the structure of a joke. Hence, the laugh.

Get Flash of Inspiration by email

One short craft conversation each week — with a story to read alongside it.

What do you want the reader to carry an hour after reading?

On an emotional level, humor is fundamental to me. I consider myself, first and foremost, a comedian—a prankster. I hope the reverberations of that toothless laugh continue to resonate in the reader’s mind long after the story has been read.

At the same time, I’m more attuned to form than to content. I’m more interested in the formal aspects of a literary work—whether I’m reading it or writing it—than in what you call the “emotional engine.” Generally speaking, I’m not looking for meaning or a specific emotional response, but for a glimpse of something that cannot be articulated: that imminence of a revelation that never occurs, as Borges writes in “The Wall and the Books.”

That’s why I’m drawn to rhymes, correspondences, variations, rhythm. I feel closer to Mondrian than to Munch. I suppose I also think of myself as an abstract writer. Even worse… an abstract comedian.

Craft takeaways (steal this)

• Start from a single visual echo and let the story build its own logic.
• Use “dream” as structure — a bridge between images, not decoration.
• End with a formal return: setup → escalation → anticlimax → laugh.

Keep Litro free to read

If this spotlight helped you think about craft, a small donation helps us edit, publish, and record more conversations.

• $10 helps cover production
• $25 helps fund the next interview

Litro Magazine USA is a registered 501(c)(3). Your donation is tax-deductible and you’ll receive a receipt by email.