I was a Manila girl (my father was American, hence the last name, my mother Spanish-Filipino from Iloilo), but the mythology I was steeped in was Visayan, rather than more Northern based. Like many girls I grew up with in the pre-Cory days, I was ignored by my parents and raised by ya-yas (in my case, from Antique, Iloilo, and Siquijor). Because I was left to my own devices much of the time, and coincidentally read too many of the Ballantine adult fantasy paperbacks and Arkham house hardcovers that were floating around in the 70s (my father and oldest brother were speculative fiction nuts, and brought their books in from the States — I also watched far too many Hammer horror movies on Filipino TV, on top of Filipino horror movies, which are not quite like anything else on earth), I was perhaps imaginatively over-susceptible to the mystical thinking that I was lovingly subjected to by my caregivers (mostly in the form of threats — not only did Manananggal go after fetuses, they also went after little girls who wouldn’t listen).

I was particularly struck by the passing comment you made that folks at Clarion found the setting for one of your stories “difficult to believe.” Many of my friends in the United States find my stories of home striking.

I think it’s a wonderful thing to have been raised somewhere with tiny ghost stories lurking around every corner. I am happy to find that folks are starting to write about them. Keep doing that.

Best,

Cris