A novelist with early-onset dementia is writing what he knows will be his last book. His subject is a man further along the same road: Nicolás, a retired Colombian mining executive losing himself in a colonial town in Boyacá, tended by a daughter who cannot find the end-of-life directive he signed before the fog arrived. Roberto writes with an AI assistant. The arrangement began as a practical concession and has become something harder to name. His wife Elena, an architect who solves problems by understanding their load-bearing elements, agreed to everything Roberto planned while he was lucid. She is now the person living inside the plan, and those turned out to be different things.

The novel moves between Roberto's desk in Port Townsend and Nicolás's courtyard in Villa de Leyva. Two men in two countries losing the same capacities at different speeds. Two women carrying out wishes that were clear when they were spoken and are no longer simple. The prose does not degrade. The marginal notes do. The reader figures out who is still writing at a different speed than the characters, and both speeds are the right speed.

Lucid Interval is a novel about authorship and selfhood, about what a decision made in clarity owes the person you become, and about the people who loved someone enough to honor what he asked of them, even when honoring it is the hardest thing they have ever done.

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English: https://mybook.to/LucidInterval  

Spanish: https://mybook.to/IntervaloLucido  

Bernardo de Miera y Pacheco is sixty-three years old when he rides out of Santa Fe with the Domínguez-Escalante expedition. He has spent forty years mapping the frontier of New Spain, carrying his quadrant and field book as other men carry weapons — as the instrument that converts experience into record. A militia captain, a santero, a man who has traded and fought and survived at the edge of the known world, he believes in the empire's westward logic: that what can be measured can be claimed, and that what can be named can be held.

At the shore of Utah Lake in late September, the Timpanogos receive the expedition with a welcome that Miera records as promising. Promises are made. The friars speak of return, of priests and soldiers and the formal recognition of Spain. A twelve-year-old boy joins the party heading south. Then the weather turns, the mountains close, and at a hill they name San Bernardo, Escalante and Domínguez cast lots to decide whether to press on to Monterey or return to Santa Fe. The lots say: home. The Timpanogos are not consulted. No message is sent.

What Miera produces is a map of unprecedented accuracy — one that Humboldt and Frémont and half the cartographers of the following century will trust. Accurate in every particular except one: the river flowing west from the lake that would have made the whole enterprise worthwhile. The lake was real. The river was not.

A novel about the distance between what a measurement records and what it was meant to prove — and what it cost to be the man who knew the difference. 

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Englsih: https://mybook.to/LakeThatWasNot  

Spanish:  https://mybook.to/ElLagoQueNoEstaba  

A broken egg cannot go back in the shell. But with what is left inside, you can still build something better.

In 1864, with the war going badly and his own reelection in doubt, Abraham Lincoln answered the men who wanted him to stop the fighting and hand the country back exactly as it was. Broken eggs, he wrote, cannot be mended. A century and a half later, that hard image gives this book its shape.

Project 2029 is a novelist's response to the dismantling of American democracy. Ricardo Gómez, born in Canada, raised in Colombia, and settled in the Pacific Northwest, watches that process from a triple belonging and with an uncomfortable advantage: in Latin America, we have already seen this movie. Contempt for institutions, politics turned into spectacle, the opponent recast as an internal enemy, justice treated as persecution. The script is recognizable from one country to the next.

Against Project 2025, the demolition plan the Heritage Foundation wrote out loud, I propose thinking about a Project 2029: an agenda of reconstruction rather than a list of progressive wishes, as serious, as structurally ambitious, and as patient as the plan it means to undo. Rebuild, do not restore.

Each chapter braids two voices. One lays out the facts, sourced and checkable: the rules of power, the economy, rights, information, memory, faith, the place of the United States in the world. The other brings in scenes from my own novels, among them The Tides of Freedom and The Comandante's Shadow, because a statistic can say that the top one percent owns more than the bottom ninety, and only a novel can say what it feels like to be the man who goes down into the mine that is not his. The book begins outside, with a letter, and ends outside, with another.

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English: https://mybook.to/Project2029 
Spanish: https://mybook.to/Proyecto2029 

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