I told F.X. Contreras not to take it the wrong way, but I was “astounded” by how much I enjoyed The Fine Young Men of Mexico. It had been a few years since we last spoke, and he looked straight into the camera over our video call and said, “I mean, you’ve never read anything I wrote, and you probably thought, ‘this guy writes the way he plays squash.’” There may be a faint, tangential truth to the bias he was implying, but mostly, I was just genuinely impressed. A good book is a good book.

The Fine Young Men of Mexico unfolds over a short trip back home, where the protagonist returns to Mexico from the US to reunite with childhood friends, only to find his spiritual and cultural disconnect with them more pronounced. Contreras transcribes the banter of a days-long drinking session—woven with flashes of deeper depravity—with an eerie virtuosity. Two pages in, I was laughing out loud but also looking backward, hard: thinking about the version of Contreras I knew before he left Boston for Spain with his wife and young daughter, and curious how his real life shadows the book’s autobiographical undertow.

Contreras and I first met on a squash court, pre-COVID. We played at the same club and usually, from what I remember, at the same suspect daytime hours—parallel schedules that make people assume things about you. I half-figured he was one of those wealthy Latin American guys in Boston “for grad school” or “to run his dad’s portfolio,” somewhat akin to the characters in his novel. However, the majority of them stayed planted firmly in Mexico. I can only guess what he thought of me. But I was never convinced. Contreras is intense and intelligent: fast and witty, with a dark bite to him that reinforced the possibility that there was more going on. I knew he was a writer, but to be honest, I was always personally dismissive of it to some degree—though primarily just more interested in playing squash, crushing IPAs, and watching the Equinox parade. I’d never taken the step to read any of his work at the time. I regret it.

Our friendship lived mostly inside the glass walls of the courts. We’d exchange a few sentences in the locker room, occasionally at the bar afterward. One contrasting memory found us together at a cat’s funeral hosted by another club player—a circle of guys from the club gathered earnestly on the other side of the Charles River to celebrate a feline life. We caught each other’s eye across the room during part of the ceremony. I assumed it was in mutual disbelief and the humor of the event. I was 100% there for the story. Contreras stayed stoic and returned his gaze to the urn. When I brought it up on our call, he corrected me: no, he thought the cat funeral was great, though he wouldn’t have held one himself had he suffered the same loss. When his cat died, it affected his play at a weekend squash tournament. When he told his friends, they gave him shit about it.

For the record, no—Contreras does not look like a squash player. He’s tall, with a textbook tennis build: broad shoulders and muscles more suited to an overhead smash than a trickle boast. If you asked A.I. to generate an image of an aging handsome Mexican tennis player who came to the Southwest to play in college, then drifted into academia and, from there, creative writing, eventually making his way to Boston, you might get a perfect likeness back.

But he was a real student of the game. I remember our club pro—another of our working-hours partners—telling me that coaching Contreras made him nervous because he was so serious, so intense, so committed. “I didn’t want to let him down,” he said. After a session at a suburban club where we’d driven together, another pro simply said, “I love guys like that,” and left it at that. Contreras hits a clean ball, moves well in and out of the corners, and—even if a little boxy around the T—plays squash like a squash player.

The Fine Young Men of Mexico is based on a real trip the author took with friends in 2018. Much of the novel actually happened, at least in spirit, though Contreras condensed characters and conversations so the reader wouldn’t have to navigate the chaos unescorted. Beneath it all runs his perpetual outsider stance: he never felt the easy pride in Mexico that his friends and family were born with. (For the record, he doesn’t feel any particular allegiance to the United States either. TBD on Spain, but likely a similar result.) That cultural, emotional, and geographic removedness facilitates his attack on Mexico’s failings: endemic corruption, homophobia, sexism, inherited habits that metastasize collectively into something too big for his personality not to address head-on, which he does unflinchingly.

On our call, I tried to give him a layup—something like, “To what degree do these criticisms come from a place of love?” He wasn’t having it. “I knew when I started writing the novel that there was a price to pay,” he said, then spent the next ten minutes detailing the people he’d pissed off and the enemies he’s made since publishing.

His love is reserved firmly and unapologetically for his wife and for his young daughter, for whom he wrote the book. He wanted to give her a window into the younger version of himself: an unfiltered time capsule of thought, protest, and energy he suspects will soften with parenthood and age.

Contreras is now translating the book, trying to retain its humor and timing while adapting it to the cadence of Mexican Spanish. Before our call, I sent him a rough outline of what I hoped to discuss, and afterwards, true to form, he sent me back a set of polished written responses, planting his stance for the record and leaving little room for guesswork.

Chessin Gertler

Personal Background

What first brought you to Boston?
I was teaching World Literature at Dallas Community College, but every year it became harder to teach because students were coming in less prepared. Around that time, my wife received a job offer in Boston, and we decided to leave—even though I already had tenure. It felt like the right time to move on, intellectually and personally.

How do you relate to cities? Did Boston feel like home?
I’ve never identified with any city. The idea that I should feel connected to millions of people just because I was born near them is absurd. I have close friends from many places, but no sense of collective identity. Still, Boston has been my favorite city so far—cosmopolitan, thoughtful, and quietly alive.

How does Boston relate to The Fine Young Men of Mexico?
The novel isn’t strictly autobiographical, but about 95% of what happens—the events and conversations—actually happened to me. Boston matters because it gives me distance: a vantage point. It allowed me to look back at Mexico more clearly, to compare. In Boston, I’ve never had a single conversation about what’s gay and what’s not gay; in Mexico, you can’t talk to a man for ten minutes without that coming up. That contrast helps define the book’s voice—detached but intimate.

If that time in Boston were a chapter in your life, what would you call it?
I would call it “I won.”

Journey as a Writer

When did writing become serious for you—more than a hobby?
Writing became serious when I left Mexico to study an M.A. in Latin American Literature at New Mexico State. That’s when I started to understand writing not as an expression, but as a way of thinking.

What inspired you to start writing fiction?
In college, I read three works that changed everything: “Letters to a Young Lady in Paris” by Julio Cortázar, “The Secret Miracle” by Borges, and The Foam of the Days by Boris Vian. And, of course, The Metamorphosis by Kafka.

I was perplexed. I didn’t know you could wake up one day as a vermin, or vomit rabbits in your living room. But what fascinated me most wasn’t the absurdity—it was the structure and philosophy beneath it. You can’t just make nonsense; it has to mean something. That’s when I realized absurdity could be the most precise language to talk about reality.

What inspired The Fine Young Men of Mexico?
I wanted to write something my daughter could one day read—something that would let her know who I was. But I also wanted to answer a few questions: How come nobody can see me the way I am? Why is Mexico so dysfunctional? I’m not sure I answered that second one, but at least I offered a perspective.

Were you responding to a specific political or cultural moment?
It’s both. The book responds to a political moment that’s lasted decades—corruption, denial, the normalization of violence—but it’s also deeply personal. I wasn’t trying to make a statement; I was trying to understand my own distance from it.

Autobiographical Elements & Love/Critique of Mexico

Which parts of the book are drawn from your own life?
All of them. I’m the main character of the novel.

The novel is both critical and affectionate toward Mexico. How do you balance that?
I don’t reconcile them. I allow them to coexist, even when they contradict each other. It’s possible to be critical of something and still value it. We place value on the things we pay attention to.

What emotional state drove the writing?
Disappointment. We’re constantly negotiating between expectations and reality—trying to convince ourselves that matching the two will bring happiness. But that’s never possible.

What do you hope Mexican readers feel when they read it?
I hope they find themselves, not me.

Creative Process & Editing

What’s your writing rhythm like?
I have to write in long sittings—five to eight hours at a time. I can’t write in fragments; it takes me a while to get into the rhythm of a sentence, the mental continuity of the book.

How do you approach humor and tone?
If humor is going to be critical, it has to be funny. Some writers think they’re amusing, and they’re not. For me, humor must work in a Swiftian sense—it needs layers. It should operate on multiple levels; otherwise, it’s just a cheap shot. And cheap shots are too easy, too egotistical—they make the reader stop trusting you.

To work, humor has to surprise, even when the reader senses it coming. The moment it becomes predictable, it loses power.

How did you handle the editing process?
My wife helped me a lot. I must have read the novel more than twenty times, but eventually your brain stops seeing the errors. She read it about five times, and that helped enormously.

The publisher also hired an external editor. I tolerated him, mostly because he occasionally changed things that were meaningful to the narrative. The edits were minor and few, so I let them go—except for one instance that I still don’t agree with.

What was the most significant cut or change?
I cut scenes and ideas that felt redundant or didn’t advance the themes. Sometimes you write something thinking it will matter later, only to realize the story went another way. You have to go back and delete—it’s part of staying honest with the work.

3. Mechanics Behind the Book

When did you start writing the novel, and how long did it take?
I started in 2018, right after my daughter was born. It took me about five years to write and another two to publish.

What was your writing process like?
I began by writing isolated scenes—fragments of conversations or events. I did that for more than a year, until one day I found the structure: weaving past and present in the same conversation. I was also inspired by Milan Kundera, who interrupts the plot to reflect on ideas. I liked that freedom—the ability to pause the story to assay a fundamental idea that might be hidden in plain sight.

What were the main challenges in publishing it?
Oh, where to begin? First, I tried to get an agent. I sent over a hundred query letters. Most never replied. The few who did sent polite, boilerplate rejections—often months later. They didn’t even want to read the manuscript, probably because I didn’t have a platform.

Then I turned to small presses. Silence again—until I found EnvelopeBooks UK. Stephen Games, the publisher, replied within days and showed immediate interest. From there, it took nearly two years to prepare the novel for publication.

How was it working with the publisher?
It was contentious at times—to the point where I considered starting over with someone else three or four times. He changed the title, vetoed my cover art, and even wanted to alter the ending. But he also cared deeply about the book. He stays in close contact and has a business model I respect. So, despite the clashes, it was the right collaboration.

What about the title change?
The title changed twice before Stephen settled on The Fine Young Men of Mexico. He thought it was satirical and playful. I didn’t at first, but over time I saw that the irony fit the book’s tone—though I would have preferred The Finest People of Mexico because it begs the question, “Who are they?”

4. Writing the Book in English

Why did you decide to write in English instead of Spanish?
When I moved to the U.S. permanently in 1998, I decided to write in English. In Mexico, publishing often depends on relationships—and I had none. I didn’t want to get published because I was friendly with an editor. I also didn’t know many people in Mexico who actually read novels, so it felt pointless. I thought it would be easier in the U.S., but it wasn’t.

Does the language affect your tone or precision?
Writing in English forces me to be more precise and economical. Spanish is a rich, beautiful language, but I constantly have to resist the temptation to over-decorate—to add more adjectives and adverbs than necessary. English helps me distill the sentence to its essence.

How do you think English shapes how non-Mexican readers perceive Mexico?
I don’t see this as a “Mexican” novel. It’s set in Mexico and deals with Mexican themes, but the issues it explores are human. Having traveled much of the world, I’ve realized you can dial up or down certain cultural traits and end up in a different place, but people are fundamentally the same. We still have Paleolithic brains and medieval institutions. We still organize ourselves into tribes, hierarchies, and systems of revenge and competition.

Are you considering a Spanish version?
I never considered a Spanish version until now, after the English one was published. I’m currently working on the translation myself, which is an interesting exercise—almost like rewriting the book from another self.

Goals & Future Plans

What do you want readers to take away from the book?
I want readers to notice their own ideological quirks—to know themselves better in the Socratic sense. We often fall into cultural traps simply because we haven’t questioned them enough.

I want people to stop believing in ideas that have no evidence behind them—ideas that parade as moral or benevolent but exist mainly to control, manipulate, or excuse abuse.

How do you see yourself as a Mexican writer publishing in English?
I love writing in English, even though it’s not my first language. It’s challenging, and I like that. Beckett wrote in French to challenge himself—it cleansed his prose of unnecessary ornamentation.

I don’t see myself as having a national identity. I’m not a Mexican writer or an American writer. I operate under my own flag, my own anthem, and my own borders. I hope that my books speak across cultures, not from within one.

What are you working on now?
Besides working on the Spanish translation of the novel, I’m developing a short book and a collection of shorter fiction. Half of these stories stay within personal narration—in the spirit of David Sedaris—while the other half plays with genre, turning conventions on their head to comment on the human condition. I use science fiction, for example, both to make fun of science fiction and to expose the absolute darkness within our species.

How is the translation process going?
It hasn’t been easy, but it hasn’t been difficult either. It just is.

Imagined Futures

How does your novel relate to the idea of imagined futures or alternative presents?
Part of the narrator’s confusion comes from the fact that he could’ve easily stayed in Mexico. By looking at his friends, he’s seeing what could’ve happened to him.

There are several sliding-door moments in the novel—lives that could have unfolded differently. My mother used to say, “Your life can change in a second.” She said it because she thought I risked too much for friendships that might not have been reciprocal. That tension—between choice and accident—runs through the whole book.

What would have happened if you’d stayed in Mexico?
I think I would be dead now. At the very least, I’d be depressed. An alcoholic, surely. But most likely, dead.

What can fiction reveal that journalism or essays can’t?
Aristotle spoke about this. Fiction lets us project our savagery, desires, fears, and compassion without risking our lives. It allows us to learn vicariously—to live someone else’s truth. That’s how we build empathy. People who don’t read often struggle to develop it.

For a book to survive, it must be true not necessarily in plot or character, but in theme. There are many novels today that feel “realistic”—believable people, plausible situations—but they have nothing to say. Someone’s unhappy with their marriage. Someone has cancer. So what?

For fiction to reveal something meaningful, the writer must take risks and make themselves vulnerable—without being dogmatic or superficial.

What does freedom mean to you?
Freedom means time—time to work on the things that give my life meaning: writing, reading, and playing squash. If I don’t have that time, I suffocate.

F.X. Contreras is the author of the The Fine Young Men of Mexico. He was born and raised in Monterrey, Mexico, and holds an M.A. in Latin American Literature and a Ph.D. in Humanities. Contreras is interested in creative writing and absurdist theater. His work includes plays, short stories, and interactive fiction that explore themes of power, corruption, and human folly. He has lived in Boston, Massachusetts and currently lives in Valencia, Spain.

Written by F.X. Contreras and Chessin Gertler | Photography courtesy of F.X. Contreras | Artwork by F.X. Contreras as part of a project turning American clichés on their heads.

Place | F.X. Contreras