Full disclosure: Nicolás Medina Mora once did a mean tweet about my book. He hadn’t read it, but he criticized it publicly anyway, dismissing me as just another gringo who didn’t understand Mexico.

This hurt my feelings. But I didn’t fight back. Instead, embarrassingly, I sent him a fan email. I admired his work, I said, especially his recent essay on Mexican author Heriberto Yépez, and that I hoped one day he’d actually read my book.

My rationale was that Medina Mora was, increasingly, one of those it writers. His writing had appeared in publications as diverse at the New York Times, the Atlantic, Reuters, the New York Review of Books, and n+1, and he’d successfully positioned himself within a supposedly diversifying publishing industry as a Great Mexico Knower, one that editors instinctively defer to when something newsworthy occurs south of the border. You do not want that kind of guy as your enemy, especially when you’re a poorly connected grad student with a book that’s doing, at best, just okay.