Call it a pet peeve of mine, but I see absolutely no point in writing paragraph after paragraph sprinkled with words from another language—liberally, even proudly—when it adds nothing to the story or style. A word or two here and there, especially terms of endearment, sure.
But when every paragraph has a handful of non-English words dropped in—say, five to ten per page—that’s hundreds of instances across a typical 300-page novel. It starts to feel less like creative flair and more like a recurring speed bump, pulling you out of the story every few lines just to reorient yourself. The constant code-switching becomes the story’s background noise, making you aware of the language instead of the emotion, pacing, or plot.
Of course, when done with intent, multilingual writing can be incredibly powerful—it can immerse readers in a specific culture, capture rhythm and authenticity, or reveal something about a character’s identity. When the balance feels deliberate and meaningful, it works beautifully. But when it’s overused or uneven, it risks turning into linguistic clutter that distracts from the story’s real purpose: connection.
I’m struggling with this particular book, and I really want to give it a fair chance, but… Here’s an example:
“Before moving to the capital, Filomena and Perla lived up in the campo with their father in a wooden casita consisting of a large room in front and two side-by-side rooms in back—Papá’s room and their room with the double bed they shared.”
Okay, it’s only two words here—no big deal, right?
Now, what if I told you that the previous paragraph had six Spanish words, and the one before that had four? And that this pattern continues, page after page, chapter after chapter? It adds up quickly, and instead of enhancing the narrative, it becomes exhausting.
I understand the desire to honor cultural authenticity and linguistic heritage. I really do. But there’s a difference between weaving language into the fabric of a story and peppering it throughout like confetti. The former enriches; the latter distracts.
Maybe it’s just me. Maybe other readers don’t find it jarring. But for me, when I’m constantly mentally translating or skipping over words because they disrupt the flow, I’m no longer immersed in the story—I’m just trying to get through it.
And that’s a shame, because I suspect there’s a good story buried under all that Spanglish. I just wish I could find it without feeling like I’m doing linguistic parkour on every page.