Literary magic with Weeping Woman and Leti

''Buckle up, doll,'' urges the irrepressible narrator of Felicia Luna Lemus' debut novel. ``I promise I'll try not to tangle your quinceañera dress.''

This is not bad advice to have as you enter the world of Leticia Marisol Estrella Torrez, a twentysomething lesbian Chicana whose post-university adventures in Los Angeles constitute Trace Elements of Random Tea Parties (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, $23). But it wasn't Leticia but her mythological Mexican protector, Weeping Woman, whom Lemus wanted to put in a novel. As Leti sorts through friendships, love, questions of identity, Saran Wrap sex and her desire to break away from Nana, the conventional grandmother who raised her, Weeping Woman acts as a sort of guardian angel.

''If you're Latino you grow up hearing about her,'' Lemus says, laughing, from her home in Los Angeles. ``We grow up hearing she's going to come and knock on our window at night if we misbehave, that she'll take us.''

Lemus was drawn to the idea of the childhood legend. ''I thought if she inspires fear, she must be a powerful icon,'' she says. ``It was a natural transition to make her an object of affection for this young lesbian finding herself as a woman.''

Like Leti, Lemus grew up in a small family store and has a grandmother who resembles Nana. ''She's a strong presence, very independent. She says what she thinks,'' Lemus says. So what are her thoughts on her granddaughter's first novel, full of musical language (``when I kissed her toes she turned papaya lush blush''), family conflict and plenty of sex? The book's cover image of two women embracing may have thrown her a bit, Lemus says, but overall, ``She's really excited. We've had our conflicts, but she's always been very supportive. My whole family has been.''

Trace Elements of Random Tea Parties is a coming-of-age story, one that doesn't so much deal with coming out as with coming to terms with what Lemus calls ''dyke identity.'' Nana more or less approves of her granddaughter's lifestyle so long as Leti remains feminine but is taken aback when Leti abandons her princess ways to dress like a ''a femme boy . . . . [A] bookworm queer boy.'' This development is true to Lemus' experience: ``If you're femme, then somehow it's less confrontational to the culture and far more accepted. And I think this plays out in all cultures. It's not uniquely Latino.''

Another lesson: If you and your protagonist are Chicana lesbians, there is an excellent chance that you will quickly earn a label in the publishing business.

'The labels are true. I am Latina, I am a lesbian, and I'm proud of both of those things. It doesn't make me uncomfortable in that I don't agree. But the purpose of the label bothers me. You walk into bookstores and you find categories. One store I was in recently had a wonderful array of fiction alphabetized on one wall, and on another shelf tucked away very small there was a sign that said `black literature.' It was insulting. . . . That's like being forcibly placed in a ghetto.''

It's especially frustrating when Lemus believes her novel -- about learning to be comfortable with your cultural history and in your skin -- could appeal to anyone.

''Anyone can identify with the story of someone becoming her own person,'' she says. ``There are certain experiences that a wide range of people can connect with. I hope the book can reach a wider audience. That would be wonderful.''