Lizzy Rodríguez

I have always believed that the most important books are the ones that read you, the ones that resonate with a part of your experience so intimate that it seems as if the author had spied on your thoughts. That happened to me with The Shards, by Bret Easton Ellis. And not because I live in a mansion in Los Angeles in the 1980s, nor because a murderer is stalking me (fortunately). What tore me apart about this novel—and why I've decided to write about it—is something that critics often overlook while entertaining themselves with the superficial thriller. I'm writing this post because, beneath the layer of suspense, The Shards is one of the most lucid and heartbreaking portraits I've ever read about what it means to pretend in order to exist. As a Level 1 autistic person, I know something about social performance. I know what it's like to study a script of gestures and responses, to calculate every interaction, and to feel, deep down, like an alien observer of...

The contemporary publishing landscape is experiencing a worrying paradox: while diversity is proclaimed as a banner, a creative homogenization is being imposed that drains narratives of their transformative power. What began as a legitimate opening for historically marginalized voices has devolved into a new dogmatism where adherence to certain ideological postulates seems to have become the main publishing criterion, displacing literary quality, originality, and the capacity for questioning. This dynamic creates a perverse effect: in the name of inclusion, an exclusionary canon is being created where only stories that repeat predictable formulas and politically correct messages find a place. Publishers, trapped by a corporate mindset that prioritizes what is "sellable" over what is valuable, have found in these narratives a safe but sterile niche. The Infantilization of the Reader and Ideological Imposition One of the most disturbing aspects of this trend is its ...

Watching Bret Easton Ellis' interviews over the years is to witness a slow but inexorable process of withdrawal from so much stress. The "enfant terrible" of the 1980s, master of icy cynicism (as many have called him), has transformed—especially in his public interactions—into a figure that his own interviewers describe as "sullen" or "grumpy." He allows himself to be interviewed "out of politeness," as a final act of professional courtesy, while his body language betrays a deep discomfort: an evasive gaze, a gesture of contained annoyance, the palpable need for the questioning to end. This is not the disdain of a conceited literary star; it is the exhaustion of a system pushed to its limits. It is the accumulated fatigue of four decades of having to explain, justify, and, above all, translate himself for an audience that, for the most part, opted for the most superficial reading of his work. The vicious circle seems inescapable: ...

May 15, 2025 Why American Psycho Deserves an Unconventional Essay American Psycho is an uncomfortable masterpiece: it forces us to stare into the abyss of a world reduced to the material and ask ourselves: "What if the real horror isn’t Bateman, but the fact that his madness is even possible?" It is a warped mirror held up to our own complicity. This essay comes from a frustration: most interpretations of American Psycho—whether in videos, reviews, or academic talks—fail to grasp this most uncomfortable and brilliant essence. It's not just a book about a serial killer, nor a simple satire of capitalism. It's a narrative that forces us to ask: Why do we keep reading? Why are we fascinated by Bateman? And what does that say about us? My goal here isn't to repeat moralistic takes ("It's misogynistic," "It's violent"), but to explore what others overlook: · The radical ambiguity of Bret Easton Ellis (Did Bateman actually kill an...

  Amar a un terrícola cuando eres un alien Mi esposo es mi hogar en este planeta. Es la primera persona que miró a esta alienígena y no pidió un manual de instrucciones. Simplemente abrió la puerta y dijo: 'Pasa'. Él jura que nunca me ha visto 'rara'. Y en el idioma del amor, dice la verdad. En su léxico emocional, 'Lizzy' es un sustantivo propio que significa compañera, amor, complicidad. No es un adjetivo que se modifique con 'rara' o 'normal'. Pero hay momentos en que nuestros idiomas nativos chocan. Yo hablo el idioma del Archivo y el Análisis. Cuando le hablo de mi quinta lectura de American Psycho —de las costuras de la narrativa no confiable, de la sátira como bisturí, de la delgada línea entre la alucinación del monstruo y la realidad del sistema que lo crea—, mis palabras son claras para mí. Son un informe técnico de fascinación. Él escucha en el idioma del Sentido Común y la Emoción. Y lo que oye es: 'Mi esposa está obse...

 La evaluación diagnóstica no se parecía en nada a lo que imaginaba. No había un scanner cerebral ni preguntas obvias como '¿Le gustan los rompecabezas?'. En cambio, era una conversación extraña, minuciosa, a veces exasperantemente redundante. La psicóloga, una mujer de sonrisa tranquila, me hacía preguntas de opción múltiple. Pero cada cierto tiempo, mi detector interno de patrones encendía una alerta. —Espere —la interrumpí, incapaz de tolerar la incoherencia—. Esa pregunta ya me la hizo. Hace veinte minutos. La número quince. Ella solo asintió, con esa misma sonrisa enigmática, y esperó. —Bueno, pues mi respuesta es la misma —dije, un poco irritada por la aparente ineficiencia del proceso. 'Click'. Mentalmente, archivé la incongruencia. ¿Por qué un profesional haría algo tan ilógico como repetir preguntas? Solo meses después, con el informe en mis manos, entendí el genio perverso de aquella prueba. No estaban evaluando solo mis respuestas. Estaban evaluan...

  Probablemente yo no llegué a hacer un best seller como muchos de ahora, porque mis novelas no son tan dulces como "deberían". Mis novelas te retratan realidades que la gente niega y romantiza; realidades que duelen; por ejemplo, las relaciones tóxicas.  Tengo dos libros publicados: "Cicatrices de terciopelo" y "Poesía ciega para un cínico". Ambos libros no son de una saga, pero te hacen ver cómo se desarrolla, desde el principio, una relación que está destinada al fracaso. Sí, puede haber atracción, la impresión de que algo es irresistible y diferente.  Pero también debe haber una diferenciación entre lo que es sano y lo que no. Yo escribo de esa forma. Mi primera novela, "Cicatrices de terciopelo", nació de la observación silenciosa de una infancia en los años 80, marcada por la violencia doméstica y la complejidad del amor filial. Es mi manera de dar voz a los silencios que heredé.  Mi libro "Cicatrices de terciopelo" es...