Writing from inside: Speaking of my books

I probably won't ever write a bestseller like so many authors today—because my novels aren't as "sweet" as they're "supposed to be." My books show you realities that people deny and romanticize; realities that hurt. Toxic relationships, for example.

I have two published books: Velvet Scars and Poesía Ciega Para un Cínico (Blind Poetry for a Cynic). They're not a series, but they both show you how a relationship destined to fail unfolds from the very beginning. Yes, there can be attraction. That feeling that something is irresistible and different. But there also has to be a line between what's healthy and what's not. That's how I write.

I'm autistic. I was diagnosed as an adult.

That diagnosis didn't change who I am—it gave me language for who I'd always been. For years, I watched people the way a biologist watches a species I wasn't sure I belonged to. I learned to mask, to perform, to smile when I was drowning. And that training—that hyperawareness of every social cue, every unspoken rule, every performance of normalcy—turned out to be the best education a writer could ask for.

Because when you grow up not understanding the script, you learn to study it. You learn to see the cracks in other people's masks because you've spent your whole life building your own.

That's why I write the way I do. That's why I notice the things other people miss.

My first novel, Velvet Scars, was born from the silent observation of a childhood in the 1980s—marked by domestic violence and the complexity of loving a parent who hurts another. It's my way of giving voice to the silences I inherited.

Velvet Scars is my family story: the duality of a father who is "good" to his kids but violent to his wife, the torn loyalty, the silent guilt of a mother who stayed instead of running—because they used her children as hostages to keep the family "together." This isn't just "commercial fiction." This is complex psychological truth. My novel isn't just another thriller. It's an emotional autopsy of power dynamics, abuse, and complicity—one I had a front-row seat to.

I write about these things not because I'm drawn to darkness, but because I'm drawn to truth. And the truth is that happy endings are sometimes lies. The truth is that love and danger can wear the same face. The truth is that victims sometimes trade pieces of themselves for survival—and that trade leaves marks you can't see.

I write against the romanticization of toxic relationships.

I've seen too many young women confuse intensity with intimacy. I've seen too many people stay in rooms that were slowly killing them because they'd been taught that leaving meant failure. I've seen too much damage dressed up as destiny.

My books aren't manuals. They're not sermons. They're mirrors. If you see something familiar in these pages, I hope you also see the exit.

That reader in Thailand who spent five hours reading Velvet Scars? They weren't just turning pages. They were walking through rooms I built. They were meeting people I carry with me. They were feeling something I felt first, years ago, in a house that didn't feel safe. And she left a comment.

That's the magic. That's why I write.

I write against the romanticization of toxic relationships. I believe in literature that isn't afraid to explore darkness—but with the responsibility of calling it what it is: dangerous.

The fleeting bestseller feeds an algorithm. Honest work, even if it reaches only a few, feeds a soul. I'm in the business of feeding souls—not algorithms.

If you've read this far, thank you. You're the reason the silence was worth breaking. 💜

Velvet Scars is available now on Inkitt and amazon KDP. Blind Poetry for a Cynic is on Inkitt and Amazon KDP. If you read, please leave a review. It helps the algorithm—but more importantly, it helps another survivor find the mirror.