I’ll be honest: I didn’t finish the 75-Day Joa Soft Challenge. I started strong, documenting my progress, checking off my daily goals, and feeling like I was finally doing something that expanded me — something just for me. But somewhere along the way, between the full-time job, family responsibilities, and preparing for The Ordinary Bruja’s release, I ran out of shlits.

I want to talk about something a lot of creators (especially writers) feel but don’t always talk about: getting hard reviews, how they hit, how I see them, and how I survive (and even benefit from) them. My Experience With Reviews I’ve been seeing videos on YouTube about harsh reviews (you know, the kind that feel personal or raw) after I started getting my own set of tough feedback.

I just finished Bochica, and wow what a ride through atmosphere, ancestry, and slow-burn tension. Before getting into the review, I have to acknowledge something: as the author of The Ordinary Bruja (coming November 4), it would feel disingenuous not to point out how these two books could be literary cousins. They both carry the pulse of Gothic storytelling, generational secrets, and complicated mother-daughter legacies—but they tell those stories in completely different ways.

Some lessons come quietly. They don’t crash into your life; they creep in.For me, the latest one came wrapped in self-doubt—the kind that whispers, “You should be further along by now.” It showed up while I was scrolling through social media, watching other authors share polished photos of book launches, bookstore events, and glossy influencer shoutouts. And there I was, comparing my timeline to theirs.

Readers always mention in reviews of my writing: that sense of grief, the atmosphere of loss, the feeling that life is subtly cracking beneath the surface of everyday moments. And yes… I’ve known grief for as long as I can remember. That’s not a dramatic reveal — it’s just my truth, and I think it explains why I write the way I do.

I’ve been turning this idea over in my mind for a while now, and I want to share it here because it’s shaping why I write the way I do. I’ve come to believe there are three (yes, three) types of Latina multilingual authors — and I’ve landed squarely in Category Three. Let me walk you through what I mean, why I care, and why I think it matters for readers and writers alike.

Every so often, something magical happens in the book world—and this time, it’s happening for one day only. On October 26, 2025, readers everywhere can stuff their Kindles with free digital books from the talented members of the MilSpouse Authors group, a collective of military spouse writers creating everything from romance and thrillers to memoirs and magical realism.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about why some traditionally published Latinx stories don’t always feel as authentic as they could. I’m not saying they’re bad books. Far from it. But sometimes, as a reader, I can tell when a story has been trimmed or smoothed out in ways that make it lose some of its cultural heartbeat. Now, I’ll be the first to say that this is speculation on my part.

When I first wrote #InstaBruja, the story that later evolved into The Ordinary Bruja, I never imagined that a simple hill would carry so much meaning. At the time, I just wanted to capture that strange feeling of stepping back into the world after the pandemic—the mix of relief, anxiety, and quiet self-judgment that came with it. In…

Before The Ordinary Bruja became the dark, haunting, identity-reckoning novel it is today, it started as a short story I wrote called #InstaBruja. #InstaBruja was born out of the chaos and stillness of the pandemic. It followed a young woman named Marisol—a name I kept when she evolved into the protagonist of The Ordinary Bruja. In that short story, Marisol was trying to find her footing after the world reopened.

A thoughtful and gripping exposé of the “troubled teen” industry, this supernatural thriller explores how a haunted past collides with a traumatized present to reveal truths that were meant to stay hidden. Welcome to The Farm. Hazel Perez thinks her school project on the abandoned Oakwell Farms School for Girls, otherwise known as The Farm, will be just another assignment she’ll ace.

There’s a line in The Ordinary Bruja that makes people pause when they read it:“If they were lighter, they made it through.” It’s one of those lines that carries more than a story—it carries history. The kind of history that’s uncomfortable, that sits heavy in the chest long after the page turns. That line came from a place of anger and heartbreak.

There are days when being an author feels like climbing a mountain with no summit in sight. Between writing, editing, marketing, recording, designing, and somehow maintaining a life outside of the words, it’s easy to get caught in that loop of “I’m not doing enough.” But lately, I’ve been reminding myself: tiny wins count too. Because when you’re an indie author, the journey is long and winding.

There’s a moment—an exact, crystallized moment—when I knew The Ordinary Bruja had to exist. Not just as an idea, not as another story I’d someday get around to writing, but as something burning inside me that refused to stay quiet. It started online. Someone trolled me after I said that Spaniards don’t claim us Dominicans the way we claim them. Simple truth, right?

Tomorrow, October 19th, marks the start of something special—the official StoryGraph Giveaway for The Ordinary Bruja! From October 19th through November 18th, I’ll be giving away 10 digital copies (EPUB format) of my debut in the Las Cerradoras series. And because this is a digital giveaway, it’s open internationally—yes, you can enter from anywhere in the world. 🌍

This weekend, self-doubt tried to take the wheel. While creating all the preorder goodies for The Ordinary Bruja, I caught myself thinking, “My creativity only goes as far as writing.” My husband’s quick, “No, it doesn’t,” stopped me. He was right. I’ve taught myself Canva, Photoshop, Affinity Publisher, podcast editing, marketing copy—so much more than I gave myself credit for.

You know that feeling when your brain explodes with creative ideas faster than your hands—or printer—can keep up? Yeah, that’s me. I have so many ideas for goodies to go with my books—zines, bookmarks, stickers, magical rituals, you name it—but my patience level? About the size of a coffee bean. ☕ I swear, sometimes I think my creativity caps at writing.

There’s something about supernatural K-Dramas that just hits. The mix of fantasy, romance, and existential reflection makes them addictive in a way few genres can match. Recently, I found myself watching two back-to-back: My Demon and Genie, Make a Wish. Both were entertaining, emotionally satisfying, and visually beautiful—and yet, I couldn’t help but notice how similar they felt. Not just in plot, but in emotional rhythm.

There’s a phrase I grew up hearing that still makes my stomach twist when I think about it:“De eso no se habla.”We don’t talk about that. It’s such a simple sentence, yet it carries generations of silence. When I was a kid, I didn’t understand why certain topics were off-limits. I didn’t understand why I was expected to swallow my discomfort, ignore the looks, or pretend something didn’t happen when deep down, I knew it was wrong.

When I first started writing The Ordinary Bruja, I didn’t plan to write a haunted house story. At least, not in the traditional sense. I wanted to write about the kind of hauntings that don’t come with creaking floors or shadowy figures, but with inherited silence, guilt, and the weight of being the first to see what others have learned to ignore.

When I first found out I was pregnant, fear was the loudest emotion I felt. Not because I didn’t want my baby, but because I was terrified I’d mess it all up. Growing up in an unorthodox household, raised by my grandmother after my parents’ divorce, I had no blueprint for what a “normal” family looked like. I doubted everything about myself as a soon-to-be single mom.

I truly thought the hardest part of publishing The Ordinary Bruja would be finishing the story itself. Turns out, the real witchcraft happens after the words are written. By the time I reached my final editing stages, I was deep into what I like to call my “self-editing spiral.” You know the one — where you’ve read the manuscript so many times that you start questioning your own sanity.