Let’s get one thing straight: The Ordinary Bruja isn’t just a story about magic.
It’s about Dominican magic.
And yes—there’s a difference.
Not the kind of magic that shows up in viral TikTok spells or aesthetic alter setups (though no shade if that’s your jam). I’m talking about the kind that’s handed down in whispers, in superstition, in the way your tías clutch their chest and say “ay, eso no era normal.”
That’s the magic I grew up seeing. That’s the magic I gave to Marisol.
Because The Ordinary Bruja isn’t a fantasy story with a sprinkle of culture. It’s a cultural story where the magic rises from the land, the language, and the legacy we carry in our bones.
Where This Magic Comes From
I didn’t invent the kind of magic in this book. I recognized it.
I saw it in my paternal grandmother—how she’d talk to plants, to photos, to things she wouldn’t name out loud. I saw it in how the women in my family used their intuition like a compass, even when they didn’t call it that. I saw it in how silence was used to protect, how herbs were used to heal, how dreams were used to warn.
That kind of brujería isn’t loud or performative. It’s integrated. It’s not “set aside” to be practiced—it’s lived. And when you’re Dominican, you know: everything has meaning. Every ache, every dream, every visitor at your door.
We don’t always call it magic. But it is.
Why It Was Important for Marisol to Be Dominican
Marisol’s brujería had to be Dominican because her fear, her guilt, her longing for identity—all of it is tangled up in the cultural weight she carries.
She’s not just scared of magic. She’s scared of what it means to claim it:
- Will it make her more other than she already feels?
- Will it mean accepting a family legacy she never asked for?
- Will it confirm everything she was taught to hide?
Dominican culture is full of reverence and repression. Faith and fear. And for Marisol, navigating that duality is part of the journey. She’s not just learning spells—she’s unlearning shame.
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The Ordinary Bruja: Book One of Las Cerradoras Series – Johanny Ortega
Marisol Espinal has spent her life trying to disappear from her family’s whispers of magic, from the shame of not belonging, from the truth she refuses to face. She’s always wanted to be someone else: confident, capable, extraordinary.
But when strange visions, flickering shadows, and warnings written in her mother’s hand begin to stalk her, Marisol is forced to confront her deepest fear: what if she isn’t extraordinary at all? What if she’s painfully ordinary?
Yet Hallowthorn Hill doesn’t call to just anyone. And the more Marisol resists, the stronger its pull becomes. The past she’s buried claws its way back, and something in the mist is watching—waiting for her to remember.
If Marisol cannot face the truth about who she is and where she comes from, the same darkness that destroyed her ancestors will claim her, too.
Somewhere in the shadows, something knows her name.
And it’s time for Marisol to learn why.
Real Brujería Isn’t Always Pretty
The magic in The Ordinary Bruja isn’t about incantations or potions. It’s about relationship.
Marisol talks to altars. To wind. To soil. To her dead grandmother.
She doesn’t know that’s what she’s doing at first. But she feels it. And that’s what ancestral magic is—feeling something you weren’t taught to explain.
One of my beta readers told me, “I’ve never seen this kind of magic in a book before.”
And I laughed, because same. That’s why I had to write it.
This isn’t Hollywood magic. It’s Dominican quiet <– I know an oxymoron 🙂
It’s shaking off a bad dream and throwing water out the window just in case.
It’s wearing red thread around your wrist because your abuela said so.
It’s songs that sound like lullabies but are actually coded warnings.
It’s silence that holds more power than any spoken spell.
Brujería as Inheritance
In the book, Marisol doesn’t just stumble upon power. She’s called by it.
She inherits it.
She resists it.
And slowly, painfully, she remembers it.
This mirrors how many of us come into our own spirituality—especially if we’re first-gen, diaspora-born, or disconnected from homeland roots.
We feel the pull but don’t have the language.
We dream the dreams but don’t trust them.
We sense the energy but second-guess it.
Marisol does all of that. And through her, I got to write about what it means to be Dominican and magical without needing permission.
Without needing to prove anything.
Without needing to look like anyone else’s idea of what a bruja should be.
For Every Dominican Who Feels the Pull
If you’ve ever been told “eso no se dice”…
If you’ve ever lit a candle and didn’t know why…
If you’ve ever felt like your body knew something before your mind did…
This book is for you.
It’s for every Dominican girl who didn’t grow up seeing herself in fantasy books.
For every bruja who learned her power in pieces.
For every child of silence who found her way back to truth through whispers and wind.
Because yes, Marisol is a bruja.
But she’s a Dominican one.
And that means everything.
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