Here I am, rewriting again. And mind you, I have a tendency to rewrite until a book is never finished. But this time, I see myself—I see the procrastination disguised as perfectionism, the endless tweaking that keeps me from calling a project done. And since knowing is half the battle, I’m determined not to fall prey to this tendency with The Ordinary Bruja. But if I do? I’ll catch it, call it out, and reroute myself back to my regularly scheduled programming.

That’s not to say the rewrites haven’t been necessary, because wow, this book has evolved. Every time I reflect on my life, my experiences, and the lessons I’ve had to learn (or unlearn), The Ordinary Bruja gains more layers. I can’t believe this book started as a chirpy, feel-good short story—something light and magical—only to morph into a coming-of-age with magical realism, and now…a dark, psychological horror wrapped in the supernatural. Where did this horror come from?!

I’ll tell you where—from the horror I’ve lived. From the sheer obstinance I’ve encountered in people who refuse to face who they are, where they come from, and the history written into their blood. That’s what broke me. And that’s what broke this book into something darker. Because really, what else was Marisol going to face if not that—her inability to accept who she is?

Looking back, I realize I am just like Marisol. I’ve spent parts of my life choosing to look the other way—literally and figuratively. Choosing comfort over confrontation. Avoiding discomfort. Refusing, at times, to unlearn things that needed to be unlearned. And that’s who I have in this book—an older version of myself, staring back at me. It’s both amusing and eye-opening to write.

So no, The Ordinary Bruja is no longer a feel-good book (I’m sorry if that’s what you were looking forward to). But you know what? This book is layered, and I know that most people will see parts of themselves in it. Because at its core, this is a book for those who’ve struggled to embrace every part of themselves—the good, the bad, and the truths we sometimes wish weren’t ours to hold.