Zoraida Córdova's Blog: Zoraida Says

Writer Jail: Procrastination

Queridos,

I’ve been in trad-pub limbo for a couple of months, so in the meantime I’m working on other side projects which keep the lights on (barely). This led me to understand how important procrastination is to my writer life. Many writers have many opinions on this topic, but here are my two cents no one asked for. {I’m calling my publishing posts “Writing Jail” now and separate from updates/announcements.}

The reasons I procrastinate (and probably you do too):

I’m a perfectionist. I obsess over my line level, my dialogue, my metaphors. I don’t want to be passé or cliché or just boring. This does not mean that I have achieved what I think I’m setting out to do, but at least I can be certain that I did the best I could. When am I supposed to draw the line, though? That brings me to the second reason I procrastinate . . .

Me, every day.

I’m scared. If I keep telling myself that the writing isn’t good enough, but I’m not letting myself move forward, then I’m never going to find out. I can’t control what a reader is going to react to, no matter how much thought I put into it. So if I never start, I’ll never have to see the reviews that tell me I failed. And I’ve been in this long enough to know that for every person who doesn’t get it, there are a dozen more who do. Sometimes it’s just one more, but still. It counts.

#2 for me in distractions

I’m constantly behind. I have published/sold a piece of fiction every year for 13 years. That’s 24 novels, 20 something short stories, 3 comics, and 2 screenplays (RIP). And yet, I am barely making it. So very barely. A lot of this has to do with how long it takes publishing to 1. draft a contract. 2. agree to the contract. Most importantly, 3. keep deadlines so we can get paid on time. We’re all behind and tired. I know this. I get it. But the instability of writing means I’ve tried to publish more than one book a year. This means working on three to four projects at the same time, not to mention school visits, the several dozens of emails asking for a donation or question or blurb or event. Do not misunderstand me;I’m happy to do all of this stuff. I love being among readers and be a good literary citizen whenever I can be. However, sometimes I feel, not like a one woman business, but a one woman circus. We are all running our shingles solo. My agency helps, but no agency is a miracle worker when it comes to how very broken publishing is for anyone stewing in the midlist love-handles (and below) of this industry. I’m so behind all the time. I used to feel paralyzed with the feeling of being behind, but it’s getting better, even simply by calling myself out when I do this.

I love researching for researching books part of procrastination

I’m guilty. Because of everything I’ve stated above, I’m super guilty. Also the dregs of my Catholicism. I mean . . . do I know how lucky I am? Do I know how lucky it is that I, a girl who came from an unpaved street in a poor river shore neighborhood in Ecuador and later a low income New York neighborhood, gets to publish with Big Fives, and absolute legendary brands like Star Wars and Disney? It has taken me so long to cobble together these wins, and when I sit around waiting ten months for my edits, or a contract gets delayed, or I start feeling like I’ve let my team down because 22 books later and I still haven’t hit the list and even though I don’t care (I really don’t) I know they do and it’s just *angry emoji*. It’s like the universe is finding new ways to test how quickly I’ll break. And I mean emotionally, financially, spiritually. I am not a woo woo person so it takes a lot for right now for me to admit this. I’ve learned tiktok, I do my own graphics, I go to events. I’m down for (almost) anything publicity-related to sell a book expect for crying on the internet because admitting failure or disappointment physically makes me want to throw up. I wish I could cry online and have a famous person pity share and get my 15 minutes but I don’t think too many women of color get to ever be that vulnerable.

Not good. I know this guilt isn’t good, and I’m working on it, but definitely another reason I procrastinate.

And that’s the real tragedy in all of this.

I’m burned out. This needs no explanation. I have been running at full speed since I was 25. I’ve given my best to an art form that I love. I’m always a little off trend but I’m okay with that. Now I need a full fortnight of recovery after a few all-nighters. First of all, why are you doing all-nighters like you’re late for your Gothic literature midterm again? Living with burnout makes me feel like one of those cars you see on the highway: no bumper, trash bag covering the rearview, missing doors, lewd sticker on the gas cover. Full speed, all anaphylactic exhaust.

Sometimes I wish I had a husband with a job, or a patron from the 1800s. (This is when I ask for help.) I’ve been on enough book panels where it feels like every other authors starts by saying “thanks to my supportive hubby lol.” Don’t come for me, those of you with partners with jobs. Isn’t it enough that sometimes I envy you for five minutes?

This is what burn out does to me. I get mad when people are like, “do self-care.” Okay, bro. To me “self-care” sounds so self indulgent. Nails, wax, facials—these things are hygiene, not self-care. I’m a hot mess but at least and smooth and sparkly.

Anyway. Burned out. That’s killed me with deadlines the last few years. I’m hoping things look up when I turn in my next book proposals this fall.

If you’re of the procrastination nation, welcome to the club. I don’t love this for us, but I do hope that we find ways to cope and get over that hump. Just ONE MORE procrastination, just for the road and them I’m ready. I take walks, read, listen to audiobooks, go to the theater, binge a favorite show (currently rewatching Supernatural), go to the met, go to a book event and feel joy for another author’s success. Move. Do something. I need some more suggestions, though.

(yells)

One of my rituals to shake up writer’s block procrastination is watch the Season 23 episode 6 of The Simpsons. THE BOOK JOB. I have gotten hammered at retreats and forced my friends to watch this episode. Many times. There’s something about it that’s so wildly book specific that gets me. If you haven’t seen it, in this episode Bart and Homer try to defraud a publishing company (heist style) by group writing a “tween-lit” hit. With the help of Neil Gaiman (ugh, I know. All he does in the episode is get sandwiches tho). Anyway, when Lisa discovers her favorite kidlit author is such a scammer, she decides to write the “old fashioned way.” Hilarity ensues.

It’s my comfort watch that gets me over the hump when I’m ready to, as Lisa says, “get some serious writing done.” This is me going to get that serious writing done.

I have a monthly fiction tier, if you’re interested in that sort of thing. Support your lol-sob writers <3 <3 <3

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Published on August 29, 2025 17:19

Ranking the Best Editing Pens + Kickstarter News!

I exiled myself to the tadpole end of Long Island to work on my line edits for The Fall of Rebel Angels. After 13 years and 23 novels, this might be the book process that finally breaks me spiritually, and definitely the ~publishing~ process that got me to ask my doctor friend for anti-anxiety medication. Publishing amirite *lol sob*

[~* If you’re here for Kickstarter news and cannot wait, scroll down!]

This newsletter is NOT about publishing woes, however. Maybe one day I’ll let myself be vulnerable about this, but I’m focusing all of my positive energy on line edits. I’ve taken over my Guncles’s house, hotelified their dining table, and started to reread the whole damn thing while I await my editor’s notes.

I love office supplies. Simply. Love. Them. My cousin asked me what she could buy me for Christmas and I said LITERALLY I WANT COLORFUL GEL PENS. So if you ever want to buy me a present—I still want cash. But the second best option is go to a stationary store or Office Max.

Anyway, I’m old enough that I still prefer editing on the page. (don’t cancel me I used recycled paper.) I read it aloud. I question whether I’ve ever had a good grasp on the English language. I love using different colors, but this draft requires classic red. Ruby Woo red. Red District red. Bull fighting red. Five alarm chili red. Red hot cili pepper red. *plays bass*

{this post is obviously a cry for help}

I TRIED 6 PENS AND 1 PENCIL. Worst to best.

Papermate - Red: AKA TRAITOR red. I was rooting for you. I used to be a Papermate fiend. I have dozens in slightly different shades of the rainbow. But they dry really quickly. Barely got through a sentence. Also, I tried to dip it in warm water to clean the pen or unclog any dry ink and it didn’t do anything.

1 goodreads stars. {i still like the shape}

Prismacolor - Carmine Red: AKA Watery blood red. I love a pencil. I love tucking them into my bun. I love scratching my temple with the eraser. I love sharpening it. Still, not enough pigment.

2 goodreads stars. {it’s the vibes}

Gelly Roll - Metallic red: AKA Metallic Dream Red. As in, I keep dreaming of a red that is metallic that doesn’t just look silvery pink.

2.5 storygraph stars. (they have halves)

Sharpie S Gel - Red: AKA Apple (the Corporation) Red. Smooth. Sharp. Sleep. Glides like a dream. Love the cushion feel of the grip.

4 goodreads stars.

Random Japanese stationary felt pen - Red SR153: AKA Delicate Rose Red. This red is more muted. It does not alarm. It says, “you did a good job, litter zo-writer.” Bonus, the felt top is very tiny. I’ve had it so long the characters have rubbed off but it’s still . . . wet. (Unlike the Papermate that keeps drying out.) Great for tiny handwriting when you’re trying to fit between the double spaces.

4.5 goodreads stars

Gelly Roll - Sakura: AKA Sailor Mars Red. This pen. This is my ode to this sweet, shimmering pen. It is “Mars power, make up!” sparkly. THIS is what I want when I want glitter. Some of the Gelly Rolls do get clogged up with the glitter, but this one has been great so gar.

5. storygraph stars

Gelly Roll - Sakura 08 : Barbie Plastic Red. I don’t know how to explain the creamy, liquid plastic texture of this pen, but it is my #1. I wish I could buy a box of the single color but it comes in a pack. I hope it lasts through 600 pages of editing. Will report back with the breaking news.

5.5 storygraph stars { RED LIGHTSABER RED }

Wish me luck. Add The Fall of Rebel Angels to your storygraph or wherever you track books. Goodreads link. Story Graph link.

{For kickstarter news, scroll a tiny bit more!}

Did two events this month. Top left: Pluto’s Loft, a creative salon hosted in a TriBeCa apartment. Read from my Substack novella Monster House! Bottom left: Readers Arvin Ahmadi, Ryan La Sala, JP Brammer, and Lauryn Chamberlain. Top right: Amazing time at Paginas & Perreo, a Latina reader event. Bottom right: This video of protestors booing at JD Vance was so touching, I had to save it.

I’ve been in a reading slump, so if you have any recs for speculative fiction that makes you FEEL SOMETHING (bonus if it has romance) then send it to me.

My brother has a new song out, and I’m so incredibly proud of him!! He’s an independent musician and has been working at this since he was a pre-teen. It’s been a hard year for the Córdova household, so it would mean a lot if you gave it a listen. It’s up on music platforms. Spotify link.

Now, WHAT IS THIS KICKSTARTER THING?

I’m part of a dystopian romance kickstarter, but not as a writer. As an editor! {This is a super soft launch for my editing services.} Working on the anthologies over the years has really made it clear that I’ve always loved editing. I love shaping stories. I love helping other shape their stories. After teaching for a few years, I started quietly editing as well. This is my first project I’m seeing to publication.

AH²

AFTER THE END is A Dystopian Romance Collection. Eight original stories exploring love after the end of the world. This initiative was created by the brilliant Adriana Herrera and . When they asked me to come aboard to manage the editorial, and edit three of the stories, I jumped at the chance. These stories are all so different. There’s portals and bunkers and omegaverse and danger, but most importantly, there’s LOVE and romance and passion. There will be paperbacks, hardcovers, audio, character art, special covers, custom edges, double sided books, and more.

The Kickstarter goes live in September! You can click on the link ««« but here’s a little about the stories, including some of the gorgeous covers.

BAIT by Adriana Herrera - a woman is forced out of her bunker after twenty-nine years, only to discover the world didn't end.

FIRST by Ali Hazelwood - a general plans to use a nobleman's bride to teach him a lesson. After meeting her, he decides to keep her for himself.

M.A.Y.A. by Nina Saxena - in an effort to escape a war-torn dystopian planet where she would be used as a weapon to hurt innocent people, MAYA searches for a way to stop her captors by fleeing through one of six dimensions in a hidden bunker. There, she meets a pack of shifters and an alpha determined to claim her as his fated mate.

SKYN by Nikki Payne- when Fawl's ex dumps her for her stepsister, she takes the messiest deal imaginable: dig up dirt on an Elite family for a golden ticket out of the Underground. Simple, right? No. Now she's somehow *Checks Notes* married to an emotionless machine who's weirdly obsessed with her skin.

TAKEN by Elizabeth Stephens - a woman kept in stasis in a bunker wakes 5000 years after the fall of humanity to find a desolate world overrun by monsters – and is taken captive by one of them.

BROOD by Claire Kent - a woman who has been intended since childhood to a young man in the bunker gets paired instead with an older man when his wife dies unexpectedly.

PRIMA by Sherry Thomas - a handsome prince comes across a beautiful woman on the open sea. She is lying on a primitive-looking raft, almost entirely naked. What is he to do?

TRADE by Cate C. Wells- when a woman from the bunker is traded to a scavenger for sex, she learns that nothing is like she's been told.

There are so many *bites knuckles*-moments. I’m hyped for our first ever launch!

Also: Our stance on AI: No one asked, but we are saying it anyway! AI was not used for the creation of any of the stories or the art in this collection.

So. What happens after the end? We have no idea. The one thing we know for sure? There will still be Happily Ever Afters.

Until next time! Thank you for reading and supporting my words 💫

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Published on August 14, 2025 08:21

Monster House: Chapter 4 (New horrormance)

Welcome back to The Midpoint, my serial fiction section here on Substack! Thank you so much to my lovely subscribers. If you’re new, and it’s okay if you are, I started writing a story about a house of monstrous girls living together in a retrofitted manor in the middle of nowhere, New Hampshire. It’s called Monster House. This is how it works:

Chapters are 3-5k long.

Genre: bubblegum horrormance? Is that a genre? It is now. Blood, sex, magic, but with a pink filter.

There are five monster girls. Each one gets a novella. Part I will be written in sections for this newsletter. Unsure about the rest and not making any decisions on it since this is really an outlet for me to try a bonkers story with the hopes there are others who would be drawn to the same summoning circle.

Part I - The Vampire « « « You are here « « «

Part II - The Mermaid

Part III - The Werewolf

Part IV - The Succubus

Part V - The Gorgon

I’m going to post a chapter every few weeks, though I hope to make it biweekly.

As you read, keep in mind this is very lightly edited and proofread. There’s something about this font that I can’t pick up typos after several reads. And autocorrect really is not a friend to any of us.

Tell your friends! Tell your mom—but only if she’s into (sometimes weird) monster romance.

Don’t be shy with the comments. It won’t hurt my feelings, and I’d love constructive feedback on what you’d love to see from the characters. Like, choose-your-own adventure, though really more of a “suggest”-your-own adventure.

I’m writing this as Zoey Castile.

Happy reading. If you’re having fun, please share! If you haven’t started, well this is your invitation to Foxwood Manor.

What’s Monster House about?

Welcome to Foxwood Manor, a home built in the 19th century to one of the richest families in the region. After the bloody scandal that befell the original owners, it fell into the hands of Athena Hall, a real estate agent—and immortal Gorgon. She repaired the house, and accrued four roommates over the years. Each girl is a monster. A Miami vampire frozen at the edge of twenty one. A cursed mermaid who loves to cook. A Brooklyn werewolf living her cottage-core dreams. A succubus trying to get her groove back. And a glamorous Gorgon waiting for her past to come and get its revenge.

They say good fences make good neighbors. Every month, three of the girls go on a trip called the Fever Hunt. They stock up on supplies, run and swim in the wild, and then return to the safety of the manor. But this trip brings a surprise—their meticulously planned hunt is interrupted by a blizzard, and a bachelor party stranded on their hillside road.

Karli Perreira has been a vampire for thirty one years, and a vegetarian vampire for twenty five of them. The sordid details are not important. Turned in the 90s, she’s perpetually a day short of twenty-one. Like, total bummer. She’s made the most of it living in a decked out manor with her monstrous besties. Karli’s always been afraid of losing control again. Her recent cravings and the group of handsome strangers who seek shelter in the storm is about to test that self-control. Especially the brooding, handsome Ryder Vega, a budding singer and disarming flirt. Somehow Karli feels like she’s known him all her life.

But as the blizzard snows them in, and delays their leaving, the monster girls of Foxwood Manor struggle to reign in their hunger. For Karli, it’s been so long since she’s fed on a human, but she’s on the brink of breaking every rule that keeps them safe. As Ryder pursues her, and she allows herself to open her heart, and her bedroom door, she’s starting to wonder—who is really the hunter, and who is the prey?

PROLOGUE: In which we learn the bloody history of Foxwood Manor

Chapter 1: In which we meet the monster girls getting ready for a hunt 🌶️

Chapter 2: In which a group of very handsome strangers seek shelter from the snowstorm.

Chapter 3: In which playful drinking games take a terrible, violent turn … 🔪🥃

Chapter 4: In which Karli’s murderous past comes back to bite her … literally 🌶️ 💥🩸

“Your . . . father?” I repeat. “Travis Moore is your father?”

Ryder watches me from where he sits on the corner of my bed. It hurts too much to move, let alone look away from him so I shut my eyes. A sick shiver courses through me. Revulsion at the memory of the man but something else. Hunger. I am so hungry. Hollowed out. Nothing I’ve done today has sated it. It is the kind of hunger that comes with nausea. My old vampiric crew called it “drying out” but I recognize it for what it is—early signs of desiccation. It isn’t possible. Not enough time has passed and I just ate. Flecks of colored light bleeds into my line of sight. No matter how many times I blink they’re still there. So is Ryder, beautiful and deadly, adjusting his grip around his stake.

“Why is that hard to believe?” he asks, distant and cold. “Because you murdered him? Because you never thought your victims could ever be traced back to you?”

I can’t help but laugh. I regret it. Like, instantly regret it. Every movement disturbs the ropes around my wrists. I let my laughter turn into a low growl. It is precisely because I spent years erasing any trace of me—dead or alive—that it dawns on me just how much work Ryder has put into finding me.

The balcony door was open.

Someone was in my room.

They put holy water in my remaining blood supply. What else did they do? If the other members of his “bachelor party” were with us the entire time, then there has to be a fifth.

I inhaled deeply, letting my heightened senses search for a third presence in my room, but all I get is the usual static of magic that courses through our house, and our two heartbeats—his erratic, mine preserved in time.

I think about screaming, but my throat burns as it heals from the tainted blood. Besides, the room is sound proof, even if it isn’t psychic-dream proof. If I can just reach my bedside radio, I can hit the panic button. Alert the others.

Once the ropes dry, the effects of the holy water soaking the ropes will weaken. I’d be able to rip my way out of this. But I need time. The only way I know to keep a man talking is to ask him to talk about himself.

“You’re lucky,” I tell him.

Even in the shadows of my dimly lit room, I can see the muscles of his throat and his Adam’s apple work when he swallows. He doesn’t want to ask. I can see the struggle it takes him to let my comment sit. He’s put so much work into this, I bet, so to suggest that he’s lucky should be a slap in the face.

I’m rewarded when he finally scoffs and asks, “Why’s that?”

I lick at my bottom lip. The skin is split, but no blood comes out. “I’m not going to ruin whatever image you have of your father. You’ve clearly dedicated a significant amount of time and resources to finding me. So.” I clear my throat. I need blood. I need to get to my friends. I need to get him out of my sight before I do something I can’t take back. “Keep idolizing him.”

“You think I idolize him?”

“Why do this to me, then? If not for revenge?”

Ryder stands. Thank the Lord of Darkness that I have a foam mattress, and his rapid movement doesn’t make me bounce like the waterbed I had in middle school. My attacker (neé house guest) goes to the balcony door. He peels back the curtain and stares into the darkness using the tip of the stake. What is he waiting for?

“When I got old enough I read every interview about my father I could get my hands on,” Ryder says, his breath fogging against the glass door overlooking the snow-covered balcony. The trees surrounding the manor are black silhouettes, and the moon seems brighter in our isolation.

“Pretty sure I read the same magazines.” I hope this will get him to say more by simply pissing him off.

Ryder glances at me, but he won’t hold my stare. I don’t tell him thrall is my weakest vampire trait. I’ve let myself grow soft and weak and comfortable all these years. I’ve let myself imagine I was safe. His presence comes with the bracing realization that no matter how much we try to build a safety net, the past always comes back. That and there is no such thing as safety in this world. Not forever. Not for girls like us.

Photo by Arnau Soler on Unsplash

A Summer of Pedro Pascal and Shiny New Stories

¡Hola, hello!

I had a massive story-inspiration day.

Yesterday I went for a walk around the Onassis Reservoir in Central Park. It’s my favorite walk, which I don’t take enough. I was on the phone with Dhonielle for most of it, telling her the plot of my next book. This is often my first step in getting ready to write. I love having this reassurance from my friends as I get ready to write. They poke holes at my story. Make me question my meta narratives and themes and characters. Every writer needs a group of friends like this.

Once we hung up, I kept turning the story this way and that, the way a jeweler would a prospective gem. For the first time in a long time, I’m excited about what comes next, even though this book is not under contract.

The moment I started walking home, my head crowded with my own story, a rom com audio book, and the news feed I was scrolling, the sky opened up and it started to rain. Not like pitter patter. I was 15 minutes away from home and I was soaked to the bone. I stopped once under an awning but that didn’t help. Tourists crowded under hotel doorways. A handsome bald man in a suit hailed a taxi and skipped around puddles to read it in the most magnificently New York moment I’ve witnessed in a while.

The rain cleansed me, I think.

I showered (RAIN MUCK!?!), opened up a notebook and made notes. I came up with a couple of other book ideas (still squishy and uncooked), and some scenes that would be perfect short stories, and a plot fix for Monster House.

This has been a shit year and a half for me, but I am holding onto these shiny new ideas like North Fucking Stars. I don’t worry about getting new ideas. My ongoing spreadsheet is up to 50 log lines and counting. The thing I’ve been missing is the heat behind it. The excitement.

Nothing had changed. Maybe my brain chemistry! But going on my silly little walks, wandering around the MET to look at marble butts, urban nature, MOVIES. That brings me to:

I’ve been to more movies this summer than any other year since before the pandemic. I got AMC Stubs and it is the one monthly membership I feel is worth it. (Not an ad.) But I have seen the big summer blockbusters. Spoiler alert, while I am a BOOK SNOB, I am not a movie snob. The campier, hollywooder, superhero-y, the disneyest—then I am happy. Throw in Pedro Pascal, and honestly, maybe his gentle face is what cured my industry-induced depression.

~*~*~*~Spoilers beyond this point~*~*~*~

Movie Posters The Materialists, Eddington, Fantastic 4

I will say, I love that Pedro Pascal is booked and busy. Wherever he’s on screen, he is disarming, earnest, and mischievous in a way that feels so rare and unique to who he is in interviews.

After watching The Materialists, my friends and I went to a local diner and talked about it. We were there at the premiere thanks to a raffle held by the Ripped Bodice bookstore. Celine Song was there, as well as Dakota Johnson and Chris Evans (Pedro couldn’t make it *sads*), an exec from A24. It wasn’t a Q&A. There was some weather delays so the director and exec spoke briefly about rom coms and the exec even referenced When Harry Met Sally.

Something that happens with Romance books and movies is that people call anything a rom-com when they mean “love story.” I did watch Past Lives, and worried that it would have a similar tone. Past Lives is undoubtably a love story, though as beautiful and nostalgic as it was, not a rom-com. The Materialists had some moments with sharp humor. If you haven’t seen it, it’s about a match maker who ends up snagging herself a 10/10 unicorn (Pedro Pascal). On the same night she bumps into her down-on-his-luck ex boyfriend whom she moves to NYC with to “make it” and they never did. She dates the billionaire. But when a terrible work thing happens, she pulls away from Mr. Perfect Pedro and returns to her broke ex because he can SEE her when she’s upset and unable to open up. WHICH FINE! Chris Evans had the kind of romance novel hero scenario I loooooove to read and write about. (And if you want that in a book, read When Javi Dumped Mari by Mia Sosa.) But I think if this had been a true ROMCOM, he would have had more motivation sooner.

Pedro Pascal in The Materialists

The message felt clear. No matter how perfect someone is, money can’t buy love. But that’s not why this was not a rom-com. It’s not a rom com because the tone remains very sharp and indie, detached, as if love is more aesthetic than emotion. Again, enjoyed it, beautiful movie, i love pedro. But a romantic comedy doesn’t have sexual assault, and in order for me to root for Hot but Worn Down True Love instead of Mr. Perfect Money Bags, you need to show me moments outside of them yelling and being cruel to each other. My friends who are much smarter pointed out that we never see Dakota and Chris happy in their past, which would make us understand why they belong together. We do see Pedro and Dakota happy in the present.

The weirdest moment was when Pedro’s character admits he and his brother got that height surgery where they make men taller. I stopped short of going “What?” really loudly in that theater. I don’t care WHO the other characters are. I would choose a 5’6 Pedro Pascal. I would choose Pedro Pascal even if he was 5’6 and in the Chris Evans’s character’s shoes (And if you want that in a book, read When Javi Dumped Mari by Mia Sosa). Again, I would choose Pedro Pascal if he was a Munchkin and wanted to role play as Galinda and Elphaba. I would choose Pedro Pascal if he was Prince Cornelius, prince of faeries. Call me Thumbalina, bitch. Like, what are you even talking about?

I saw something on Instagram or here, where someone said Pedro Pascal was underused in Fantastic Four: First Steps, and I disagree. I think he was underused in The Materialists. His arc was wrapped up but not in a way that felt complete. And in Eddington. I will shamefully admit this is my first Ari Aster movie. It was interesting. Like this fabulist absurd western satire set during the start of Covid lockdown. Set in Eddington, a tiny town that doesn’t think the politics will reach it, but it does. I’m glad I watched it. Joaquin Phoenix is so good, the cast was wacky and colorful. Pedro plays a two-faced politician. Super woke and compassionate by day, crooked and paid-for by night. It pokes fun at the ultra-wokeness that happened during the protests. But also the wild conservative conspiracy theories, cult leaders, antifa ninjas??? It is a movie about how we are all being manipulated by media, and I left feeling kind of hopeless about the world.

Fantastic Four was interesting because it had the shadow of its past versions to compete with as well as superhero fatigue. I read David Sim’s piece in the Atlantic where he points out “There’s no time for the characters to engage in era-appropriate diversions (such as, perhaps, kicking back with martinis) or match wits with colorfully costumed adversaries. This adventure is all end-of-the-world menace, all the time.” He’s referring to the way director Matt Shakman’s version doesn’t start with the origin story. Neither did Tom Holland’s Spider Man reboot, and neither did James Gunn’s new Superman. Are we just getting tired of seeing this first change? After rewatching Iron Man/Thor/Captain #1, I understand not wanting to dedicate a bajillion dollars to another origin story. It definitely helps us start the story sooner, though it that the thing that sacrifices the moments the heroes get to have a little fun?

The new F4 has a stylish scifi retro aesthetic that Solo: A Star Wars Story also channeled a bit, but on the cooler side. The attention to detail is stunning, and I remember thinking “this is one of the more beautiful movies Marvel has made in a while.” The more I think about it, I agree with David Sims when he says the character don’t get to have as much of the superhero “fun & games” part of the story. Sure, Ben makes a great joke in the kitchen. He and Johnny have excellent banter. Poor Johnny’s romance never got going! Justice! Sue and Reed are in the middle of finding out that they’re pregnant.

At the same time, this is a movie in which the superheroes have perfected crime fighting so that they can spend more with their family, and keep the world safe. I also love getting to see them actually be astronauts. And while they’re not exactly drinking martinis, the set pieces they interact with (the gold record player and Reed’s lab etc) feels so well thought out and real and tactile, that I could appreciate a more family oriented hero family. This version of earth isn’t ours. It’s idealistic, diverse, and a bit naive in the way only people who have always known safety can be.

This world trusts it’s heroes. When Sue came out in the crowd like she was holding a white baby Jesus, I honestly had no idea where they were going with that. Mobs are not kind in our earth, but seem to be in this Earth 828.

Sue, Reed, Ben, and Johnny have been changed by what happened to them, and they have dedicated themselves, not just to America, but to the world. And I realize how annoying that sounds, but beings with super powers should use them for the whole world. (Superman had a similar theme) And yet, when it comes to trading their baby to Galactus, they retreat. They will do everything possible to avoid this horrible sacrifice, including UNITE THE WORLD, something I could never even imagine being done in our world. It made me feel cynical and then for a moment, I felt a little bit of hope seeing the good guys win.

My aural migraine queeeeen!!!

Pedro’s take on Mister Fantastic and Reed felt incredibly familiar. I could see in him my own mother’s fear of what I might become as an adult, especially here in this adopted country, in a world where she was still learning the rules. Reed doesn’t know the extent of his powers, or his son’s. He is believably afraid. I’d think the metaphor is there even if it wasn’t a Latino actor. Here is where Pedro shines, working to keep his family together.

Sue’s powers have never felt so stunningly believable than when she delivers a baby IN SPACE and then ganks an evil space lord who wants to eat her baby. And I know some people don’t like the baby thing. It’s giving Reneesme from Twilight but CGI babies might just never not look like haunted dolls. But I got over it. I will say I missed Chris Evans’s natural “bro” vibes as Johnny, but the cast was so charming together, I found it impossible not to love them.

David Sim also said in his Atlantic piece, “When a crisis arises, Reed and company are actually capable of rallying the world to help save itself. Multiple times in First Steps, Shakman emphasizes the power of a global community, the kind he’s clearly longing for in our world.” That is exactly what I felt. I wish this world would stop hurting each other and more so that I feel powerless. It’s not fair that heroes don’t get the levity of Clark Kent and Lois having a heart to heart while other heroes take care of an alien eye thing (Superman). I miss the Avengers sitting around drinking and trying to pick up Thor’s hammer. The bad things always come for them, and they rise to meet it because they are the symbols we need. One of my friends still hasn’t seen it so I’m going again tomorrow.

Pedro does shine in this movie, and I hope I get to write him something he can start in. DREAMS!!

What have you seen this summer? Are you also having a Summer of Pedro <3 ?

Now for some updates:

Other movies I watched recently. Here are my thoughts on Elio!

L-R Top: Fantasy panel at LIU writer festival, girl dinner and a throwback read. L-R Bottom: Arc of Once Upon a Time in Dollywood by Ashley Jordan, and my second favorite butt at the MET.

If you’re new here, I have a monthly fiction tier. I made a separate tab for it and it’s called THE MIDPOINT. I have a sample of a WIP, a contemporary romance, and a monster romance serial. See below!

Catch up on MONSTER HOUSE (prologue-chapter 3) and subscribe for the whole monster enchilada.

PROLOGUE: In which we learn the bloody history of Foxwood Manor

Until next time! Thank you for reading my words 💫

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Published on July 31, 2025 21:26

Elio & The Lonely Immigrant Kid

My brother and I have been going to a lot of movies together since he moved in. We walk across Central Park to the nicer AMC by Lincoln Center (the one on the UES notoriously has mice). This time, we went to see ELIO, the latest Disney/Pixar movie. I remember seeing a preview for it at another, but I’ve been on deadline so I haven’t paid attention to how it’s been received.

Spoiler alert: I loved it.

I’ve been thinking about what hit me the hardest and I’ve narrowed it down to the following things.

caption...

THE LONELY IMMIGRANT KID

Elio (voiced by Yonas Kibreab) is recently orphaned, and goes to live in an air force base with his Aunt Olga, voiced by Zoe Saldaña. He’s withdrawn and feels understandably lonely. Aunt Olga doesn’t know how to balance her career aspirations with suddenly also being a parent. This is classic middle grade coming of age growing pains. I loved how they hit these notes with moments like Olga being asked about a space program she was really excited about, but now can’t do. Elio, like all precocious kids, is aware of this and blames it on himself.

As the movie progressed—Elio becomes an alien aficionado who desperate wants to be abducted by extraterrestrials, confronts bullies, and gets in trouble—I couldn’t help but make parallels to my own childhood as a lonely immigrant kid. Even now I’m tearing up writing this. (Jesus, Zoraida, go to therapy.)

Elio is coded as Latino. There are subtle hints in the imagery, though it’s never said out loud. He’s not a recent immigrant like I was when I arrived in Queens, New York in 1992 (ish). But this captured the loneliness of not having your parents there with you. Elio’s parents (off screen) passed away. I am lucky enough that this wasn’t my reality, but my mother wasn’t there. It’s not her fault. She was going to school at night and working during the day, and then had a second job at a catering company later at night. I was also co-parents and raised by my aunts and uncles.

But there is a very particular loneliness that comes with being a child immigrant. You don’t have a tether. This isn’t your home, not yet. Elio’s home is not the Air Force base, not yet.

I was bullied by all kinds of kids for speaking in Spanish *in* our Spanish language class. Elio is bullied (well, because he makes up a fake club to steal a radio but misunderstandings happen).

Elio has created his own language which only his parents knew. “Elioese” is his own way of communicating. He’s silent for most of the time with his aunt, and she hasn’t learned his language yet. When you’re coming from another country that speaks a different language, and you’re immersed in the public school systems, you often feel misunderstood. I remember the year my thoughts were no longer in Spanish. (I was 10.) But until I got there, my English was still evolving. At home, my Spanish was garbled, a kitchen sink of different accents from the Puerto Rican and Dominican kids also in my class, not to mention my teachers.

For those in-between years, I didn’t feel understood. No one spoke my language, or the language I was learning. I was quiet. Instead of looking to the sky, I looked to fantasy novels, wishing, hoping, praying that one of them would open and take me far away to another land with magical creatures. Here, in this inner world, I could finally be understood. And wanted.

Immigrant kids are quiet and lonely, mostly because everyone is at work. If not for the neighbor or aunt or cousin who can look after you, then who did you have but your imagination?

Elio goes on to have an amazing adventure full of heart, friendship, and bravery. I felt overjoyed. Every frame was beautiful. I wish I could thank Adrian Molina for the work he’s done at Pixar, including this story.

Go watch Elio! We went to a 3PM showing on a Sunday, which was packed with families and the kids reacting to certain scenes was a delight.

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Published on July 07, 2025 10:13

The Midpoint #5: NEW ROMCOM NOVELETTE

Welcome back to The Midpoint, my serial fiction section here on Substack! This month I have a romcom novelette. The story was originally included in Best Women's Erotica of the Year, Volume 6 (if my memory serves me right.) It’s okay if you never read it since I spent this week completely re-writing it as an exercise, and now it’s triple the length. (Also, why am I giving me homework when I have other work?)

Next Monster House chapter is also coming a little later this month. But I thought I’d switch it up. If you’re not subscribed, enjoy the first chapter. It will go up for sale as an ebook later this month, but The Midpoint subscribers get it automatically! Any support is welcome.

Happy reading.

What’s The Far Side of the World about?

Veronica Solas wanted an adventure. She left her entire world in New York City to “reconnect with herself” by hiking across the Hebridean islands off the west coast of Scotland. She’d a day away her terminus when the weather has another idea.

Caught in a sudden rainstorm, Vera is saved by the very man who nearly ran her over—Finley MacLeod. A former rugby player, Finley knows a thing or two about starting over. What started out as seeking shelter from the rain turns into a night (and morning) of passion.

Vera might be off course, but perhaps she found exactly what she’d been looking for.

This one-shot short story is a standalone in the Modern Love romances, a contemporary romance project I’ve been working on. This is a peek into the style and vibes.

Read if you're into:
* Open door
* Travel stories
* Insta-attraction
* Sex-positivity
* She comes first
* Sexy Scotsman
* Latina heroine
* Bite sized smut

Word count total: 9,500

Chapter One

Veronica Solas knew she was lost again when she saw the same two blue sheep humping next to the rock formation that resembled a troll doll. One of the ones that had lined her big sister’s book shelves.

The sheep in question glanced up once to bleat at her voyeurism. Despite the blisters rubbing against the insides of her hiking boots, Vera couldn’t keep standing there. She adjusted her massive backpack and trudged through the soggy hills that blanketed the isle of Harris, jabbing her trekking poles into the soil ahead to make sure she didn’t fall into a bog. Considering how her wild Scottish hiking adventure was going, getting swallowed by a murky pit seemed par for the course. When the muddy ground swallowed the aluminum rod, it ate the rubber tip of her trekking pole clean off, letting go with an immature slurping sound, and Vera let loose a strangled, disgruntled cry of her own.

“Just the tip,” she said to the heather, to the sheep, to the perfect blue sky that felt like the only blessing after a couple of weeks of misfortunes. She missed her chaotic friends and cousins who would have beaten her to the immature punch if they’d joined her like they’d said they would. But after all the planning, the maps, the hostel reservations, the meal prepping—all those city bitches had bailed on her. They were waiting at the luxury hotel and spa at the end of her trail, and she thanked the old gods of these islands that she didn’t have cell service to receive the photos of their clean beds and hot tubs.

Vera had walked just over a hundred and ten miles, spanning nine of the Western Isles off the coast of Scotland. There were forty six miles to go, and Vera was bone tired. She’d been on Golden Road for hours and hours, and she was afraid she’d missed some turn. She sat down on a moss-covered boulder, her backpack digging nearly permanent red marks into her shoulders. There was half an Oreo-flavored protein bar in her pocket. When she tried to unwrap it and take a bite, the melted chocolate slipped out of the packaging and into the mud between her feet. She glanced around, and she swore the copulating sheep were now staring at her. Would she? Had she thoroughly become #HikerTrash enough to eat something fallen on the ground?

And because she already smelled, and had been wearing damp clothes, and this was the first break of sunshine she’d felt, and the next restaurant didn’t show up on her map for another five miles, she plucked the protein bar and ate it. Honestly, her hunger was so voracious that she hardly tasted the mud.

If Vera’s ex-boyfriend could see her in that very moment, he still wouldn’t look up from his video game console. The thought was oddly reassuring, since she’d wanted this trip to be just for her. Six months prior, her life had been at an impasse. She was middle management at a clothing store she’d worked at since she was fifteen, and had applied for a corporate promotion. She’d been with her college boyfriend for twelve years. Her lease for their Brooklyn apartment was about to double. Things were technically fine, like when the only meal option was a salad bar. Fine. But she’d really been craving a fat, juicy steak with a side of fries and a dirty martini.

Then, five months and twenty nine days later, she’d been passed over for the promotion for a twenty-four-year-old nepo baby, whom she had to train. She’d quit immediately. That was the first domino. When she’d gotten home, Chris was right where she’d left him—in front of the TV. He worked from home, keeping his work computer on in case there was an HR emergency (there never was). When she’d told him what happened he’d said, “That sucks babe. You’ll be all right. What’re we having for dinner?”

She supposed he had been encouraging, even if he hadn’t understood why it had hurt so much that she’d been passed over after all the years she’d put in. She realized, her relationship had been the same. She did all the work and, in the end, got crumbs for appreciation. “But you’re so good at the local level.” “That sucks babe.” That realization was the final straw. It had been like she’d been offered a parachute, and though she hadn’t know exactly where she’d land, she was glad she’d taken the plunge.

Now she had nothing. No boyfriend. No job. No apartment. And it was so damn freeing. She’d traveled the world and was on the fourth item of her three page long checklist. The first had been to take a break on dating.

The things she did have were a backpack, a sleeping bag, three liters of water, three protein bars, a tarp, a gas canister, a portable stove, a first aid kit, a fat paperback novel, her cell phone, a solar charger, headphones fraying at the ends, two changes of clothes (none of them clean), a map that had seen better days, and a fifth of fancy whisky she’d been saving for the terminus.

She took in the smooth crags of rock that peaked beneath choppy stretches of grass ahead; breathed in so hard it hurt her city-conditioned lungs. All she had to do was follow the trail markers to the main road to the next town. Surely the storm brewing in the distance wasn’t heading her way. The sun was still out, after all.

Part of Vera wanted to give up and hitch a bus and take as far as possible to meet up with her friends. She’d proven her point. But that was a slippery slope. She hadn’t left everything behind simply to quit on herself. She’d wanted adventure and she was going to get it.

There was a strange euphoria that happened when she hiked long enough. It started to kick in, and she rode that second wind and got back on track, keeping an eye on the horizon as her respite of good weather evaporated. Clouds were rolling in quickly, a windstorm pushing her along the road. She kept close to the grassy side, and hoped she was going the right way.

Vera screamed as lightning struck way too close for comfort. And because it felt good to let out that terrifying, beautiful, cathartic scream, she did it while stomping across the worn path. Mist rolled in, and she flicked on her headlamp, feeling like a land-angler fish. There was supposed to be a bus stop on route, and she’d hide under the shelter and wait out the rain.

After another hour, when she finally saw the intersection to the main road, she thanked the turbulent skies and quickened her pace. Vera didn’t see the car heading right toward her until it was too late. She couldn’t believe her last thought was, “I’ll never get to taste that whisky.”

Moment before getting all muddy.

Chapter Two

Vera was saved by her backpack. She didn’t move, her arms and legs splayed like someone had flipped over a turtle. She groaned at the pain on her side.

Above her, someone shouted, “Fuckfuckfuckfuck. Where did you come from?”

“Where did you come from?” she yelled back, then winced as she tried to sit up.

“Whoa, steady there,” said a deep, inconvenienced voice. He knelt beside her and assessed her injuries. “Are you hurt?”

She took a moment to inventory her body. Legs and arms moved. Her pack, for the albatross it was, had saved her. The car had slid and braked inches from her. Through her delayed reaction, Vera had flung herself as far as she could, not accounting for the weight of her backpack. She’d somehow managed to get sand in her mouth in the process. She really must stop consuming the ground, even if it was technically organic.

“I think I’m fine. Just my pride.”

He helped her to her feet. He had dark brown hair that curled from beneath a wool beanie. How hadn’t she seen the glow-worm green wool from a mile away?

“Are you sure? Because your eyes aren’t focusing up very well.”

She’d grown to love the rounded Rs of the Outer Hebridean accent she’d encountered, and his was no different. His alto voice made her feel warm inside.

Or was that a concussion?

“Seriously. I’m fine.” She blinked, her sight a touch fuzzy, then tapped her own face. “My glasses.” She took one step, and then it was like the ground was vanishing from beneath her. “Oh no, a bog!”

“‘Yer definitely seeing things.” The stranger in the neon beanie caught her, and exhaled a strangled curse. “Let’s get you somewhere dry.”

“Okay but don’t kill me.”

“If I wanted to kill you, or both of us, I’d keep driving in that piece of shite car.”

“Likely story,” Vera said, as she tried to get her vision to focus on his face (there were two of them). This happened when she was dehydrated and her sight was strained from not wearing glasses. She touched his cheeks. The stubble along a very sharp jaw. He seemed affronted when she bonked his nose with the flat of her palm. “I think I can walk to Tarbert from here.”

“Do you know how far we are from Tarbert?” he asked.

She was so used to using that tone on Chris, she grimaced. “Okay, stranger who almost ran me over.”

“Are Americans all so loud and angry?”

“Most of us, yes.”

Thunder crackled again and she almost jumped onto him if not for her backpack keeping her center of gravity. Steam rose from the car’s engine. She’d never seen the model, not that she knew much about cars. She’d describe it as boxy and European, like her first Floor Supervisor, Petra. Then she settled her attention on the man holding her upright by her shoulders.

Vera had never paid attention to a man’s Adam’s apple. They looked sort of like weird marionette nubs. But this one, because it was directly in front of her, was nice. More than nice. She felt the urge to brush her thumb across and over it. She was very proud that she didn’t. Instead she tilted her head back as if she was welcoming the rain. The two faces she’d seen became one single beautiful face. Big eyes, blue-green like sea glass. Golden freckles scattered across the broken bridge of his nose. He grinned at her with full pink lips as if he’d stumbled on a three-legged puppy—pathetic but in need of help and maybe cute.

“I’m late for work enough as it is,” he told her, “but I’m taking you with me. Bekah will come have a look at you. Take off your rucksack.”

Vera had never been spoken to that way. It was the command in his voice that had a befuddling effect. When she didn’t move, he walked behind her and held it by the side straps. She slipped out of it arm by arm. Walking without her pack for the first time since she’d started hiking that morning was freeing. She almost fell forward by the shift in equilibrium. He tossed it in the trunk of the car, grabbed a lamp and an orange bundle, and returned to her.

“Put this on.”

“Orange is not my color.”

“It is if you don’t want us both to get run over.” He wouldn’t take no for an answer, and she slipped the vest on. “How far can you walk?”

Vera stood in the middle of the road. She was drenched through to her underwear, covered in mud, starving, tired. But in that moment she felt light enough to get carried by the wind. Unfortunately, with the pain that lanced through her toe, she wasn’t going to make it very far. She started to bend down for one of her trekking poles, then simply sat and said, “I think I’m good here.”

“Oh no, you’re not. We haven’t had a dead tourist here since 1970, and I’m not letting you be the first.” He grabbed one of her wrists and heaved her onto his shoulder, carrying her off into the mist.

Storm is a-brewing

Chapter Three

His name was Finley MacLeod. He’d said it in a rush as he sat her down in the mud room of a house down the road and shoved a water bottle into her hands. They’d shouted things at each other for most of the way.

The Midpoint #4: NEW ROMCOM NOVELETTE

Welcome back to The Midpoint, my serial fiction section here on Substack! This month I have a romcom novelette. The story was originally included in Best Women's Erotica of the Year, Volume 6 (if my memory serves me right.) It’s okay if you never read it since I spent this week completely re-writing it as an exercise, and now it’s triple the length. (Also, why am I giving me homework when I have other work?)

Next Monster House chapter is also coming a little later this month. But I thought I’d switch it up. If you’re not subscribed, enjoy the first chapter. It will go up for sale as an ebook on 7.18.25, but The Midpoint subscribers get it automatically! Any support is welcome.

Happy reading.

What’s The Far Side of the World about?

Veronica Solas wanted an adventure. She left her entire world in New York City to “reconnect with herself” by hiking across the Hebridean islands off the west coast of Scotland. She’d a day away her terminus when the weather has another idea.

Caught in a sudden rainstorm, Vera is saved by the very man who nearly ran her over—Finley MacLeod. A former rugby player, Finley knows a thing or two about starting over. What started out as seeking shelter from the rain turns into a night (and morning) of passion.

Vera might be off course, but perhaps she found exactly what she’d been looking for.

This one-shot short story is a standalone in the Modern Love romances, a contemporary romance project I’ve been working on. This is a peek into the style and vibes.

Read if you're into:
* Open door
* Travel stories
* Insta-attraction
* Sex-positivity
* She comes first
* Sexy Scotsman
* Latina heroine
* Bite sized smut

Word count total: 9,400