You are dead and in heaven. After your turn in line, an angel ask "Soul, please.". You look confused and point to yourself. The angel replies " Check your pockets. It should be somewhere around there." You rummage your pocket and find nothing. Angel groans "Gabe, We got another Code L, here."
I have no proof, but this is very Gabriel and Lázaro coded
What a horrifying way to start 2026. I'm afraid of the future, of what awaits us all. I hate that the United States thinks Latin America is its backyard, that it believes it has the right to massacre its inhabitants without any remorse, and, even more disgusting, to play the hero of liberating a country from narco-terrorism. When will they stop plundering countries? When will they be satisfied? Can they even be satiated?
With the rise in popularity of dark romance, it seems to be becoming the norm for male protagonists to be nonchalant, cold, and so on. I feel that Lázaro, in a way, is a counterpoint to that: someone who isn't afraid to show his vulnerability to those he loves, and that doesn't make him weak or less of a man: it takes a lot of courage to reveal your true self to others.
He gets bored, laughs, dances, and loves with the same intensity. And even though he sometimes feels he will be rejected, or when he is pushed aside, he is not afraid to try again, because the world is too beautiful to hide your feelings
*writing a duo* wow I love how these people interact, but lowkey I’m getting romantic vibes. Tension? Drama? Wow I wish they’d get together
*pause*
Oh wait I do what I want
Me when I wrote "Lázaro looked at him as if he didn't know whether to burst out laughing again or jump on him and kiss him."
It took me too many pages to realize that I could just do that
I don't want to see how a character, despite experiencing so many tragedies, managed to end their story as the best version of themselves. I don't want self-improvement; I don't want to hear "your past doesn't define you." You know what I do want? Arcs of corruption, of decadence.
Because character development doesn't always have to be for the better. A protagonist who descends into madness, who loses every characteristic that made them human, can be just as interesting as a heroe. Someone who believes they're right. Hell, someone who's certain they're right (and would do anything to prove it).
And when the story ends, when the character is nothing more than an irredeemably broken creature, it won't matter, because their distorted vision tells them they're in glory. And they'll revel in it.
I'm so tired of going to the bookstore and seeing a new book come out where the male lead is tall, cold, dangerous, morally ambiguous, has shadow powers, and is possessive. “You are mine, Darling”. No. Stay away from me. I don't want to read that he's broody, sexy, smirks, leans against the doorframe, and hates everyone but her.
I want men who care about their skin. Who spend half their salary buying expensive perfume. Who would let the world burn if it meant having one more minute to admire themselves in the mirror. I want NARCISSUS men. Is that too much to ask for??
How much longer do I have to wait to be kissed by inspiration? I already want to throw down a stack of papers with the back of my hand, muttering that they're not good enough, and then, after receiving that spark of madness creativity, isolate myself from the world until I finish writing a revolutionary book (which I will write with ink and quill, ofc).
Writing is like crop rotation: sometimes you need to alternate genres and write something completely new to enrich your work. People, like soil, can become exhausted if you consistently grow the same botanical family. On the other hand, balanced soil, with adequate nutrients and less pest pressure, allows crops to produce a higher yield.
(This is my way of telling you to start your 250th WIP)
I've been thinking about the beautiful contradiction of vampirism: creatures that are neither alive nor dead, trapped in an ontological limbo, outside the natural flow of life; but, at the same time, incredibly self-aware. Shadowless beings that, like the moon, reflect light without being able to sustain it.
Their hearts don't beat, but they're still there, reminding them of what they once were. An obsolete organ, its function truncated centuries ago. They are elegantly dressed parasites that feed on people's blood, stealing the lifeblood of others to prolong a hollow existence.
But the worst part is that what truly defines them isn't elegance or sophistication, but rather the absence of life that permeates them, that radical disconnection from humanity. I like to think that their lack of reflection is a metaphor for vampires' inability to see themselves as they are. Hence, perhaps, their need to wear sumptuous, aristocratic robes to cover the monstrosity within. Because isn't aristocracy also a reflection of this same contradiction? For all its glamour, its power, its apparent perfection, it can be just as empty, essentially dead, parasitic in many ways. At its core, it's just another mask.