She Bought the Audacity on Sale: My First Historical Romance

I woke up listening to Roch Voisine's Coup de Tete album. The album was released the same year that I wrote my first historical romance.

It wasn’t, by any means, an easy task. I was nineteen and had been writing since I was twelve, probably in an effort to have something in common with my late dad, since I’d heard so much about his writing. The thing is, I didn’t really have a clear idea of what I wanted to write. I just knew that I wanted to take on a challenge, something more mature, something more current. I liked my romance stories, but I wanted something rooted in something else.  It was also my first time writing in Spanish—everything before that had been written in English.

I think the encouragement came from Carlos Weber, who had returned to Chile a few years earlier and filmed a documentary while Pinochet was still in power. After rewatching it, I remember chatting with him and asking for book recommendations about the coup, the US involvement, etc. While doing research in the library at Sagrado—my college in Puerto Rico—I struck up a conversation with the librarian from Referencia. She was a goddess of books and knowledge, like all librarians. She connected me with another student, born in Puerto Rico to Chilean parents. Her family had also fled Chile. I interviewed her grandparents and parents, and that’s when the idea of Libertad and her sisters began to take shape.

By the time I finished writing the story, I was twenty. I still remember asking my Spanish professor, Dr. Helena Lázaro, if she’d be willing to read it. She became my biggest cheerleader—supportive, but firm. She pointed out where the book needed more work. Punctuation and accents have always been the bane of my existence, but she was kind enough to guide me through it.

The book moved with me to Florida, and later to England. It wasn’t until nearly eight years later that I decided to type it up and re-edit it. On a whim, I sent it to several publishers in Spain. I was encouraged by the full manuscript requests, but every single one declined. All of them cited the same reason: Pinochet was still alive, and they couldn't run the risk of getting sued, but they encouraged me to keep working on it, until the time was right.

So, the book—by then renamed El país de las catacumbas (The Country of the Catacombs)—was trunked.

Antoine, ever my biggest cheerleader, tried to convince me to bring the manuscript copies with me when we moved back to Florida, but I didn’t think it was necessary at the time. It stayed at my in-laws’ until this summer.

I’m not sure if it’ll ever be published. Maybe someday, in the not-so-distant future, I’ll be brave enough to go through the process again. But for now… for now, I can’t help but feel proud of that nineteen‑year‑old who decided she was ready to tackle this story. Her mind would be blown if she knew about all the joy we’ve found in writing since then—all the books we’ve brought into the world, all the characters who’ve lived and breathed because we refused to stop. What felt impossible at nineteen became a journey, and every page since has been proof that she was right to begin.