There’s no modest way to publish a book. You hit “upload,” you hit “post,” and you know — in your guts, bones, and soul — that someone somewhere is about to see something they weren’t supposed to. Something you didn’t even know you were exposing until it was already printed in 12-point serif on a cream page.
You can polish the prose. You can edit the syntax. You can even disguise it in fiction — put a murder on top, name the main character something dramatic, give her a more complicated childhood. But let’s be real: they’ll still know it’s you.
Because publishing is not just “sharing a story.” It’s undressing. Emotionally. Psychologically. It’s putting all your strange, obsessive thoughts, intrusive memories, and deeply personal metaphors on full show and hoping someone thinks it’s beautiful instead of weird.
It’s the digital equivalent of saying: “Here’s my internal chaos. I spell-checked it for you.”
It’s vulnerable because it’s you
Every book I’ve published has some piece of me I once swore I’d never admit out loud. A feeling I thought I’d buried. A person I used to be. A truth I disguised just enough to survive its retelling. An experience so deeply ingrained in my being, I have a hard time recalling the exact dates.
I write about obsession. I write about guilt. I write about the things people try to cover with polite conversation and a refill of wine. So of course it feels terrifying to publish. I don’t write about grief, heartbreak, or emotional rot without expecting someone to say: “Wait, is this based on a true story?” and pulling up in my DMs to ask about it.
(And the answer is always: kind of.)
But it’s also seductive
There’s a thrill in it, too. A beautiful shamelessness. Like saying, “Yes, I felt that. Yes, I lived through something like that. And I made art out of it.”
There’s power in offering people something real — not sanitized, not softened — and watching them connect with it. Maybe even need it.
Because even if your book doesn’t go viral, even if it doesn’t win awards, you still did something brave: you stood in front of the world and said, “Here I am. Read me.”
And maybe, just maybe, they’ll see something of themselves in your mess.
So yes, it’s like posting a nudes folder
But one with cleaner grammar, better metaphors, and a plot twist you didn’t see coming but needed all along.
Because, truth is: I don’t write to be understood. I write to understand myself — and hope someone can find comfort in that.
And if that’s not intimate… what is?
— Montse
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