First things first: please don’t call the cops. Yes, I write about death. A lot. Like, a concerning amount if you were to glance at my drafts folder. But before you start side-eyeing me at family gatherings or Googling “warning signs my friend is a serial killer,” let me clarify that I’m actually very nice.
I rescue spiders. I hold the door open for strangers. I even say bless you! when people sneeze. And I smile. See? Totally normal.
Why murder, though?
Honestly? Because it’s fascinating. Murder is the ultimate taboo… society’s collective we-don’t-talk-about-that subject. And as soon as someone tells me no to talk about something, guess what? I’m writing 400 pages about it.
Exploring death and violence in fiction isn’t about glorifying it, let me be very clear; it’s about asking the uncomfortable questions. Why do we do it? What does it reveal about us? How does it reshape the people left behind?
Fictional violence, real humanity
Some people journal. Some people go to therapy. I make up elaborate fictional murders. Writing lets me put human fears, grief, and trauma under a microscope… and occasionally throw in a dramatic plot twist. Call it my version of ‘processing.’
Murder in my books isn’t about the act itself. It’s about what happens around it: the silence, the chaos, the way people crack open when confronted with mortality. Death is the lens I use to magnify the living.
So, am I nice?
I like puppies. I give book recommendations. I’ve never even stolen a pen (okay, once). Writing about murder doesn’t make me dangerous, I think it makes me curious.
And if anything, you should feel safer around me. I get all my murderous impulses out on the page.
— Montse
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