Livro Sil

Finalmente consegui! Depois de muito trabalho e quatro revisões, meu livro nasceu! Da capa até o último ponto, foram meses de empenho e ajustes.

Publiquei no Wattpad, uma plataforma onde os leitores acessam uma quantidade enorme de livros – uma espécie de youtube de livros ao invés de vídeos, sabe?

Wattpad, Memories of a Life that Never Happened

Achei super bacana porque autores consagrados e iniciantes se juntam no mesmo lugar. Os livros são sempre gratuitos e a obra fica registrada, com direitos reservados.

Essa aí é a cara do site do meu livro no Wattpad, um romance teen que se passa no Brasil.

Os capítulos são bem curtinhos pra ler antes de dormir, como eu gosto.

Escrevi em inglês, que é a língua mais usada pelos leitores do Wattpad, ao invés de português, mas mesmo assim, queria dividir com vocês a minha alegria e o primeiro capítulo!

Fica aqui o convite para conhecerem o Wattpad e continuarem a leitura, se gostarem!

Bom final de semana!


Chapter 1


Detective Wando Haus never claimed to be the smartest man in town. He doubted he was even the smartest man in his family. Nevertheless, Wando always took great pride in his talent to uncover rubbish. This was quite useful in his line of work. It allowed him to perceive when someone was lying and, most importantly, it had never failed. That is why, when the radar inside him beeped on that stormy afternoon, Wando chose to pay attention.

“She is a liar,” it whispered. Wando scrutinized the black-haired girl sitting opposite his desk. “Don’t trust a single word coming out of those pouty lips,” his inner lie detector ordered.

For a moment, the detective allowed his attention to focus on her mouth, but only because no words were coming out of it. His suspicions found irrefutable evidence in this girl’s auburn skin. It made him think of warm, inviting places, and Wando’s hypothesis began to take shape.

“Are you sure you were alone?” the man demanded for the third time.


“Didn’t see nobody else?” he asked, again repeating himself.

Impatience parted her lips in the form of a gust of air. Her body shifted on the unstable seat.

“Like I said, there was on-ly-the-girl.”

She was clearly losing her cool, Detective Wando thought. Just as he expected.

“I saw no one else,” the girl maintained.

The man stared down at a notepad where he scribbled random notes to conceal his satisfaction. As she watched him flip through the paperwork, an idea flashed past her mind. It was quick but inconvenient, as a black cat crossing the sidewalk. What if she told him what really happened? Would he help her?

Uninvited, the memories from the event came back to her. The jungle enmeshed her legs and arms, obstructing the way. Every now and then, sunbeams pierced through tree canopies, forcing her eyes to squint. At that point, visual acuity was unnecessary to realize her pursuers were closing in by the minute. Her nails bit off the flesh of her palms when she squeezed her hands into fists. She drew up her forearms as shields against the whipping twigs. The sound of her panting was muffled by her own heartbeats dancing the samba.

She felt stuck in a bad dream, where as much as you command your legs to run, you end up hardly moving. Yet, she forced her burning limbs to keep scrambling. Standing still would equal a death sentence. Her shirt was pinched and she felt a stinging pain in her scalp. Fingers closed in the air trying to seize her, but all they accomplished was to pull out a few strands of her hair.

A thunder roared outside and brought the girl back with a jerk. Another rather unwelcome result, at least for her, was that Wando’s attention turned back to his witness. Rodent eyes fixed on her green irises once more.

It might have been just a trick of her imagination, but the girl could swear she saw a couple of wrinkles hatch on his nose bridge. It seemed as though this man was trying to sniff the truth out of her. Afraid that the detective could somehow read her mind, the girl tucked away her memories and resumed acting bored.

He could not help her, she decided. The circle of influence of her enemies was much greater than the city borders. Not even the mayor would stand a chance against Nicholas Chuster, even if he would dare to stand against him. Death could be out of sight right now, but it still lurked around the corner. The last thing she needed was to stick a finger into that hive.

“Mi-ca-e-la Or-tiz.” The detective licked each syllable as they came out of his mouth. “That’s not your birth name, is it?”

“What does that have to do with—?”

“Just answer the question.” Wando needed, every now and then, to reinforce the power entitled to him by law. He always preferred to do so against the least menacing members of the community, to put them in their place. This sort of preventive measure, he believed, was what kept everyone safe.

“No. After my dad left, mom and Escobar got married. He adopted me and I took his name.”

“That’s right. Your dad left you and your mom. It must’ve been hard, being rejected like that. Abandoned. Guess you’ve got a need for attention, don’t you?” Wando crossed his arms and the chair creaked when his body slouched against it.

“No. I was too young to remember it.”

“Ah! But I see here,” a sheet of paper flapped in his hand. Her file, a summary of the most interesting events of her life. It was as a flimsy butterfly pressed between his thick fingers.

“You’ve been involved in other two—accidents—lately. Isn’t that true?”

“Yes—well, not really. I wasn’t involved in them. I didn’t see a thing.”

“Right. That seems to be your answer for most of my questions,” the man snorted. “I didn’t see this; I didn’t see that.” Wando mimicked her with a childish voice and made a funny face that made him to look even more like a rat.

“But I did not! I’m telling you the truth.”

“That’s very convenient. Who were you with, again, on the night of the first incident?”

“With a couple of friends.”

“Hmmm” the man nodded, jumbling his papers. “That’s something you didn’t tell me last time you were here. How come a penniless girl such as yourself ends up being friends with the Chusters?” Wando asked, perhaps considering using her success formula for his own benefit.

The detective gave her too much credit. Theo was the only one in that family who had positive feelings toward her. As for the rest, they all hated her, especially his parents. They were her greatest enemies.

“I knew who they were before I even met them. Because of the papers and magazines, you know. But I only met them at the party.”

Micaela had a drawer full of clips with photos and articles she collected about the family, but since that sounded a little stalkerish.

“Which party?”

“The party,” she cast him a vexed look. This was an unnecessary question by definition. Anyone who lived within a hundred miles of Buriti knew about the party.

“Oh,” detective Wando conceded. “You mean that party. Ok. Well, why don’t you tell me how you got invited?”

The girl stared at him, but her thoughts travelled past the detective, back to the very beginning of this story.



Para Maria da Graça

Para Maria da Graça

Quando eu fiz treze anos, minha mãe me deu uma coleção de livros que se chamava “Para Gostar de Ler”. Havia livros de todos os tipos, inclusive um de contos. Neste último, achei um texto que leio e releio até hoje. Chama-se “Para Maria da Graça”, de Paulo Mendes Campos. É uma carta que o autor escreve para a menina do título, dando conselhos já que ela tinha chego aos seus quize anos. Me lembro que fiquei até com “inveja branca” da Maria da Graça e me perguntava se ela tinha compreendido como era genial tudo o que estava escrito ali.

Há um pouco de perdão, outro tanto sobre subestimar as coisas (e as pessoas) e muita poesia em forma de prosa. Transcrevo uma parte das que mais gosto, e deixo o restante para você descobrir aqui.

“Os homens vivem apostando corrida, Maria. Nos escritórios, nos negócios, na política, nacional e internacional, nos clubes, nos bares, nas artes, na literatura, até amigos, até irmãos, até marido e mulher, até namorados, todos vivem apostando corrida. São competições tão confusas, tão cheias de truques, tão desnecessárias, tão fingindo que não é, tão ridículas muitas vezes, por caminhos escondidos, que, quando os atletas chegam exaustos a um ponto, costumam perguntar: “A corrida terminou! Mas quem ganhou?” É bobice, Maria da Graça, disputar uma corrida se a gente não sabe quem venceu. Se tiveres que ir a algum lugar, não te preocupes com a vaidade fatigante de ser a primeira a chegar. Se chegares sempre aonde quiseres, ganhaste.”

Sabedoria de bolso.

Imagens: Google Images e Flickr, Edição: NRNJ

Sábado é dia de escolher um bom livro pra ler

Sábado é dia 2Adoro quando começo a ler um livro que está sendo bem comentado no mercado. Não vejo a hora de terminar e confesso que às vezes deixo até de sair de casa pra conseguir terminar logo. É uma das coisas que eu mais gosto de fazer.

Vídeos, filmes e séries me transportam pra uma outra dimensão. São a máquina do tempo que ainda não inventaram, que de repente leva você pra outra época, pra outro lugar.

É como se eu me tornasse conhecida dos personagens e fosse convidada a participar com eles da história. A.DO.RO. Muito. E me prendo sobretudo aos romances, como não poderia deixar de ser.

O mais legal é que quase sempre, por mais distante que aquele livro seja do seu dia a dia real, você encontra situações, falas ou aspirações em um personagem que se relacionam de uma forma inacreditável com você.

Livro borboletas

É isso que faz com que você não consiga parar de ler: a projeção dos seus anseios que toma corpo na vida de um personagem. Freud explica. O livro pode lhe ajudar a superar uma separação ou lhe lembrar de dizer mais “eu te amo” pra quem esta ao seu lado. Acho muito melhor do que a grande maioria dos livros de auto-ajuda.

A maior parte dos livros que leio são de literatura estrangeira. E confesso que às vezes fico meio perdida com tantos rankings, de tantas livrarias, revistas e afins, que não sei bem como escolher o que começar a ler.

Então hoje tenho três dicas:

1. blogs como este, com resenhas de livros, podem ser uma forma muito bacana e mais imparcial pra você escolher seu próximo livro. Você segue algum?

2. da próxima vez que você terminar um livro e gostar, pergunte-se: por que eu gostei desse livro? O que foi que eu projetei nele que me atraiu tanto?

3. dois livros pra você experimentar, se ainda não leu: Quando Nietzsche Chorou e Reparação. Ambos viraram filme, mas prefiro os livros!

É isso aí! Bom final de semana!


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