The “Rapist” book publishing process and sneak peak

Publishing a book was not as easy as I thought, specially not one titled The “Rapist”, but that just goes to show my necessity to title the book in such a way to take power from a word that was used to define me, when it shouldn’t have been that way.

I am currently in the developing stage of my next two novels, which I am very excited to write, but I will only begin when I know I will be able to dedicate myself fully to the writing of said novels, as for me the creative process of writing a book (a script is relatively simpler) takes my full attention in a complete obsessive cycle in which I must write all day long, and whenever I am not writing I am thinking about the book and jotting down my ideas.

The “Rapist” book was a project I long had in mind and really couldn’t think of much else until I decided to write a book opposite of the movie I fought to produce alongside my agent, Carolina Sfeir, for three years, again we faced the same problem, it’s difficult to move a story about a false rape allegation in the current climate as many peoples’ ideologies are in conflict with admitting that injustices such as this can happen.

Injustice happens when peoples’ ideologies take over reason, as I was witness to in America.

I will publish this book, and I have complete and absolute faith that it will be a great fucking success, what I’m not so sure of is how long the publishing process will be.

Right now I am reaching out and in talks with multiple American and English literary agencies and agents to see which agent will be the best fit for my book, this has to be someone who wholeheartedly sees my vision, the vision that carried me to Joe Rogan’s house a few years ago.

Still, the subject matter makes it a difficult book to sell, and that is exactly why I must fight to sell it all the more.

The process is tedious, but such it is. This is the work part.

Stay tuned for my next two books in the literary front, in the meantime enjoy this sneak peek from the book The “Rapist”:

We had the room all to ourselves, and he closed the door so we could talk freely. He asked the police officers to remove my handcuffs, and they did. As I rubbed my wrists, he spoke.

“I’ve talked to your parents. They told me the situation. I’m sorry you’re going through this. Not a nice place to be in.”
“It is what it is.”
“Let me tell you. You have a great team on your side, the best of the best. We even hired a private investigator... which reminds me. Your roommates Bob and John...”

“Yeah, great guys.”
“Well, I’m not so sure. Excuse my French, but the investigator tried to contact them, and they told him to ‘fuck off.’”
“No, they wouldn’t do that... Maybe they thought you were somebody else, representing Helen, maybe.”

Matthew gave me a sad look.
“Yeah, maybe that’s what it is.”
“They wouldn’t do that. Especially not Bob.” “Ok. So what happened? From the beginning.”

He got out a yellow notepad and began taking notes. I told him everything, holding nothing back. Matthew scribbled in his yellow notepad as I spoke.

“I only have one question.”
“Why the fuck didn’t you run away? I guess when you’re my age and see someone who behaves like that, you just run. You RUN.”
“Why? Because I’m an idiot. I kinda felt sorry for her. I’m addicted. I don’t know.”
“That’s not it. She’s crazy, and lemme tell you something about crazy girls—they’re the best fuck.”

He laughed. I was a little disgusted at the comment, but I laughed alongside Matthew. I had to.

“When I was your age, all the girls wanted me, you know. They still do. Look at this girl.” He took out his phone and showed me a picture of an attractive girl on his DMs. It looked like a scam. I pretended a smile; I didn’t give a shit about girls. I just wanted to find a way out of here.

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The "Rapist"

“So you think she’ll end up in jail?”
“Slow down, soldier. First, we have to get you out of here. Then maybe we can try. But in these types of cases, they usually just tell them off and move on. Don’t expect justice. We’ll try, but it’s a long shot.” “What? How can she get away with something like that?”
“I tell you what—you just gave me a lot to work with. Let’s start from there.”
“She has to pay! She can’t keep getting away with it.”
“We’ll do our best. First, we have to get you out of here. Are they treating you right?”
“No.”
“Yeah, didn’t think so. This place is awful. It used to be better back then. It’s only gotten worse... Don’t worry, you’re in good hands. I’ve been doing this all my life.”
“I just don’t get how she could do something like that.”
“It happens more often than you think. Way more often. Especially in the last decade.”
“How can they lie about something like this? There are girls out there who go through horrible things... And these girls who lie, they just take away from their experience and credibility. It’s disgusting. You know, girls who get actually raped? Real rape, not this bullshit.”

“Let me tell you, there are some fucked-up people in this world.” He asked if there was anything else, and I told him that I would probably remember something on my way back, but I guess that was everything. Matthew signaled to a cop that we were finished, and due to his high standing in Georgia—he was a lawyer and used to be a

judge—he instantly came and placed the handcuffs back on my wrists. He led us outside, where he asked Matthew to sign some papers. He left to go retrieve them. When he did, Matthew moved his hands to embrace me, and then moved them down to my ass, felt it out, and

rubbed it.
The officer comes back, Matthew signs the papers, and leaves. I was

then led all the way back to my cell block by a nice black police officer who was well-built and handsome. I asked him if I smelled too much, and he said Yeah, with pity on his face.

I was completely hopeless. My lawyer, the one person who was supposed to protect me in this place, just sexually harassed me. Me. I got special permission to take a bath and decided it was time. The shower was metal and it had two metal buttons: one would pour scalding hot water, and the other freezing cold. The water would only

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come out for five seconds and then stop. To take a normal shower, you had to click both buttons at once to get hot and cold combined every five seconds. Not ideal, but it was my first shower in a long time, and the only place where I felt truly alone in there.

The lady cop was nice and let me out for about an hour. In that metal box, I felt the warm water and had a respite. I got out in my underwear, and there was knocking on the glass: another big black gay inmate.

“Hello, you’re gonna get me in trouble.”

Thinking I had made a friend, I just laughed and left. I was told later by Ramírez that I had sexually tempted a lot of bad people and had put a target on my back. What a fucking idiot.

I went back to my cell with another sexual predator. The metal door closed, and I felt more trapped than ever. I lay back on my bed with my clothes on, and my cellmate began loudly and obviously pleasuring himself. No remorse.

I was woken up, and our disgusting meals were brought to us. We ate in silence. He could tell I didn’t like him and felt endangered, but he was just waiting for the right moment. A disgusting meal next to a disgusting man was one of the few things to look forward to in a day —a sacred moment in the life of an inmate. And then he went right back to masturbating. He told me not to tell anyone what was going on, and I realized inside that cell that if I didn’t find a way out, I would be raped—actually raped very soon.

Avoiding looking at his black penis through the white sheets, I got down and began banging on the door hysterically. Nobody came. I kept knocking.

“I have a visit! Let me out! Let me out! I’m innocent! I have a visit! Let me out! I have a visit! Pop the door! Pop the door!”

And then something unexpected happened: all the other inmates started banging on the door.

“He has a visit!”
“Let him out, he has a visit!” “Let him out, he has a visit!”

The whole cell block started making a scandal simultaneously. They were all yelling I had a visit, and I had to be let out. All the men allied in a common cause. And it worked. Mr. Red came for me. He popped the door and let me out. He then escorted me to the bottom, where we checked the kiosk, and my name didn’t appear. He realized I didn’t have a visit and got angry.

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The "Rapist"

“You want to go back in the box? I’ll send you right now. See how that fits you!” “El hoyo, entiende.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I just... I needed to get out. I’m afraid... my cellmate... is trying to rape me.”

“Do you fear for your safety?” He smiled. It was a trap; I just had to say one word, and I’d go back in the box.
“No.”
“Then you’re just wasting my time, boy! You think I work for you?” “You speak English? El hoyo. I’ll send you to el hoyo. ¿Me entiendes? ¿Habla inglés?”

We made such a ruckus that the sergeant who was passing by asked what the problem was. I told him the situation and that I feared I was going to be raped.

“I know my rights. I talked to my lawyer.”
“Rights! He talked to his lawyer. He knows his rights. This is jail. There are no rights here.”

They left me standing there for a few minutes and went to talk by themselves. I was then moved back to another holding cell. At first, I wasn’t there on my own but with two black men. It went the same as it always went: them asking what I was there for and me telling them my story. They laughed. I asked them what they were in there for. The black inmates liked me when I spoke, and they heard my accent. Being Mexican meant I somehow also suffered some sort of prejudice that brought me there, but my skin color certainly did help my case.

One of the laughing inmates told me he had entered a church and killed seven people—a shooting. I don’t know why, but in the circumstances we were in, this murderous lunatic was a friend. Although the two of them found any and everything I did funny, and I couldn’t quite tell if they had made it up, laughing was a respite, and any time I could find one in jail, I appreciated it. And then they were taken away, and I was all alone in yet another tiny box.

I looked out the window after my fourth hour in that room and saw the food cart move into the cell block. I was very hungry, and eating was one of the only things I had to look forward to in the day, apart from the daily sandwich. The man moving the cart was the father- figure prisoner whom I had so vehemently told I was innocent. He saw me and shouted,

“That man is innocent!”
And laughed. At least someone got it.
A female police officer came around the fifth or sixth hour to take

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me out of there to my old cell, where I got my things supervised by two police officers, and then went down the stairs on the right side, two cells away from Mahiko. There I was greeted by my new roommate: a big, gayer black man who looked like an ape but talked like a Barbie, with black dreadlocks and a pretty huge belly. He was forty years old, and my new nightmare.

He tried to get on good terms with me and gave me candies, drawing paper, a pen, and crisps, which I accepted because anything to entertain me would help. But the power dynamic was unbalanced, as we both knew what he wanted, and he was bigger; I was in the same situation I had been with the other man. Tremaine had a very effeminate voice; they had put me with someone as likely to rape me, and the female cop looked guilty as she put me in. I couldn’t complain —they had already moved me. It was a trap, a sick trap played by the guards.

I buttoned up my clothes, and with my new soft wiggly pen that couldn’t be used as a weapon, I wrote the words “Papa” and “Mama.” I touched the wall and could almost feel them, our hearts beating in unison miles away, torn apart by injustice.