Laura C. Vela becomes a literary phenomenon with a traumatic story: "We still have a lot to tell about sexual abuse."

The promotion of Seismil, the first book "with words" by editor and photographer Laura C. Vela (Madrid, 31), was a mystery within an enigma. The publishing house *niños gratis, which specializes in queer literature, released a short, fragmentary novel about which it (intentionally) revealed very little. "People were drawn out of sheer curiosity to a work that seemed to deal with the importance of words," says the author. Interest grew at the same pace as recommendations on social media and a few reviews in a few media outlets. From then on, since April, it has become a literary phenomenon and was one of the most requested titles at the last Madrid Book Fair.

So, were all those people eagerly reading a book about language?

This is the first reference that appears in Seismil that reveals the core of the plot:

I remember the day they called me over the megaphone to leave class and go to the office. Two years earlier, a guy I met online had raped me in his car, in broad daylight. I was 12 and very curious. He threatened that if I told anyone, he'd spread the video of my rape online, around the neighborhood, and at school.

It is a text, indeed, about the importance of words, specifically the ones the author had to reclaim during the three years it took to write the book in order to tell her story and recover her voice.

—You've stopped giving interviews. What's been happening in the last few months?

—I'm a little tired of hearing myself. I've gotten a little carried away because there's been so much focus on sexual abuse. It's a very important autobiographical topic, and I published the book because I think we still have a lot to tell about this; but it also deals with how it affects the family, silence, language, even my own identity.

The origin of this book lies in a workshop by writer Sabina Urraca that C. Vela attended before the lockdown. There, she read aloud an exercise in which she shared a part of her teenage life. From that first text emerged this book, which its author has managed to name by her name when it arrived in bookstores. “I didn't know what I was writing, honestly. The words just came out of me, I was almost vomiting them out,” she says. What came out of her she describes as “hard” and “raw.” It was the result of all those conversations she had only with herself. Little by little, she freed herself from part of the burden she had carried for so many years of silence, to the point that, she says, now, for the first time since she suffered the abuse, she has begun to sleep well.

To piece together this puzzle, C. Vela spoke with one of her teachers, friends, and ex-partners. With the stories of those who were close to her during those years, she fills in the gaps in her memory and, at times, rewrites the memories that fiction has filled in.

Her family also appears: in the security she found as a child when she hugged her mother and burrowed into her armpit; that day when they found out what had been happening to her for two years; the nights she would sneak out to sleep in one of her sisters' beds; in her statement to the police and at the trial.

They never asked me anything. […] We all felt ashamed. How did we get here? We're a very normal family.

Her parents and sisters found out she'd written a book when the first review of Seismil was published in a media outlet: "I thought if I told them before, they'd be really angry, because, in the end, even though it's my story, it also touches and affects other people. I was really scared. If I told them, it could interfere with the writing and editing process."

—In the book, you write: “At 31, my greatest fear is still losing the love of my mom and dad.” How have they reacted?

—Very well. I was surprised. There was silence in my family, it was very difficult, but we remained united and loved each other.

For a long time, she was convinced the book wouldn't be published. "When I decided to publish it, I realized it was for two reasons. To restore my own voice and will, which had been suppressed, because creating something is an exercise of will. And, on the other hand, I believe that if we don't put words to these situations and share them, we can end up believing that everything has been achieved, that these are isolated cases. That's why it's very important to name them and put them on the table," she explains.

When you're raped, you suffer two traumas: the first, the assault itself, and the second, the public judgment after telling the truth. This second trauma is much worse than the first.

—Is there a price to exposing yourself in this way?

—Yes, being perceived as a victim and the fear of being treated with patronizing, condescension, and pity. Something I hate. I'm a victim of gender-based violence, and that's fine. There are many women who are already talking about this, and they're told it's to get attention, why didn't they speak up at the time, or why didn't they report it?

Three years in prison and six thousand euros. What a victory! I was 17 and wanted to get the matter over with as soon as possible. I didn't question it. […] It was yet another conviction for abuse when it should have been for pedophilia and rape.

—You reported it. Remember in the book that they told you: "Are you sure you didn't like it a little? Are you making this up? How much harm you've done to your parents?" Fear, doubt, and guilt.

—I don't know if we're just too self-absorbed and can't imagine other possible scenarios and other things that could happen to others. When I explain why I was afraid to share my experiences, when a conversation ensues like the one that happened with the book, it doesn't take a minute for any of those people who once judged me to understand.

With Seismil , he's invited readers to be part of that internal conversation he's been mulling over for years. "I liked being told that despite everything, he's bright, that he has humor, and, above all, that he managed to avoid falling into cliché, something that terribly scared me," he says. "I think it's important to show other people that something horrible can happen to you, but then life goes on. It's something that never ends, never heals, it will always be with me. But perhaps it can be helpful and supportive."

It has helped her continue on the path of identifying "all those people we are." The perpetrator was one person before the rape, and she was another afterward.

—Do you feel like you are a new person now?

—I'm changing, and I'll probably become a third version of myself. I swallowed it all and moved on. It's also very difficult to ask myself if when I feel happy it's because I don't feel anything. If even one day, 10 years from now, something will happen to my head and I'll collapse. That's why it's so hard for me to appreciate everything that's happening to me, because what's difficult for me is sometimes knowing how I feel and how I am.

A wooden table and four chairs, smoothing the walls of the house, a trip to Punta Cana, a second-hand car… […] All of that costs six thousand euros. If it's good, it'll cost you more. Every time something costs six thousand euros, I still think about my rape.