Like the plague, I disappear and reappear when you least expect it. Here, in this corner of the web, I stack up article after article, a stash of words I’m leaving behind for the ages, or at least for the curious insomniacs who accidentally wander in here at 2 a.m. looking for something real. At first, this whole thing started with one simple idea: become a writer. That was the dream. The American Dream, technically.

I was born in Michoacán, Mexico, and crossed into the United States at nineteen with a secondhand vocabulary, a head full of stories, and absolutely no clue what the hell I was doing (read the private memoirs for the gritty detail). Like a lot of immigrants tired of scraping together pesos and surviving on “maybe next year,” I came north chasing the fantasy that hard work actually meant something. I wanted to become an author even though English was my second language. Maybe that was arrogance. Maybe desperation. Or maybe it was the fact that I wasn’t planning to go back to Mexico anymore. 

Stories and I go way back. Stephen King poisoned my brain early. So did The Twilight Zone, late-night paranoia, strange people, ugly truths, and all the little things polite society likes to sweep under the rug. Once I got here, I buried myself in fiction and started writing stories filled with horror, suspense, obsession, regret, and characters desperate enough to break the rules society handed them. I later learned people call that Transgressive Fiction. I just called it honesty.

For years, I kept believing writing alone would eventually pay the bills. Then reality showed up wearing steel-toe boots.

So in 2023, somewhere between chasing invoices, surviving California prices, and realizing “artistic suffering” doesn’t count as a retirement plan, I became an insurance agent. Funny twist, honestly. One day you’re writing about ghosts, betrayal, and psychological breakdowns; the next you’re explaining liability limits and deductibles to somebody who just got rear-ended at Target.

And weirdly enough? I ended up liking it.

Insurance taught me something fiction already suspected: people live one accident away from chaos. One fire. One lawsuit. One diagnosis. One terrible phone call at 3 in the morning. My writing explores fear in fiction; insurance deals with fear in real life. Turns out those worlds aren’t as different as they seem.

So now I do both.

By day, I help California families and businesses protect what they’ve built. By night—or whenever the caffeine hits hard enough—I write memoir-style articles, horror fiction, twisted short stories, book reviews, and the occasional piece of writing advice that probably sounds more like a warning label.

You’ll find all of that here.

The fiction is dark, uncomfortable, and sometimes ugly on purpose. The reviews are raw and unapologetic. The articles drift somewhere between storytelling, philosophy, sarcasm, immigrant survival, masculinity, failure, ambition, heartbreak, and whatever else is rattling around in my head that week. I’m not interested in pretending life is clean and inspirational all the time. Most people already do enough lying online.

As for jobs? I’ve had plenty. Janitor. Fast-food worker. Uber driver, which ended emotionally after somebody threw up in my car. I’ve worked in restaurants, convenience stores, offices, insurance agencies, and enough strange places to realize every person secretly carries a story they’ll only tell after midnight.

And somehow, through all of it, the writing survived.

The books haven’t flown off the shelves yet. Hollywood hasn’t called. Stephen King still hasn’t invited me over for coffee. But I’m still here, sharpening the craft one sentence at a time and trying to build something honest out of all the chaos. So, if you’re into stories you probably wouldn’t show your mother, book reviews that don’t sound like homework, memoirs with too much truth in them, or writing advice that occasionally questions the entire profession itself… welcome.

You’re in the right place.

P.S. I’m still just an email away. Got thoughts, questions, insults, existential crises? Send them my way: [gabriellucaterowriter@gmail.com]