Than a Motif — What the Metaphors Mean
I don’t just write stories.
I build them with fig trees, suitcases, dogs, fog, voices, and stars — each chosen not by chance, but by emotional intention.
If you’ve ever read one of my books and paused on something that felt like it meant more — a word, a house, a moment of silence — you were right.
Let me take you behind the page.
To where the metaphors begin.
The Archaeologist of the Self
💬 From Exactly Us
One of my characters once whispered in my ear that love is like archaeology — not because it sounded poetic, but because real love, like excavation, requires care. You don’t dig for treasure with a shovel. You brush. You pause. You breathe. You try not to break what you’re trying to understand.
In Exactly Us, both characters are doing that — excavating past selves, past loves, unspoken fears. There’s nothing instant about it. They dig inward and find each other in the quiet layers.
Sometimes, the metaphor isn’t just a mirror — it’s a method.
The Photographer’s Eye
💬 From Exactly Us, Dear Dictionary, and more
Photography appears in more than one of my books — not as a job, but as a way of noticing.
Marcus, the photographer in Exactly Us, captures a world that often hurts — war, destruction, unrest — but also finds beauty in trees, in laughter, in human tenderness. His burnout wasn’t just from what he saw, but from the weight of witnessing. His recovery? It began when he turned the camera gently toward joy.
That’s how I write, too. I choose what to frame. What to blur. What to leave outside the shot. Every story is a photograph of what matters most in that moment.
And in Dear Dictionary, words themselves are framed — their meanings, misuses, metaphors. Some come in loud, others in whispers. Even the silly ones know how to pose.
Animals Are Never Just Animals
💬 From Exactly Us, Onomat… O quê?, The Girl Who Listened to Houses
A dog, a centipede, a butterfly — they’re not there by accident.
Orion, the dog in Exactly Us, is more than a loyal companion. His name points to the stars, just like Marcus does. He’s grounding and celestial at once — reminding us that even in grief, there’s movement, there’s light, there’s direction.
Peia, in Onomat… O quê?, is a centipede who makes noise for all the right reasons. She teaches children that feelings don’t always come with the right word — sometimes, they arrive as BUÁÁÁ, TIBUM, or a quiet sniffle.
Animals in my books speak in their own language. And when they don’t, they still teach us how to listen.
The Weather, the Season, the Shift
💬 From A Fig Tree, Exactly Us, Dear Dictionary, and more
Rain, fog, a late afternoon light that slides through a curtain — these aren’t background. They’re part of the emotion. In my books, weather doesn’t just set the tone. It answers it.
In Exactly Us, each chapter carries a seasonal note — wintering, thawing, blooming, fading — mirroring the rhythm of emotional change. The seasons in that story feel like characters, each one offering time, pressure, release.
Even in a children’s book like Dear Dictionary, the seasons of language — misused, overused, rediscovered — reflect emotional arcs. Some words shine. Others get cloudy. That’s the weather of being human.
The House as a Heartbeat
💬 From The Girl Who Listened to Houses
The rooms in The Girl Who Listened to Houses are more than spaces — they’re emotional states. The Attic of Secrets. The Suitcase of Expectations. The Kitchen of Warmth.
Each room is both a metaphor and a moment. A way to help readers — especially children — understand that our emotions live in us like places. Some we visit. Some we avoid. Some we renovate when we’re ready.
This book taught me how much silence can say when we give it a room.
When the Page Becomes a Playground
💬 From Gabriela, a menina tagarela, Onomat… O quê?, and Dear Dictionary
Some of my books use language as the main character. A centipede that can’t stop talking. A dictionary that demands an emotional conversation. Kids mispronouncing words, on purpose or by heart.
These stories are playful, but they’re never random.
I use rhythm, onomatopoeia, and verbal invention to celebrate the act of finding your voice — especially when you're young, loud, misunderstood, or just joyfully weird.
I don’t just teach kids what words mean. I invite them to feel how words move.
Why I Use Metaphor at All
Every metaphor I use — a fig tree, a camera, a creaky stair — comes from a choice.
Not just to sound poetic. But to speak honestly.
Sometimes we can’t explain how we feel.
But we can build a house that shows it.
Or name a dog after a constellation.
Or leave one window open, just in case the right word flies in.
So yes — there’s a story in every image.
Because my job as a writer isn’t just to entertain.
It’s to remind you:
Everything means more when you slow down to notice.
