Interview: Author K. Valentin on Magic, Identity, and ‘An Amateur Witch’s Guide to Murder’

Author of An Amateur Witch’s Guide to Murder, K. Valentin.

A Senior Art Director by day and a daring author by night, K. Valentin balances overseeing concept visuals and wrangling artists with crafting her debut novel, An Amateur Witch’s Guide to Murder—a fantasy that blends her queer and Latin identity into one cozy, chaotic adventure. With the novel recently released, Ribbon caught up with Valentin to discuss everything that makes this story special, from its lovable queer characters to its cultural and supernatural heart.

Was there a particular moment you can recall where your interest in the occult first began?

I distinctly remember being a very young child trying to make potions in my backyard with dried flowers (they stunk so bad). I don’t remember this well, but supposedly my sister and I thought our old bedroom was haunted and refused to sleep in it. When I was eight or so, I saw something inexplicable in a room in my house I still can’t really explain (it’s not that exciting, but so weird as to bring into question the how and why). There was also a casual thread of superstition embedded in the older generations in my family. I mean, who doesn’t have a mother, auntie, or grandma who can see the future in dreams? I also came from a horror movie household. We were watching questionably age-appropriate supernatural things all the time. I think the idea of something that defies explanation has always been deeply interesting to me. 

Considering it was just Hispanic Heritage Month, how is An Amateur Witch’s Guide to Murder inspired by your culture?

Under the hood, An Amateur Witch’s Guide to Murder is an exploration of being half Puerto Rican, raised without that direct connection with your roots. I framed Mateo similar to my own background, though all of the details are different and more extreme (stuff gets real wild in the book). It’s a weird experience being Puerto Rican in the places I grew up. People don’t know what it is. That it’s part of the United States. They think Spanish is only spoken in Mexico. They know I’m something, but I’m pale, so they can’t figure it out. My portal into my Puerto Rican-ness was through my mother, my grandmother (who I could barely talk to because my Spanish is poor and her English was non-existent), and a few aunties, but the rest of the family was thousands of miles away. There was a rich and storied history I had a hard time accessing; that I didn’t feel like I had a right to access for a very long time. This cultural connection/disconnection is the heart of the novel.

How does being part of both the Latinx and LGBTQ+ communities influence the way you tell stories that feel authentically your own?

I think both identities are critical to my storytelling and I don’t think I’m capable of telling a story that isn’t through the lens of both. They color how I experience the world, and in turn, how I process, remix, and tell stories with it. The sometimes uncomfortable and sometimes peaceful way these aspects fit together in me is the impetus for the stories I craft.

What is an aspect of your culture you knew from Day One that you were going to include in this book?

This is a bit of a cheat because it wasn’t Day One and is more like a story I heard that I knew needed to go into the book, but it’s too interesting not to tell. I was in the early draft phase, and visiting my grandparents in Puerto Rico, and one of my titis—who is a practitioner—told me about this concept of seeing loved ones in dreams after they pass. She said once they gather enough energy, they show themselves to you, all in white, and that’s how you know they’re alright. It was conceptually beautiful, but also very spiritual and paranormal, and potentially tragic if you don’t have that experience. It’s definitely not a belief everyone has, but there’s this deeply interesting undercurrent of supernatural spirituality to a lot of the older people of my family. They believe in ghosts. In hexes. In the devil. I wanted to capture that sensation of casual acceptance of the supernatural and spiritual right up against modern disbelief.

Here at Ribbon, we often confronts the best and worst parts of girlhood. How did your upbringing and gender identity play a role in the art you create?

I spent a lot of my youth and young adulthood not feeling like I was enough of any one thing to claim it. I wasn’t Hispanic enough; I wasn’t queer enough; I wasn’t feminine enough. I was also sexualized extremely early because I developed at, like, eleven. It’s a disquieting experience to be repeatedly told you’re not acting like a girl while getting disgusting catcalls for walking outside in oversized shirts trying to hide your societally recognized girl body beneath. I barely felt human, because I was surrounded by people insisting what the human experience was and what I should want—what I would want without a doubt once I was mature enough. Except that mature enough never came. I think every story I ever tell will have some aspect of the search for belonging because it’s such a deeply fascinating part of the human experience that’s personally unique to everyone.

What’s next for you after An Amateur Witch’s Guide to Murder? Do you see yourself returning to this world, or exploring something completely different?

I would absolutely love to return to the world of An Amateur Witch’s Guide to Murder. I have a sequel outline but it’s up to reader support to get the go-ahead. I shall remain hopeful! As for other projects, nothing’s concrete yet, but I’m working on a new adult fantasy about an accidentally treasonous devil prince and a revenge-fueled lesbian mage, and I’m really stoked about it. It’s got a different magic system, different world, and different vibes, but I do love some common elements so you can expect magic, devils, people making bad decisions, cannibalism, humor, and characters seeking belonging (told you it’s in everything).

You can purchase An Amateur Witch’s Guide to Murder right now!