Why I Shelved Paradise Island (and Why I Brought It Back Now)

There are stories you write.

And then there are stories you bury.

Paradise Island was the second kind.

If you've been following along, you probably noticed I recently renamed Paradise Island to Saltwater Between Us. That wasn't just a branding tweak. That was a reclamation. A quiet, salt-stung, sun-warmed reclaiming of something I almost convinced myself wasn't worth keeping.

Let's rewind a little.

I started my very first story in high school because a friend casually mentioned they were writing a book. Competitive? Maybe. Inspired? Definitely. Did I finish it? Absolutely not. It drifted off into the void of spiral notebooks and teenage angst.

Then in college, lightning struck twice. Another friend—an English major with very serious "I will be a published author" energy—said they were writing a novel. And something in me said, Well… I can do that too.

So I did.

I started posting on FictionPress. I still remember the hum of the old laptop, the glow of the screen at 1 a.m., the thrill of refreshing for comments. And people read it. They followed. They left long, thoughtful feedback. They waited for updates.

It felt like magic. ✨

Then life did what life does. Responsibilities multiplied. Writing slipped into the "someday" drawer.

Fast forward to 2022. I hadn't written in years. I walked into a NaNoWriMo program I was hosting at my local library, sat down with a blank screen, and promptly struggled to get words out. It was like trying to pump water from a well I wasn't sure still had anything in it.

But in January 2023, something shifted.

I started writing.

And I haven't stopped.

To date, I've finished fifteen manuscripts across nine different series. Fifteen. That number still makes me blink. And I published my first book last month. If you had told high school me—clutching her unfinished draft—that this was coming, she would have laughed and asked for proof.

---

Now let's talk about Saltwater Between Us.

It began as a personal challenge. I wanted to write a beach read novella with adventure at its core. Not just romance on the sand. I wanted salt spray, sunburned shoulders, danger humming under the surface. I wanted laughter and longing and the kind of kiss that tastes like sunscreen and bravery.

I had so much fun writing it that I invited other writers to take the same challenge. The dream was an anthology. A collection of adventurous beach novellas. Sunscreen and chaos in paperback form.

It didn't go according to plan.

Projects fell through. Expectations didn't align. And somewhere in that tangle, the story started to feel… heavy. Tainted. Like it carried someone else's disappointment instead of my own joy.

Which brings us to the part that stings a little.

My history with beta readers has been… complicated.

Beta readers are supposed to be collaborators. Thoughtful eyes. Gentle truth-tellers. But when you're early in your journey, you don't always know how to choose them—or how to filter what they say.

I've had beta feedback that was insightful and actionable.

I've also had feedback that was subjective, undermining, or delivered with the kind of authority that makes you question your own instincts. (You know the type. The "Well, I would never write it that way" feedback. The kind that feels less like collaboration and more like a creative coup.)

And when that happens enough times, something dangerous creeps in: self-doubt.

Not the productive kind. Not the "let's sharpen this scene" kind. The sticky, slow kind that whispers, Maybe you're not as original as you think. Maybe this doesn't work.

It became easier to shelve Paradise Island than to fight for it.

But here's the thing about creative blocks: they are rarely about the story. They're about the story you start telling yourself about yourself.

At some point, I realized I was carrying feedback like it was law. Like it was a verdict. When really, it was just perspective.

So I did a mental reset.

First, I separated their voice from my reality. Feedback reflects someone's taste, experience, and lens. It is not universal truth. I stopped arguing with it in my head. I let it exist like background noise—acknowledged, but not internalized.

Second, I reclaimed my authority. I know my voice. I know my style. I know what I'm trying to do on the page. Trusting that isn't arrogance. It's awareness. It's craft maturity.

Third, I named the lesson. Beta readers are collaborators, not creative overlords. If someone repeatedly undermines your voice, you are allowed to step away. Boundaries aren't dramatic. They're healthy.

Then came the hardest part: releasing the emotional hook.

Part of me wanted validation. I wanted certain people to say, Yes, this is brilliant. You were right all along.

But I don't need that.

I've written fifteen manuscripts. I've built worlds. I've finished what younger me couldn't. I published a book. The proof is in the pages.

So I told myself something simple and steady: I appreciate what I learned from that experience. I am confident in my craft, and someone else's perspective does not define my talent or potential.

And then I did the most powerful thing I could do.

I redirected the energy.

All the comparison. All the frustration. All the mental reruns of old comments. I poured it back into the story.

I reread it with fresh eyes.

And you know what?

It was good.

Not perfect. Not flawless. But warm and adventurous and emotionally honest. It tasted like salt and second chances. It felt like the version of me who writes for joy, not approval.

Paradise Island didn't need to be buried.

It needed to be renamed.

Saltwater Between Us feels truer. It holds the distance. The longing. The tide that pulls people apart and the choice to swim back anyway. It feels like growth.

Bringing it back now isn't about proving anything.

It's about reclaiming creative ground.

If you have a project you shelved because someone else's voice got too loud, consider this your gentle nudge. Separate the perspective from the truth. Reclaim your authority. Set better boundaries. Release the need for specific validation. Redirect the energy into the work.

You are allowed to outgrow old doubts.

You are allowed to come back to a story with stronger hands.

And sometimes, the most adventurous thing you can do isn't setting sail for a new island.

It's returning to the one you left—and discovering it was yours all along.

Until next time,

Jade Black