The Glass Inkwell

I’ve been sitting on this post for a while now. Not because I didn’t know what to say—but because sometimes the space between  books deserves a moment to breathe. To let the echoes settle. To allow the ghosts (literal or otherwise) to stop rearranging the furniture. But since you’re here, and since you’re asking… Let’s talk about what comes next for Vale & Stone. First Things First: Yes, Book 2 Is Coming Let’s get this out of the way up front so you don’t have to squint suspi

Ghost tours are a funny thing. Everyone pretends they’re there ironically. For the history. For the vibes. For the camp. We insist we’re not scared even as we cluster closer together, listening a little too carefully, glancing over our shoulders when the guide’s voice drops. I went on mine at night, when St. Augustine feels like it’s holding its breath. Cobblestones slick with age and humidity. Streetlamps casting that specific kind of light that turns every shadow into a pos

I went into the Shipwreck Museum with expectations. That was my first mistake. I imagined salt-stained stories. Quiet reverence. The slow, heavy gravity of loss. Shipwrecks, after all, are about disaster. About the sea taking more than it gives back. What I found instead was spectacle. Dim lighting. Theatrical narration. History packaged neatly with a gift-shop cadence. The tragedy was still there, technically, but it had been softened. Streamlined. Made palatable. Disaster,

Saltwater Between Us by Jade Black Releasing Mid-April 2026 There are stories that whisper. There are stories that linger. And then there are stories that grab you by the hand, pull you barefoot across hot sand, and say, Come on. You deserve this. Saltwater Between Us  is very much the third kind. This is your official heads-up that my next release—written under my romance pen name, Jade Black —is on the horizon, and I am vibrating with excitement like a sail catching its fir

The Lightner Museum is beautiful in the way only wealth can afford to be. From the moment you step inside, it overwhelms politely. Ceilings stretch upward, ornate and confident. Staircases curve with the assurance of money that has never been told no. Even the air feels curated, as if it knows it’s supposed to smell faintly of polish and history and importance. I found myself looking up a lot. At the ceilings. At the chandeliers. At the sheer audacity of it all. Then I looked

The walls of Castillo de San Marcos do not shimmer. They loom. Up close, the stone tells on itself. Coquina, made of compressed shells, thousands upon thousands of tiny lives pressed together into something meant to last. If you lean in, really lean in, you can see them. Fragments. Spirals. Ghosts of what used to be ocean, now stacked into a fortress. There’s old graffiti scratched into the walls too. Names. Marks. Proof that people needed to say I was here  even when the pla

Some places don’t ask who you are. They ask who you’re becoming. I arrived at Bliss By The Sea  the way I arrive at most new places. A little tired. A little guarded. Carrying more versions of myself than would comfortably fit in a carry-on. From the street, the hotel looks composed. Confident. All clean lines and colonial symmetry, like it knows exactly what it’s doing and doesn’t need your opinion about it. The front facade is polite. Well-mannered. It says welcome  in the

The new year has that particular kind of hush to it. The glitter from December is still clinging to the corners, but the calendar has turned its face toward seriousness. Fresh pages. Sharper pencils. A quiet, persistent tap on the shoulder that says, Okay. Back to business. And here’s the honest truth: I’m listening. Publishing Murder at the Midsummer Feast  was only the beginning. Not the finish line. Not the victory lap. More like the moment the train finally hissed, shudde

I’ve long accepted that my creative process looks less like a calm, candlelit genius-at-work montage and more like a crow collecting shiny objects during a caffeine high. My brainstorming notes—whether in Notion or scattered through my ever-growing family of notebooks—read like a crime scene of half-thoughts, crossed-out side quests, multiple timelines arguing in the margins, and at least one doodle of a dragon wearing sunglasses. And yet… somehow, out of this chaos, a story

"Discover the cozy mystery 'Murder at the Midsummer Feast' by J.P. White, now available on Amazon. Dive into a world of gothic vibes, small-town secrets, and a feast turned nightmare, available in both ebook and print." There is a very specific kind of joy that sneaks up on you while writing a book. Not the fireworks kind. More like the quiet hum you feel when the scene clicks, the characters stop arguing with you, and suddenly you are smiling at your screen like it just told

If you give a writer a summer festival—all sunshine and celebration and communal joy—they will inevitably imagine someone dying there. I don't make the rules. I just follow them with enthusiasm and a notebook. (Don't blame me. Blame the vibes. Blame the fact that nothing says "prime murder opportunity" quite like a crowded event where everyone's drinking cider and pretending to like their neighbors while secretly nursing decades-old grudges.) The Midsummer Feast & Fair in Mur

There's something about island stories that hits differently. Maybe it's the promise of turquoise water lapping against white sand, or the way salt air seems to strip away everything unnecessary until you're left with just yourself and what you actually want. Maybe it's the permission that distance gives us—to be someone different, someone braver, someone who says yes to things we'd never consider back home where the bills are waiting and responsibilities have our phone numb

Happy New Year! I'm starting 2026 the most on-brand way possible: with a dead body. (In fiction. Obviously. I promise no actual murders were committed in the making of this announcement.) Today—January 1st, 2026— Murder at the Midsummer Feast  is officially out in the world. Which means you can now spend your New Year's Day exactly how it should be spent: curled up with tea, a blanket, and a mystery that starts with summer sunshine and ends with secrets bleeding through the f

It was 2 a.m. last night and I was sitting at my kitchen table surrounded by candlelight, two decks of cards, and a cup of tea that had gone cold twice already. The house was quiet except for the occasional creak of old wood settling and my own breathing, which had that particular rhythm of someone who was about to ask the universe a question they weren't entirely sure they wanted answered. Fun fact about being a writer who also reads tarot: sometimes you need to see the stor

I genuinely thought I’d coast into the new year with a mug of tea, a blanket, and zero surprises. But apparently I’m ringing in January 1st with… fictional crime. As one does. Somehow — and I’m still not convinced time works correctly — I came up with the idea for Vale & Stone just a few months ago, and now their first case is practically knocking on the door, asking if I’ve got room for one more in my end-of-year chaos. (Answer: always.) So yes, it’s happening. Murder at the

A TED Talk Presented Live From Inside a Pillow Fort Growing up, I thought writers lived in cabins with typewriters. You know the ones. Woodsmoke. Snow falling gently outside. A single mug of coffee that somehow stayed hot for hours. Turns out writers mostly live in Google Docs and Notion, with bad posture, three half-finished drinks, and a browser tab open just in case we need to google something unhinged like “how long can a person survive on an alien moon without oxygen.”

I have been sitting on a secret like a cat on a warm windowsill, pretending I’m not vibrating with excitement. But today! Today I finally get to slide the cover across the table, clear my throat dramatically, and say: look . Look at her. This is the official cover for Murder at the Midsummer Feast , the first book in the Vale & Stone: Consulting Detectives series — and yes, it smells faintly of citrus, summer sunlight, and Extremely Questionable Baking Decisions. A Little Ab

How Obsidian Throne Went From “Spicy Romance Weekend Project” to “Oh… This Is a Whole World.” There are moments in a writer’s life when you suddenly realize you’re not driving your own story anymore. You’re gripping the wheel, but someone else’s taste is quietly pressing the gas, turning the blinker on, and adjusting your rearview mirror like they live there. For me, that moment with Obsidian Throne  hit like a pothole at midnight: I didn’t realize someone else’s taste had it

(And who would, without question, drag me into trouble with a smile.) There are fictional characters you admire , fictional characters you root for , and then there are fictional characters you just know—instinctively, cosmically—would absolutely enable your nonsense while also reminding you to hydrate. Those are my people. So today, let me introduce you to three cozy sleuths I would one hundred percent befriend in real life. I’m talking warm drink, rainy afternoon, wool-sock

There’s something people don’t tell you when you decide to write a “cozy gothic murder mystery.” Namely: Everyone has an opinion about what that phrase is supposed to mean. Cozy readers expect warm drinks, low stakes, and the guarantee that the cat survives. Gothic fans want decaying manors, ancestral curses, and at least one scene where someone drifts dramatically down a hallway with a candle. And mystery diehards… oh, they have spreadsheets. Meanwhile, I’m over here like: “