The Glass Inkwell

Saltwater Between Us  is officially out in the world. (Internal screaming? Yes. External caffeine? Also yes.) I don’t know about you, but I cannot write—or live, really—without a soundtrack. Every book has a frequency, and Cerys and Liam’s story is definitely tuned to a mix of rhythmic acoustic soul, bossa nova beats, and those "driving toward the coast" anthems that make you want to roll the windows down. I’ve put together two playlists for you. One is the Writing/Atmosphere

A quiet word about what comes next — and why I can't stop thinking about it

On rereading a beloved series, craft study done right, and why you don't actually want to write like your favorite author

Cressida Vale has opinions. She has been given the blog. This was either a brilliant idea or a catastrophic one — possibly both.

On balancing two full-time lives without completely dissolving into the couch Here is something nobody puts in the "how to be an indie author" guides, probably because it doesn't photograph well: At 8:47 AM on a Tuesday, you will be in a meeting about something that has nothing to do with your characters or your chapter or the plot hole you finally figured out at 11 PM the night before. The meeting will run long. There will be a follow-up email. You will have approximately

On editing Vale & Stone Book 2 and what waits in the shadows of a town I thought I knew There's a version of Blackvale that most people never see. Not because it's hidden, exactly. More because it requires a certain willingness — to stay past closing time, to take the long way home, to linger in the kind of light that turns ordinary storefronts into something else entirely. Something older. Something that breathes. I've been deep in the editing trenches of Vale & Stone Book 2

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 me

There is a folder on my computer that should never, under any circumstances, gain sentience. It is labeled something harmless. Something professional. Something that suggests order and intention. Inside it lives half-finished chapters, alternate openings, emotionally unwell scenes written at 2:14 a.m., and at least three documents named some variation of final_final_ACTUALLY_final . If my characters could see this folder, I would never hear the end of it. So today, in the spi

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

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.”

There’s a particular kind of quiet magic that lives in late-night reruns. The soft hum of the TV, the glow flickering across a dark living room, and the crunch of cereal that was definitely more sugar than grain — these were the rituals of my childhood. That liminal time between homework and bedtime when the world softened at the edges and anything felt possible. When I sat cross-legged on the couch, remote in hand, letting fictional strangers teach me how to be human. Thes

Welcome to a Town That Probably Should Come With a Warning Label Every town has quirks. Mine has… more . The kind of “more” where the fog doesn’t simply roll in—it sweeps dramatically across the street like it has a main-character complex. Church bells chime at hours no church committee ever approved. And at least one cat is always perched on a wrought-iron railing, judging you with the withering disdain of a Victorian magistrate who’s deeply disappointed in your life choic

There’s this couple I watch on YouTube—yes, a sentence that still feels vaguely ridiculous to say out loud. Once upon a time we lived in a world before YouTube existed. (I don’t remember those days clearly, because my memory enjoys playing hide-and-seek, but I’m told they definitely happened.) Anyway. This couple lived in an RV when I first found them during my vanlife-curious era, and eventually they traded wheels for a sailboat. Something about that shift—taking your entire