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

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

On emotional promises and why I take them seriously Every book makes a promise. Not always out loud. Not always in the blurb. But somewhere in the first chapter, in the tone, in the way the author leans into the story—there's a handshake. An unspoken agreement between writer and reader. Here's what I'm offering you. Here's what this experience is going to feel like. I take that seriously. Maybe a little obsessively. (My notes document has an entire section called "The Feeling

There's a thing I say when people look at my watchlist and squint. You'll write an entire fantasy novel with blood and betrayal and ancient monsters who eat grief for breakfast, but you won't watch Law & Order? And the answer is: correct. Absolutely not. Not even the reruns. I've thought about this more than I probably should have (it was a Tuesday, I had coffee, I was procrastinating on a chapter—you know how it goes). And what I landed on is this: it's not about the darknes

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

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

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

(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 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

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

Hello, friends — welcome to the new space. I’ve been off doing what writers do best: wandering through stories, tripping over emotions, and accidentally reorganizing my entire creative life in the process. You know. Tuesday stuff. I won’t pretend the past year didn’t leave its mark. Losing Mia cracked something open in me, and grief has a sneaky way of rearranging your priorities when you’re not looking. Eventually I realized that the way I’d been approaching my writing life

The day after Valentine’s Day, my world cracked a little. I had to say goodbye to my dog, Mia — my shadow, my co-pilot, my emotional support goblin, my best friend of over ten years. I can still see the moment our story began. I was working in my library system’s IT department back then, bouncing between branches teaching digital literacy classes. On that particular morning, the security guard waved me down. A cardboard box had been left out near the flagpole overnight. Ins

Join me on this magical journey of storytelling! What diverse voices are waiting to be uplifted in your heart? Let’s explore together!