The Glass Inkwell

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

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

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

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

There is a particular kind of joy that only exists inside curated worlds. Not the fragile joy of productivity. Not the earned joy that comes after suffering. I mean the loud, unapologetic joy of walking into a place designed entirely for wonder and saying, Yes. I will have some of that. Universal Studios was my birthday gift to myself. A day of color and noise and spectacle after days steeped in stone, history, and ghosts. Ancient forts and quiet museums had given me weight.

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,

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

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

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.”

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 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

I’ve always been a storyteller — I just didn’t realize it until the universe grabbed me by the shoulders a few years ago and went, “Ma’am, look at your life choices.” If something happened to me, everyone within a five-mile radius was going to hear about it. With props. With reenactments. With the kind of sound effects usually reserved for action movie trailers. The dramatic recap of that one time I accidentally told the Dunkin’ Donuts cashier “I love you” after she told me