As writers, it's easy to get caught up in deadlines, word counts, and productivity. But creativity isn't something we can force indefinitely. Sometimes it needs sunlight. Sometimes it needs fresh air. Sometimes it needs a reminder that there's a whole world beyond our desks.

There’s something about Sundays that always makes me reflective.

Maybe it’s the quiet before a new week begins. Maybe it’s the pressure we sometimes put on ourselves to “get our lives together” before Monday morning arrives. Or maybe it’s simply the way creatives tend to carry unfinished ideas, half-written scenes, and long to-do lists around in our heads.

As writers, we talk a lot about accountability.
We talk about goals, routines, productivity, word counts, deadlines, and writing habits.

But something I’ve learned over the years is this:

A productive writing week usually starts before the week begins.

I thought writing a book would feel like:

✨ Inspiration
✨ Creativity
✨ Magical bursts of genius

And sometimes… it does.

But more often?

It looks like this:

🫠 Doubt
🫠 Rewriting the same paragraph 12 times
🫠 Staring at the screen wondering if any of it is good
🫠 Crying over fictional people like they’re real (because somehow, they are)

It’s messy.
It’s frustrating.
It’s deeply personal in ways I didn’t expect.

I quit one of my part-time jobs.

Not because everything is perfectly lined up.
Not because I’m already where I want to be.
But because I need the time to build the life I’m trying to step into.

There are some stories you write.

And then there are some stories that live with you.

Echoes of Us has been both.

This book has existed in some form for over fifteen years. It started as an idea, then a fragment, then something I kept coming back to over and over again—never quite ready to finish it, but never able to let it go.

For a long time, I didn’t understand why.

Now I do.

Publishing a book is exciting—but also nerve-wracking. In this post, I explain what ARC readers are, why they’re so important for indie authors, and how you can join the ARC team for my upcoming novel Echoes of Us.

For as long as I can remember, stories have been at the center of my life.

Not just reading them, but living inside them, imagining them, and eventually writing them. Over the years, that love of storytelling has taken me down some unexpected paths—from studying archaeology and working in environmental compliance, to consulting in Washington, D.C., to eventually returning to a quieter life where creativity could take up more space.

Writing retreats create connection, confidence, and clarity. Learn why I host them and explore Slay the Dragon or Kiss It and Self-Publishing 101.

Love, in an apocalypse, is rebellion.

It’s a refusal to let the world take everything.
It’s a way of saying: I’m still here. I still feel. I still care.
It’s a spark you cup in your hands and protect like a flame in the wind.

The first day of winter invites us to hold two truths at once:
That something is ending.
And something else is beginning.

We’re allowed to grieve what didn’t work. We’re allowed to celebrate how far we’ve come. And we’re allowed to imagine what’s next with hope — even if it’s still a little fuzzy around the edges.

Lately, music has been doing what it always does best for me: holding the emotions I don’t quite have words for yet, and then gently handing them back so I can put them on the page.

I’ve always written with music nearby. Sometimes it’s background noise, sometimes it’s the heartbeat of the scene. Music helps me tap into emotion first, before plot, before structure, before logic. It lets me feel what my characters feel: the ache, the longing, the quiet hope, the unraveling, and once I feel it, the words follow.

When I’m stuck, it’s rarely because I don’t know what happens next. It’s because I’ve lost touch with how it feels. Music brings me back.

Here are a few songs I’ve been absolutely obsessed with lately and why they’ve been living on repeat while I write.

I’ve been thinking a lot about gratitude, not in the glossy, performative way we sometimes see online, but the real kind: the warm, messy, deeply human gratitude that shows up in the everyday moments. The kind that reminds me that even on the hardest days, there is so much good woven through my world.

There’s something magical about the way October arrives. The air shifts, the light softens, and suddenly everything feels ripe for new beginnings. For me, October has always been one of the most special months of the year—not only is it my birthday month, but many of my most treasured travel memories have taken place in October. It’s a month full of adventure, reflection, and coziness all at once.

Fall has always been my favorite season. I love it all: the way the leaves change into shades of gold and red, the way a sweater feels just right on a cool morning, the sound of wind brushing through branches, and the return of hot drinks as a daily ritual. Even small things—like candles flickering in the early evening or pulling out my favorite blanket—carry so much comfort.

There’s something surreal about coming home after a long time away. The town looks familiar, but the rhythm of life has shifted. You’ve changed, too.

Thanks for sticking around and supporting my little queer creative life. Whether you’re a longtime reader, a Patreon pal, or someone just stumbling onto this chaos—I’m so glad you’re here.

There’s something about the shift into spring that always makes me feel like I’m waking up, too. The days are getting longer, the air is a little softer, and I’ve found myself settling back into the rhythm of writing with more energy than I’ve had in months.

As an LGBTQ+ writer, your perspective is unique and necessary. The world needs your stories, your insights, and your creativity. By acknowledging your fears and moving forward anyway, you reclaim your power and contribute to a richer, more inclusive literary landscape.

Storytelling is more than just entertainment; it’s a powerful tool for shaping culture, challenging norms, and inspiring change. For the LGBTQ+ community, writing is not just an art—it’s an act of defiance, a declaration of existence, and a beacon of hope.

Mainstream media, particularly action movies of the 1980s and 1990s, have long shaped the traditional concept of a hero. However, authors challenge these conventional narratives by reimagining what a hero can be, especially within the LGBTQ+ community.