A Little Chaos and a Lot of Deadlines

Life lately feels like someone handed me a checklist designed by a drunk god.
Move homes. Write a novel. Edit said novel. Raise children. Transfer said children to a new school. Run a website. Add a shop. Make merch. Post on TikTok. Post on Instagram. Pretend to be a functioning adult. Hydrate. Breathe. Guess what day it is and usually be wrong.

If I sound dramatic, it’s because I haven’t slept since the dinosaurs died.

Chaos hits different when you're choosing it on purpose. Every stupid task, taping a box, deleting a paragraph, packing school lunches at 11 p.m.—drags you into a version of yourself you didn’t sign up for, but here you are anyway. Not softer, not calmer. Just… sharper. A little tired. A little dangerous.

I’m moving houses soon.
Not the “I’ll start packing tomorrow” kind. The “half my things are in boxes and the other half are staring at me like I’ve betrayed them” kind. Every room feels done with me. That’s fine. I’m done with it too.

And in the middle of this circus?
The book.

People ask how the writing is going. Which is cute. Writing a psychological thriller while juggling real life feels like starring in my own crime documentary. One minute I’m editing a kidnapping scene, the next I’m wiping peanut butter off a school uniform. One minute I’m writing morally questionable romance, the next I’m Googling “why is my vacuum making that noise.” There is no balance. There is only survival.

But somehow the story keeps growing.
I’m editing chapters with a laptop on top of laundry piles. Shooting TikToks with dark circles big enough to have their own zip code. Running on coffee and spite. And somehow? People are finding my work. The website traffic keeps rising. The shop is alive. New subscribers show up like tiny miracles that say, “Don’t quit yet.”

Meanwhile my kids are switching schools soon, which means paperwork, meetings, and pretending I remembered everything. All while editing trauma scenes because apparently my writing schedule doesn’t believe in boundaries.

The shop is a whole different beast. Checking samples, fixing prices, wrestling with shipping settings like I’m defusing a bomb. Some days it feels like managing a tiny, chaotic business built out of duct tape. Other days it feels brilliant.

TikTok, Instagram, the website—they all want attention like starving houseplants I didn’t ask for. But every time I show up, people read. People care. People wait for the next thing. Visibility still feels strange, like someone turned on a light I wasn’t ready for. But it’s warmer than I expected.

And somewhere in all this mess, I can feel myself shifting. Not in a poetic way. In a “wow, I’m actually doing all of this, what the hell” way. I’m rebuilding a life from scratch while writing a book about people doing the exact same thing but with more blood.

So yes..life is insane.
My home looks like a storage unit.
My book is a clingy toddler.
The website is growing faster than I can keep up.
The shop has opinions.
The kids are tired but excited.
And I am running purely on willpower.

But underneath all of it?

I’m becoming someone I actually like.

If you stick around, you might see what happens next.

And if you subscribe, you’ll get early chapters, deleted scenes, messy drafts, bonus content, and whatever else I accidentally overshare at 3 a.m.

But mostly, I’m moving into a new version of myself. And the truth is, when you grow, you don’t get to keep everything you used to carry. Sometimes the old habits stay behind. Sometimes the old version of you stays behind. Sometimes people do too. And it’s not cruel, it’s not dramatic..it’s just how life works. Everyone grows at their own pace, and you can’t drag anyone into a chapter they’re not ready for.

So I’m embracing my own pace. My own direction. My own expansion.

Before the Holidays Get Me First

A seasonal confession from the dark side of fiction.

There’s a moment every December when the world tilts just slightly off its axis. You know the one — when the lights go up, the music gets cheerful in a threatening way, and suddenly everyone around you starts pretending they’re the main character in a wholesome movie.

Meanwhile, you’re over here holding your coffee like a hostage and whispering, “If one more person tells me to be festive…”

So I figured before the holidays consume me whole, I’d share something.
A story. A warning. A lesson. A little chaos wrapped neatly in a bow.

Because if the season is going to demand joy, then I reserve the right to give you truth instead.

The Warm Lie and the Cold Reality

Holiday cheer is sold like a product:
Tie a ribbon around your burnout, drink something cinnamon-flavored, pretend your life isn’t hanging together by three pixels and caffeine.

But the truth — the one no one posts on Instagram — is this:

Most of us are showing up exhausted, overwhelmed, and suspicious of anyone who looks too happy before 10am.

And honestly? That’s fine.

You don’t need to be glowing.
You don’t need to be grateful on command.
You don’t need to sparkle like some obedient ornament.

You just need to show up to your own story, even if you arrive late and slightly feral.

A Small Confession (Don’t Tell Anyone):

Building this world — this brand, this shop, this labyrinth of fiction — has been a little like wrestling with a dragon that sometimes helps but mostly judges me.

Every blog, every drop, every new piece of merch is me taking my chaos, plating it nicely, and whispering:

“Here. I made something.”

And people show up anyway.
People buy things.
People write to me.
People wait for the next thing.

It’s strange. Beautiful. A little addictive.

A Lesson I Didn’t Intend to Learn

Creativity doesn’t grow in perfect conditions.
It grows because you get tired of ignoring the thing clawing at your ribs.

It’s not about balance — forget balance —
it’s about choosing your art even when the world is loud, messy, and slightly on fire.

It’s about showing up when you’d rather disappear.
It’s about choosing the story you want to live, not the one you were handed.
It’s about refusing to shrink just because the season tells you to sparkle politely.

And Since You’re Here… A Promise

I’m building more.

More stories.
More puzzles.
More merch that feels like an inside joke between you and your dark side.
More reasons for you to come back even when everything else feels loud and shallow.

There will be surprises.
There will be moments you didn’t expect.
There will be drops you’ll want to get your hands on before everyone else.

And yes, if you’re paying attention — you’ll get first dibs.
Villains take care of their own.

So Before the Holidays Get Me First…

Let me say this:

If this year exhausted you, you’re not alone.
If joy feels heavy, that’s normal.
If you’re stumbling, you’re still moving.
And if all you manage this season is to show up — even crooked, even chaotic — that’s enough.

I’ll be right here, building worlds, whispering stories, plotting merch drops, drinking dangerous amounts of coffee, and pretending I’m not also one tinsel string away from losing my mind.

Happy almost-holiday, you beautiful disaster.
Try not to let the season swallow you whole.

Not without biting back.

Red Ribbons, White Lies

There’s something about the end of the year that feels like a trap disguised as a tradition. Red ribbons tied around candles, wine swirling like secrets in antique glasses, cakes puffed up with cream like they have something to prove. The illusion of cheer, so thick you could frost it.

But here's the thing about wrapping things in red:
It always looks like a gift.
Even when it’s a warning.

This year, I threw myself into it anyway. I set the table like I was expecting someone important. Lit the candle like I wasn’t the only one watching it burn. Poured a drink like I had something to celebrate. And for dessert? A cake so sugary it could silence a scream.

Maybe that’s what we do. Maybe that’s all we ever do.
Dress the dread in whipped cream and call it love.
Put on a red bow and pretend it’s not bleeding underneath.

I looked at that glass in my hand and realized—I wasn’t toasting the season. I was giving a eulogy. For another year that devoured me and asked for seconds. For the silence I swallowed instead of the words I wanted to scream. For the version of me that thought all this effort would somehow bloom into something more.

But nothing bloomed.
It just... looped.

Create. Finish. Upload. Repeat.
Clap. Clap. Clap. Echo.
Nothing.
Try again.

I don’t write because it’s easy. I write because it claws at me if I don’t. I make because if I stop, I have to admit it: I don’t know what happens next. And maybe that’s the real horror.

So here we are—me, you, the tree dressed in a thousand red strings, the ghost of the year we didn’t ask for, and the question no one dares answer:

What if this is it?
What if the good life doesn’t come wrapped in success, or clarity, or even peace…
What if it’s just this:
Showing up anyway.
Pouring the drink anyway.
Tying the bow anyway.
Making something beautiful even when no one’s watching.
Even when the knife doesn’t cut the cake, but your own expectations.

Happy holidays from your friendly neighborhood author with a frosting problem and a body count in her books.
We made it.
Kind of.