Quiet Progress

A New Year Reflection

I hate talking about myself.

Which is probably why this whole Substack and newsletter thing feels so hard. And yes, I realize how strange that sounds coming from a writer. You would think I would love it. After all, in my opinion, every writer has to be at least a tiny bit narcissistic. We create worlds. We invent people. Then we make them fall in love, fall apart, suffer, and heal, all at our command.

That part is easy.

What is harder is stepping out from behind the curtain. Letting the spotlight land on you instead of the characters you hide behind. No metaphor. No mask. Just… here I am.

But 2026 is a new year. And I am trying something different. I am trying to be a little more open. A little more present. A little more willing to show up instead of hovering just offstage.

So why not start on day one?

The beginning of a new year always feels less like a starting gun and more like a pause. A breath held between what was and what might be.

This past year, I did not sprint. I did not explode onto the scene with grand announcements or shiny new releases every few weeks. Instead, I worked. Steadily. Often quietly. Sometimes invisibly. And honestly, it has been one of the most grounding years of my creative life.

A large portion of my time has gone to ghostwriting.

I cannot say much about the projects themselves. That is part of the deal. But I can say that the work has been deeply rewarding. Writing for other voices, other worlds, and other expectations has sharpened my instincts in ways I did not expect. It has made me cleaner on the page. More intentional. Less precious about every sentence, and more aware of what actually lands emotionally.

There is something humbling about building stories that do not carry your name and still pouring your whole heart into them. Something clarifying, too. Ghostwriting has not pulled me away from my own work. It has quietly strengthened it.

And while much of my creative energy has gone outward this year, I have not abandoned my own worlds.

I have been carving out time, sometimes in stolen hours and sometimes in late night bursts, for a few projects that feel especially close to my bones.

One of them, Almost to Always, is a brother’s best friend romance that has been with me longer than I expected. It is complete now, fully written from start to finish. All it needs is a cover and a release date. It is built on years of tension, shared history, and those small, devastating moments where feelings are felt but never spoken. The kind of love that does not shout. It lingers.

Another project still unfolding is a modern day Phantom retelling. It is dark(ish). It is obsessive. And yes, it is very much a work in progress. At its heart is a true love triangle. One MMC is perfect on paper. The other is truly morally gray, uninterested in redemption and aching only to be seen. He does not want to be loved for the persona he has crafted for the world, but for the man underneath it. The scars. The longing. The truth. That story refuses to be rushed, and I am learning to listen when a book tells me it needs more time.

Both stories are deeply different, but they come from the same place. An obsession with intimacy, with longing, and with the quiet spaces where love either takes root or fractures.

And then there are the sequels. Stories I know readers have been waiting for, and characters I am not done loving yet.

A second Night Vigils book, this time centering Cass and Micah.
A sequel to Lustling, focusing on Raziel and Velora. Enemies to lovers. Found family. Sharp edges slowly worn down by trust.

My hope is for both of these stories to arrive in the fall.

They are not projects I want to rush. They deserve patience. They deserve to be written when I can give them the depth they ask for. I am learning to let progress be quieter than pressure, and to trust that the right timing matters just as much as the words themselves.

Outside of writing, something else has been growing this year, almost by accident.

I fell hard into jewelry making.

What started as curiosity turned into hours lost at a worktable, hands busy and mind finally still. There is something incredibly satisfying about creating something tangible. Something that catches light. Something you can hold. Something that exists outside a screen. It is a different kind of storytelling. A different way to make beauty. And it has become one of my favorite forms of creative rest.

So as this new year opens, I am not making loud promises.

I am not vowing to do more, faster, or bigger.

I am choosing steadier. Kinder. More sustainable.

More stories, yes.
More craft.
More time in the worlds that matter to me.
More making, in all its forms.

If you have been here reading, supporting, or waiting, thank you. Truly. I am grateful for you in ways that never quite fit into words.

Here is to another year of quiet growth, messy drafts, sharp edits, small joys, and stories worth telling.