š² Monday Feels Different š²
July 10, 2026 āØ
There are days where writing feels like climbing a mountain with a backpack full of bricks. Every sentence is heavy. Every blank page feels like it's staring back at me, waiting for me to prove I belong there.
Then there are days like today.
Today felt... different. š
Over the last week, I've spent hours talking about The Infernal Chain. Not writing it. Talking about it. Explaining why Hollow bites his nails. Why Anthony matters. Why Savannah still believes. Why Noelle's choices echo through generations. Why grace can change everything. Why Maccaby feels like a real town instead of a setting on a map.
Somewhere along the way, I realized something I hadn't expected.
I don't struggle to tell the story.
I struggle to type it.
Those aren't the same problem.
For the first time, I'm seriously considering dictating my first draft. šļøš
Not because I want AI to write my novel. Quite the opposite. I want the raw, messy, unfiltered version that comes straight out of my head before my inner editor starts waving red flags and rewriting every sentence. I want the version where I interrupt myself because I remembered something important. The version where I laugh at my own characters. The version where I accidentally discover the heart of a scene while I'm talking.
Maybe my mouth has always known how to tell this story.
Maybe my fingers have just been trying too hard to keep up.
šæ
Something else happened this week.
I've been creating visual references for my world.
Not for readers.
Never for readers.
One of my favorite things about books is that every reader imagines something different. Your Cassie won't look like mine. Your Hollow won't sound like the one in my head. That's part of the magic of reading, and I'd never want to take that away.
These images aren't meant to define the story.
They're meant to inspire the person writing it.
It's a strange feeling to look at a face and think,
"There you are."
Not because it's perfect.
Because suddenly someone who's lived in your imagination for years has eyes.
A smile.
A scar.
A place in the world.
The angels surprised me the most. Somehow seeing them made Heaven feel... real. Like I could actually walk those marble streets if I turned the right corner.
That feeling is hard to explain.
ššŖ½
So here's the plan.
Monday, when the house gets quiet, I'm going to stop planning and start telling the story.
No editing.
No rewriting.
No obsessing over Chapter One.
Just...
"Cassie woke up because it snowed."
And wherever that sentence wants to go, I'm going with it.
The editing can wait until I have an ending.
For now, I owe these characters a chance to finally speak.
Nine years is a long time to keep someone waiting.
Here's hoping they still have something to say. š²āØ
šæ Current Mood
šµ Tea nearby šļø Equal parts terrified and excited š Surrounded by maps, notes, and way too many imaginary people š Ready to finally begin
