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There’s a chapter in Jason  that I avoided writing for months. Not because it was sad. Not because it was violent. Not even because it...

There’s a scene in Jason  that almost broke me. It’s in Chapter One. The opening, actually. It begins with a fist—blunt, fast,...

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After five years of stop-and-start scribbling, my novel Jason is finally a warm stack of printed pages on my desk—ready for one last margin-crowded, highlighter-bright overhaul before I hit “send” to my editor. I’m equal parts exhilarated and terrified, but mostly grateful for every cheer that got me here. Paper in hand, tea on standby—wish me luck!

Some days my color-coded checklist barely survives breakfast. Between chauffeuring Grandma (large decaf iced coffee in hand), refereeing black-and-white pups buzzing to meet their cousins, celebrating therapy wins, tag-team-editing my daughter’s manuscript, and working Kickstarter graphics into Adobe Illustrator, the hours spin like a kaleidoscope. Tonight, I’m still chasing a stray chapter before bed—but in the chaos I’ve already gathered all the best story material.

Sun, screen, and a stubborn blinking cursor—that’s my writing life in three beats. I draft outdoors on a lounge chair, letting the light loosen sentences and the breeze push them along. Some days 10,000 words pour out; other days I’m lucky to pin down a single line. It’s messy, honest, and exactly where my stories learn to breathe.

What if love is out there… and we’re brave enough to accept it?