After finishing my first full draft of The Idiom Stones and sending it out to my focus group of early readers, I found myself in a strange, restless place. For three months, I had been writing every day—two and a half hours without fail—and suddenly, there was nothing left to do but wait. Waiting for feedback. Waiting for someone else’s perspective. Waiting to find out if the story I poured myself into actually worked. It sounds simple enough—take a break, catch your breath—but when you’ve lived inside a story for months, it’s hard to just stop. I felt like a runner who crossed the finish line only to be told to stand still for a while. Every instinct wanted to keep moving. But all the advice I found from other writers said the same thing: Don’t wait idly. Keep writing. Start something new. So I did. I enrolled in a fiction writing course with Gotham Writers Workshop, partly to stay productive and partly because I wanted to stretch myself. It turned out to be one of the best decisions I’ve made as a writer so far. The class gave me structure, accountability, and a community of people who understood what it felt like to chase a story through the fog. During the course, I wrote two short stories—“Errands” and “False Heaven.” Both came from very different places creatively, but each taught me something about voice, pacing, and the power of restraint. I’m now exploring options to get those stories published, and I’ll share updates here when I can. There’s something thrilling about sending smaller pieces into the world—like dipping your toe into the water before the dive. It’s both exciting and terrifying to imagine someone else reading them for the first time. At the same time, I signed up for several seminars with The Manuscript Academy. Those sessions opened my eyes to how much there is to learn about the publishing world beyond just writing the book itself—how to approach literary agents, how to craft a strong query letter, how to revise with a professional editor’s mindset. It reminded me that storytelling and publishing are two very different skill sets, and both deserve time and respect. And because I can’t seem to sit still creatively, I also started a second novel, this one aimed squarely at adults. It’s a psychological thriller—a genre I’ve always wanted to explore. So far, I’ve written two chapters, and while it’s very different from The Idiom Stones, it’s equally exciting to build something from the ground up again. There’s a particular energy in starting fresh, when anything feels possible and the story is still finding its shape. Still, even with all these projects, the waiting wasn’t easy. There’s a strange tension that comes with it—the push and pull between eagerness and patience. You want things to happen faster. You want the next step to appear right now. But writing (and publishing) doesn’t work that way. I’m learning that part of being a writer is learning to live in the gaps—to keep moving even when progress feels invisible. Now that I’ve received all of the feedback from my early readers, that waiting period has officially ended. I’ve rolled up my sleeves and begun the arduous but rewarding process of revision. It’s one thing to write a story; it’s another to refine it—to tighten the pacing, deepen the characters, and make every sentence serve a purpose. It’s slow work, but it’s the kind that matters most. Once I’ve completed this next round of revisions, the next big milestone will be finding a professional editor to do a final polish before I send The Idiom Stones out to literary agents. That step feels both thrilling and intimidating. It’s the moment when a private project begins to reach outward, toward the possibility of publication and readers beyond my circle of friends and beta readers. For now, though, I’m embracing the in-between. Writing isn’t a straight line—it’s a cycle of momentum and stillness, of discovery and doubt. Each phase teaches something different. Finishing a draft taught me discipline. Waiting taught me patience. Revising is teaching me humility. And somewhere in the middle of all that, I’ve realized that this journey isn’t about reaching the end—it’s about learning how to stay in love with the process. So if you ever find yourself in that holding pattern—between drafts, between steps, between what was and what’s next—don’t let it discourage you. Take a class. Write something new. Listen to a podcast. Learn. Grow. The best thing you can do for your first story is to keep creating others while you wait. I’ll keep sharing updates here as my journey continues—through revisions, short story submissions, and, hopefully, the search for the right editor and agent. It’s an exciting time, even if the pace sometimes feels slower than I’d like. But then again, maybe that’s part of the lesson too: good things in writing, as in life, take time.
When I first sat down to write The Idiom Stones, I gave myself a goal: two and a half hours a day, every single day, until it was done. No excuses. No “I’ll get to it tomorrow.” Just a quiet promise to myself to show up and write. And somehow, I did. For three months straight, I carved out that time each day. Some days the words came easily; other days, I stared at the blinking cursor, willing a sentence to appear. But I stayed with it, and after ninety days or so, I looked up and realized I had something resembling a complete manuscript—61,000 words. A whole book. It felt surreal to see that word count staring back at me. For a brief moment, I thought, That’s it—I’ve done it. I’ve written a novel. What I didn’t realize then was how much of the journey still lay ahead. It’s funny how the word complete can be misleading. You think it means finished, polished, done. But in writing, the first draft is really just the beginning. It’s the framework of the house, not the finished home. You can walk through it and recognize the shape of what it’s meant to be, but it still needs walls, paint, light, and a few doors that actually close properly. I learned that lesson quickly after sharing my manuscript with what I proudly called my “focus group.” There were ten readers in total—friends, colleagues, and fellow book lovers who volunteered to read an early version. Naively, I expected they’d find the odd typo or a sentence that could use tightening. Maybe someone would question a character’s choice or suggest a stronger ending to a chapter. Instead, what I received was far more valuable. Some readers left just a comment or two, small things I could fix in a single sitting. Others filled pages with notes, ideas, and thoughtful observations. They caught inconsistencies I hadn’t noticed, moments where a character’s reaction didn’t feel true, or scenes that needed more emotional weight. A few even spotted connections I hadn’t intended but decided to keep because they made the story stronger. It was humbling—and eye-opening. At first, I’ll admit, it stung a little. When you spend months living inside a story, you start to see it as something personal, almost sacred. Every line feels deliberate. Every word feels necessary. And then someone points to a paragraph you loved and says, “This doesn’t quite work,” or “I’m confused here.” You nod politely, but inside you think, Wait… what do you mean? But after a day or two, I started to see what they meant. They weren’t breaking my story—they were helping me build it better. I can’t overstate how grateful I am for those readers. Their dedication, their honesty, and even their disagreements pushed the book to a place I couldn’t have reached on my own. Some of them only offered a few comments, but they noticed things others didn’t. Others gave detailed feedback that challenged me to rethink entire sections. Every suggestion, big or small, became part of the process. And that’s when I realized something else: writing a book isn’t a solitary act, not really. It starts that way, sure—just you, the keyboard, and your imagination—but at some point, you need other eyes, other hearts, to help you see what your own can’t. The story may come from one person, but it grows through many. Looking back now, I see those first three months for what they were: the sprint that leads to the marathon. Writing the first draft was exhilarating, but finishing it was not the end—it was the invitation to begin again. To go deeper. To see the story not as it was, but as it could be. The Idiom Stones is still evolving. It’s slowly becoming the story I want it to be—the one I imagined when I first dreamed of those strange, yellow stones half-buried in the forest. I’m not rushing the process anymore. I’ve learned that great stories take time, and sometimes, they need a few generous readers to hold up a mirror and show you what’s missing. To those ten early readers—my focus group, my first audience—I’ll always be grateful. You reminded me that writing isn’t just about words on a page. It’s about connection, reflection, and the quiet courage to make something better than it was yesterday. And to anyone following along: if you’ve ever thought about writing a book, I hope this encourages you to start. Just start. Write for two hours a day, or twenty minutes, or however long you can. The first draft will come faster than you think—and the real work, the meaningful work, begins the moment you finish it.
Every writer has a moment when a story grabs hold and refuses to let go. For me, that moment came in the middle of the night. I woke from a dream so vivid that it felt less like a dream and more like a memory from a place I hadn’t yet been. In it, there was a path of worn yellow stones, half-buried in the forest floor. Each one was carved with strange phrases—idioms, like “Bite the Bullet” and “Break the Ice.” I remember standing in that forest, wondering what would happen if those sayings were real—if words could shape the world. When I woke, I scribbled the idea down, and that spark eventually became my first novel, The Idiom Stones. At first, I thought it would be an adult thriller—after all, that’s the kind of story I usually imagine myself writing. My literary influences are firmly planted in that space. I’ve always admired the psychological depth of Stephen King, the curiosity-driven storytelling of Malcolm Gladwell, and the relentless pacing of Dan Brown. They each approach the human condition in such different ways—King through fear and empathy, Gladwell through questions that challenge how we think, and Brown through intellect and adrenaline. I suppose I wanted to blend those instincts somehow. But as The Idiom Stones took shape, it became clear the story wanted to be something else entirely. The characters who arrived on the page were kids—twelve and thirteen years old—on the edge of growing up, caught between friendship and fear, between childhood magic and the weight of what it means to be responsible. It wasn’t a conscious decision to write for a younger audience; it simply felt right. And somewhere along the way, I realized I was writing the kind of story I would have loved to discover as a kid. I’m glad I followed it where it wanted to go. If there’s one story that has stayed with me over the years, it’s Stephen King’s The Long Walk. There’s something about its simplicity and cruelty, the endurance of its characters, and the quiet horror of what people will do to survive, that’s never left me. When I heard it was finally being adapted for film, I was thrilled. I can’t wait to see how they capture that haunting tone on screen. That story taught me that speculative fiction doesn’t have to be about monsters—it can be about us. About choice, fear, and the fragile threads that hold us together. Writing The Idiom Stones has been the most challenging and rewarding creative experience of my life. It reminded me that inspiration can come from anywhere—a dream, a memory, a question you can’t stop asking. For me, it started with a single image: a forest path paved in idioms. Where it leads… well, I suppose that’s what the story is for. Thank you for stopping by and reading my very first blog post. I’m excited to share more about my process, my inspirations, and the journey of turning ideas into stories. Follow along here as I navigate life as a new, aspiring author—one dream (and one draft) at a time.