The Ethics of My Own Monsters
Hey folks, it’s that time again.
It’s Wednesday evening, and as promised, I’m showing up. I’ve decided to treat this blog as a hybrid creature: part behind-the-scenes look, part very public journal. Only time will tell if letting you into the machinery of my mind is a good idea or a terrible mistake.
On Monday, May 25th, my debut novel, Blackwood, was officially released into the wild. I’ve already had a few sales, and I am immensely proud of that. But I’m also entirely human. I can honestly say I am terrified it won’t be the hit I dream it will be. I’ve poured my heart, my soul, and countless sleepless hours into this book. Personally? I think it’s brilliant. I hope, sincerely, that y’all do too.
Kindle Unlimited Blackwood edition
You’d think I would come into this week's post riding a high of bright, bubbly excitement from the premiere. But the truth is, this week has been heavy.
I’ve already begun drafting my next novel, Ethics of a Monster, and it demands a slow, deliberate pace. To write this story, I have to descend into some incredibly dark places—corners of my mind I still go to therapy to untangle. Writing it has forced me to re-live moments of my past where the trauma only has thin scabs over old scars. My therapist seems to think I should write an autobiography. Personally, I think channeling those bits of truth into dark romance is the better course of action. At least that way, I can entertain you while I exorcise my demons.
For those of you who don’t know me personally, I am currently navigating a deeply troubling chapter: my father is dying.
With that reality comes a conflicting storm of guilt, remorse, and—if I am being entirely transparent—relief. There. I’ve said it. Relief. I don’t know how to write that without sounding maniacal, or perhaps a little crazy. But aren't we all? Much of the trauma I carry is centered around him.
Maybe I shouldn’t type that out loud. Maybe I shouldn’t put something so stark and ugly into the public eye. I grew up in the South, where family secrets are meant to stay buried in the dirt. The cultured, "good Southern girl" never admits to a shit day. She never puts her business in the street. You are taught to show up with a smile on your perfectly made-up face, a great pair of shoes on your feet, and a flawless script. When someone asks, "How are you?" the mandatory response—even if your entire world is collapsing around you—is a bright, "I’m doing well, thank you. How are you?"
So, I’m sorry. (Another Southern reflex... we apologize whether we mean it or not). I'm sorry for being so morose today.
This new book has a lot of triggers, especially for its author. But as hard as it is to bleed onto the page, I am going to keep writing Ethics of a Monster. It is something my screaming Southern soul simply needs to say.
Happy Wednesday, y’all.
From the shadows,
