Yesterday, while working on all the behind-the-scenes publishing things for Happily Ever Afterlife, I logged into my old Amazon author account and saw Deadly Deception and Revelation for the first time in years. And it was surreal.

Those books came out thirteen or fourteen years ago. I was a completely different version of myself then, partly because I’ve grown and partly because my brain has literally been rewired by a stroke and by grief. I don’t even know that woman anymore.

And when I stopped writing all those years ago, I swore I would never do this again. Yet here I am at forty-six, getting ready to release another book on the Autumn Equinox.

And I can practically hear my dad saying, “You need to make it a big deal.”

So, Dad, I am.

Part of making it a big deal meant finding something wonderful to wear for my book release and for the events and signings that will come afterward. And because Happily Ever Afterlife is so deeply rooted here, I knew I wanted to shop local.

This book belongs to this little corner of the world. Sioux Falls is in its pages. Andersson Township may be fictional, but pieces of it come from the small South Dakota towns my family grew up in and the places I grew up visiting. My roots are here.

My dad and his memories are here.

So off Phil and I went to Terra Shepherd Boutique & Apothecary in downtown Sioux Falls, where I had the absolute pleasure of working with Charlie. And let me tell you, Charlie understood the assignment.

I explained what I was looking for, and within minutes, dresses, skirts, tops, and entire looks started appearing. Charlie understood my style, my body, and, more importantly, how I wanted to feel when I walked into these events. Not hidden or uncomfortable, but me.

Maybe with a little Nora Robertson mixed in. Maybe with a little Nora Robertson mixed in.

I wasn’t feeling my best physically that day. Sometimes making plans with a body that doesn’t always cooperate means crossing your fingers and hoping that when the day arrives, you’ll actually be able to do the thing. I was probably operating at about 55%.

But damn it, I wanted to do this.

Phil came with me, helped when I needed him, and cheered me on while Charlie made the entire experience feel easy, fun, and special. And I left with two gorgeous dresses, a beautiful skirt, and this strange little feeling that keeps sneaking up on me lately:

Holy crap. I’m really doing this again.

Except this time, I’m letting myself celebrate it.

Thank you to Terra Shepherd Boutique & Apothecary, owner Sara Jamison, and especially Charlie for taking such wonderful care of me. You made me feel beautiful, understood, and genuinely excited for everything that’s coming.

This whole book has been about roots. Grief. Home. Love. Starting over when you thought that part of your life was finished.

It seems only right that bringing it into the world is becoming a little love letter to home, too.

September 22. Autumn Equinox.

We’re making it a big deal, Dad.

1

No Rest for the Ghosted

Nora

“She’s alive! She’s alive!”

I held Charlotte above my head. I’d rescued the spider plant from the clearance shelf at the home improvement store, half-dead and marked down to sell. A month ago, her leaves had been limp and brown. Now they were glossy green, with new growth unfurling from the center like a fist opening.

Sunlight poured through the solarium’s glass ceiling, warming the tiled floor. The air smelled of damp soil, rosemary, and eucalyptus.

I set Charlotte back among the other recovering patients, the section I lovingly called the plant ICU. “You’re looking gorgeous, my girl. Keep this up, and you’ll be promoted to general population.”

A rhythmic tap-tap-tap came from behind me as Edgar trotted into the solarium with way too much confidence. A twelve-pound PomChi should not have had that much authority. His fluffy tan tail swished as he stared me down.

“What? You’ve eaten. We played. You were just outside.”

Edgar gave one of his trademark nose poofs and sneezed.

“Really. Again.”

He spun in a tight circle, whining.

“I’m saving lives here, you know.” I gestured at Charlotte.

Another sneeze. More attitude.

“Fine. Let’s go, Your Highness.”

I was still in plaid pajama bottoms and an oversized sweatshirt, my slippers whispering across the hardwood as I followed him through the kitchen and out onto the deck. My breath clouded in the morning air.

Autumn had arrived in South Dakota with full dramatic flair: mornings near freezing, afternoons warm and sunny, and trees beginning to flirt with burnt orange and fire red. I wouldn’t miss summer. Gardening with sweat dripping in places where sweat shouldn’t? I’d had enough.

I stood outside, hair whipping into my mouth, while my tiny fur child conducted his inspection. Edgar couldn’t be trusted to go outside alone because he treated gravity more as a suggestion than a law. He’d tried to launch himself off the deck stairs in pursuit of squirrels, birds, and once, memorably, dried corn stalks. There were only three stairs. That was still three too many.

I’d had a gate once. One aggressive gust of January wind sent it over with a bang that took a year off both our lives.

“Buddy.” He was sniffing the lavender planter. “Any chance you could do your business? I’m seconds away from texting your grandpa to stop feeding you cheese.”

Edgar peered at me. He knew it was an empty threat. Dad had been slipping Edgar cheddar since the day we moved back, and nothing on this earth was going to stop him.

And because nature enjoys irony, my alleged descendant of wolves was allergic to grass. Which is why he had a faux-grass potty patch on the deck instead of, you know, a yard.

Wind thrashed the trees and sent empty flowerpots rolling. A flock of geese fought to hold their V overhead. Edgar reveled in the chaos and took his time.

Eventually, after what felt like a hostage negotiation, he finished.

“All right, little monster. Inside for a chicken treat.”

The magic words. He bolted through the open door.

Inside, the warmth hit me. Edgar shook himself dramatically, then screeched at me like a deranged parrot.

“I know, I know.” I grabbed a treat from the container on the counter. ”Your suffering was immense.”

I tossed him a treat. He inhaled it whole.

“Chewing is generally encouraged.”

He gave an indignant snort and trotted off toward the living room.

“You, sir, have a foul mouth.”

I turned to the morning’s true priority.

More coffee.

My coffee pot wasn’t reliable. It leaked if I filled it past halfway, sputtered like an asthmatic tractor, and almost certainly violated several electrical codes. It was also sacred. Without four cups, I was a danger to society, and at forty-five, energy came in liquid form. I wasn’t ashamed to worship at the altar of caffeine.

The machine groaned, clicked, and whirred to life. The smell hit a moment later, rich and bitter, curling through the air like a promise that I might survive the morning.

Overhead, a floorboard creaked.

Then another.

Slow footsteps crossed the second-floor hallway, unhurried and familiar enough that I didn’t need to look up.

“Morning, Alice.”

Three loud knocks answered from upstairs.

“You’re up early.”

No knock for that one. Alice wasn’t a morning gal. I could relate.

While I waited, I admired my newly renovated kitchen. The forest-green tile behind the range caught the overhead light, its color deep and soft as moss after rain. Dark-stained cabinets rose to the ceiling, their grain visible because painting good wood is sacrilegious and I will fight about it. Nothing in the room technically matched, yet somehow it all worked.

Then my gaze drifted to the corner of the counter by the window.

The memorial card.

Creased. Warped. Nine months old and still exactly where I’d set it down the day it came.

Stupid little snowy scene. A bright red cardinal on a branch. Someone at a card company had decided that’s what comfort looks like. All I saw now was a blurry wash of watercolor where the ink had run, my tears, and probably some snot, because grief is not a glamorous process.

I treated it like a shrine. Melted candles. Little mementos arranged around it in a semicircle, like an offering. So many nights spent crying until my head hurt.

These days I mostly wanted to burn it and watch the flames take it.

I did neither. I just left it there. We’d been at that particular standoff for three seasons.

The coffee maker gurgled, hissed, and beeped, hauling me back before I disappeared down the hole entirely.

I grabbed my Uff Da, MF mug—the most accurate expression of Scandinavian exhaustion ever fired in a kiln—and poured myself a generous helping of dark liquid sanity. Lifted it like an offering.

“Thank you.”

I took a careful sip. The burn was exquisite. A scalding, beautiful punishment for my impatience. A deeply undignified moan escaped before I could stop it.

“Why do you still have that?”

He stood by the kitchen window. Of all the spirits I’d encountered over the years, Will was the only one who could undo me with a single look.

Most people would scream upon finding a dead man in their kitchen. I wasn’t most people. I was furious, and being furious at Will was easier than admitting how much I missed him.

I took my time with another sip. Then I turned. “Why are you here this early?”

“Wow. You’re in a mood.”

Even dead, he was infuriating to look at. It wasn’t the hair, though it still did that thing in the morning light where the brown gave up and admitted to auburn. It wasn’t his eyes, either.

It was his leaning.

One shoulder against a wall he couldn’t actually touch, ankles crossed. He’d stood in doorways that way his whole life. Flannel sleeves shoved to the elbows, hands in his pockets, perfectly willing to wait me out until I said whatever I was refusing to say.

“I’m not in a mood,” I said, glaring over the rim of my mug. “I haven’t had enough caffeine, and my dead ex is standing in my kitchen on a Saturday telling me what to do.”

“Ouch.” He drifted closer. “We weren’t just exes.”

That was the problem.

Will and I had spent most of our lives orbiting each other. Wrong timing, or wrong versions of ourselves, over and over. Every time one of us started building a life somewhere else, we found our way back. Comfortable. Familiar. Infuriating.

At eighteen we made a pact: if neither of us was married by fifty, we’d elope.

He died at forty-six. So now I was grieving a future that never even happened.

“Nora—”

I set my mug down too hard. Coffee sloshed over the rim. “You left.”

Sharper than I meant it. That’s what nine months of swallowing grief will do.

His expression flickered. “What, because I died?”

“Yes.”

He laughed, dry. “I didn’t plan it. I didn’t choose the ghost life, Nora. The ghost life chose me.”

“Who goes out for tacos on a snowmobile during a blizzard?”

“I was hungry.”

“You died for a burrito.”

“Sir Taco has excellent burritos.”

They do. I can’t argue that. Sir Taco stayed open through blizzards that shut down half the county because men like Will considered spicy refried beans a survival necessity.

I stared at him until the joke drained out of the room.

“We had a deal,” I said quietly. “We were supposed to survive our disasters together.” My voice cracked straight down the middle. “Not this.”

He hovered inches away now. Sometimes I forgot he wasn’t alive anymore. Then there’d be moments like this one, where the air between us stayed cold, and I remembered all over again.

“I’m still here,” he said.

“It’s not the same thing.”

The silence stretched. Will had always known exactly when I was about to come apart, and he’d never once let me get there.

“Look on the bright side.” The smirk arrived right on schedule. “At least I’m not drinking all your coffee.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You love me.”

I looked away. That answer still cost too much.

He nodded at the card again. “Put it away.”

“No.”

“I’m serious. If you don’t, I’ll have Mr. Dalton mess with your electronics again. Or send One-Eyed Willy to check on the library renovation.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

He looked entirely too pleased with himself. “Try me.”

Then he vanished.

“Coward.”

Tiny nails clicked across the hardwood. Edgar trotted in and whined.

I crouched to rub his ears. “He’s right. I hate that he’s right.”

Edgar sneezed in agreement.

“Nobody asked either of you.”

***

I topped off my mug and came through the swing door into the living room, where sunlight came through the front windows and hit the suncatchers, throwing a hundred small rainbows across the deep green walls. They slid over floorboards worn smooth, every nick and scratch left by someone who lived here before me. Children running. Furniture dragged. Hands wrestling stubborn windows open on humid August afternoons.

This old house remembered everything.

A 1912 American Foursquare, and an absolute disaster when I bought it. Too big, too expensive, far too much square footage for one woman and a twelve-pound dog. My family had opinions.

It’s too big for you.
That’s a lot of house to clean.
There’s no toilet on the first floor.

Thank you. Your concerns have been noted and filed accordingly.

But I hadn’t been shopping for practicality. I’d been shopping for roots—for something that had survived its storms and was still standing.

I’d just turned forty, with a down payment and years of overpriced Minneapolis apartments behind me. Then Grandpa Robertson died, and the pull back toward my charming, slightly feral hometown became something I could no longer argue with.

He still turns up now and then. Never when I want him to, never for long.

Usually in the kitchen, with an opinion about how I’m making gravy.

The dining room still had no table. The dark floors and the built-in buffet under the windows were begging for the right one, and I’d been losing that particular hunt for two years. But I’d restored the antique chandelier myself, and its crystals and leafy ironwork twinkled overhead like they’d been waiting for me the whole time.

Upstairs, something small and heavy dropped and rolled.

“Mr. Dalton is up to something.”

I finished my coffee, set the mug in the sink, and went upstairs to get dressed and pretend I was a functioning adult.

***

My curls were behaving better than usual, silver threading in at the temples. I didn’t mind. The older I got, the less interested I was in pretending time wasn’t passing. Makeup and my skin had maintained a hostile relationship for decades, but red lipstick was non-negotiable. It went on before anything else, every day, deliveries included.

It wasn’t decoration. It was armor.

Straight-leg jeans. White tee with a tiny embroidered cherry near the pocket. My favorite houndstooth coatigan. And red Converse, because I’ve worn some version of the shoe since I was thirteen and fully intend to be buried in a pair.

Edgar had entered his fourth nap cycle of the day in a patch of sun near the fireplace.

I went back through the solarium for a final check on the plants. Every one of them had a name. I’m aware of how that sounds. The steam distiller was still cooling from Thursday’s batch, so I loosened the clamp and let it breathe. The bundles in the drying room needed two more days—I ran a thumb over a sprig of yarrow, and the stem was still soft.

Somebody bolted this room onto the back of the house in the late nineties and had no idea they were building me a workshop.

Rare plants, herbs, custom arrangements, terrariums. And, increasingly, funeral work.

That last part wasn’t intentional. It turns out grieving families appreciate a florist who can pass along a message.

Not exactly what I’d envisioned when I named the place.

Oh, Fern Sure: Plants So Nice, You’ll Say Uff Da Twice.

Yes, that’s the name. Yes, that’s the slogan. No, I have no regrets.

Clients drive all the way out here and never mind the trek. Everyone else, I pack and ship. Roots don’t have to stay local.

“Behave yourselves while I’m gone,” I said to the plants and the ghosts alike.

A faint knock came from upstairs.

“Thank you, Alice.”

I grabbed my purse, my delivery tote, and my sunglasses, then headed out. The air carried the scents of earth, river water, and woodsmoke. For a second, standing under that ridiculous blue sky, I felt okay.

The house sits along a bend in the Big Sioux, on the edge of town, on land that feels older than the concept of land ownership. Oaks and birches and cottonwoods lean over the roof. In summer the canopy is dense enough to dim the sky. In autumn it goes up like fire and then buries the whole yard, which my all-too-willing cousins have never seemed to mind.

Big Mitch—my black Jeep Wrangler—was already warming up in the garage thanks to remote start. Whoever invented remote start deserves a federal holiday.

I slid the tote onto the passenger seat.

Then I felt the familiar cold at the back of my neck and looked up.

Will stood in the third-floor window, watching me leave. He was still lingering. Still stubborn. Still woven all the way through my life, even from the other side of it.

Some people would call it lucky, getting to see the person you loved after they died. Some days I agreed. Other days it was just the same wound, reopened on schedule.

I swallowed hard, climbed in, and backed out of the garage.

***

By one o’clock I’d knocked out nearly every delivery on my list.

“Lavender and holy basil for Mrs. Larson,” I muttered, parked on Skol Street. “She needs to stop asking me about poisonous plants after the schnauzer incident.”

The neighbor’s dog had destroyed her award-winning lawn. Two years was still a long time to hold a grudge—especially the kind of grudge that comes with follow-up questions about foxglove.

I checked off the rest. Boobie cactus for Maddie Marsh’s mammogram celebration. Graveyard terrarium for Oscar’s wife, which had gone about how you’d expect. African violets for Evelyn.

I tossed the clipboard onto the passenger seat. Yes, a clipboard. I contain multitudes.

“I deserve coffee and a doughnut.”

My reflection in the rearview agreed wholeheartedly.

A few blocks over sat But First, Fika—my best friend Louisa Watterson’s café, in the heart of downtown Andersson Township, among brick buildings that looked weathered and stubbornly unkillable. Lou and I had been inseparable since first grade, when we bonded over glitter glue and a shared contempt for the boys’ table.

Andersson Township is split down the middle by a century-old Scandinavian pride war. Olaf Hills on one side, Vasa Grove on the other, and a lefse rivalry that still simmers under every church potluck.

Outside the café stands the town’s most beloved nightmare: a giant Dala horse known as Big Red. Tourists constantly ask whether it’s a sports mascot. Lou refuses to explain.

The plaque underneath reads:

In honor of tradition, stubbornness, and strong coffee. Don’t climb it. Don’t question it. Just fika.

My phone chimed.

Dad: What’cha up to, daughter? ☀️☕❓

I’d recently taught my father about emojis. There have been consequences.

Me: Finished deliveries, heading to Lou’s. You?

Dad: Your mother is dragging me to the fabric store. 🤦

Me: She doesn’t even sew.

Dad: I’ve learned not to ask questions. ❌

Dad: 😢🍺🦎

Before I could work out the lizard, he sent a GIF of a man taking a very long pull from a beer.

Forty-eight years of marriage: smile, nod, survive. Honestly, it’s a solid strategy.

Inside, warmth and sugar and coffee hit me all at once. Every booth was full of locals solving the world’s problems over pastry. The place looked like a fairytale exploded in it—floral wallpaper, soft blue wainscoting, enough blond wood to make IKEA weep.

“Hey!”

Lewis Campbell, from his usual booth, white beard swaying like a woolly metronome as he launched into the Ghostbusters theme in a broad Upper Midwestern accent.

“Who ya gonna call? Ghooost Giiirl!”

Across from him, his wife put her face in a napkin—the universal signal for Lord, take me now.

“That never gets old, Lewis.” My smile was more fatigue than enthusiasm.

It had, in fact, gotten old around 1998. But Lewis was older than expired milk and sweet as anything, so he got a pass.

“Hey, Lady!” Lou called from behind the counter, dark curls piled in a messy bun that somehow looked effortless. I was a little jealous of that.

“You already started my order, didn’t you?”

She held up a chocolate raspberry doughnut. “Black coffee, too.”

“You know me so well.”

“I know you skipped breakfast.”

“I had a banana.”

“Progress.”

She lowered her voice as she poured. “So. Any sightings today?”

“Yes.”

“The special one?”

I gave her a warning look. “Can we not discuss my dead situationship in front of the entire town?”

Lou glanced around the café. “Pretty sure everyone already knows.”

In a small town, secrets aren’t private. They’re community projects.

“He’s being bossy,” I muttered.

“Wasn’t he always bossy?”

Fair.

I leaned on the counter while she boxed the doughnut. “How are Ethan and the girls?”

“Gymnastics, art class, and sass. Ethan’s chauffeuring.”

“Mia still planning world domination?”

“On the daily.”

“And Taylor?”

“Already cultivating tortured artist energy.”

“You know I support both paths equally.”

Lou grinned. “That’s why you’re their favorite auntie.”

“Heck, yeah, I am.” I gathered my coffee and doughnut. “All right. I should get home before Edgar attempts another death-defying stunt.”

Lou smirked, one brow up. “Oh, he’s definitely done something.”

“Without question.” I blew her a kiss, balancing the box. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” Her expression softened. “Text me later, okay?”

I knew what she meant. Tell me if seeing Will gets bad again.

“I will.”

The door chime followed me out. Halfway to Big Mitch, a cold went through me, quick, like stepping off a curb I didn’t see.

I stopped. Waited. Nothing.

Low blood sugar, probably. I got in and started the drive home.

The farther I drove from town, the heavier the air became. Then the cold came up my spine, slow and deliberate, like fingers dragging along bone.

I know that feeling. I get it when spirits are restless, when the echoes of the dead start stirring the air around them.

This wasn’t that.

Every cold I’d ever felt came off something that used to be alive. There’s a thinness to it, like a sound coming from far away. This one was close. This one had weight.

I turned off the highway onto gravel. The cottonwoods closed over the road the way they always do and the light went green and dim, and my hands were sweating on the wheel with the heat off.

Dead people wander through my kitchen and hallways, and I had never once been afraid.

The house came up through the trees.

Something was waiting for me at home. I just didn’t know what.

Self-publishing is like starting a small business—and I’d know, I’ve started a few since I was 22. It takes money, time, patience, persistence, hard work. It’s frickin’ hard. And disappointing. And exhausting. Frustrating. But damn, it’s also incredible, beautiful, fabulous.

I told Phil that in another life, I was an author. Indie and traditional. I may not have written a book in over a decade, but according to my husband, I never stopped being one.

“You are an author. A best-selling author. Period.”

Even though I’m starting over. Under a different name. Building everything again from the ground up. I’m once again starting a small business.

I am all the titles.

This isn’t my first time starting over, and it won’t be my last. It’s what I do.

Pivot.

This trip around the author sun is different, though. I’m in it for different reasons now. I’m a midlife Midwestern Scandinavian menopausal woman with a multitude of health issues who survived a stroke and watched her dad take his last breaths.

I’m in it for the dark humor, the raw grief, the death and dying, and all the weird, feral stuff that comes with it. The tears. The rage. The love. The new beginnings. The unknown. The loneliness. The in-between.

The grey.

I’m about to release the words that spun, twisted, threaded, evolved, exposed themselves onto the page—out into a world I’m meeting with an already fragile nervous system. And if even one person reads them and says they felt seen, felt heard, through loss and grief and midlife chaos, then those words—the ones I promised my dad I would write on some of my darkest days—were a success.

And I’ll keep writing. Because I have a lot to say.

Oh, and by the way…

Here’s my cover.

This beautiful cover was created by the incredibly talented Staci Hart of Quirky Bird Covers. Not only is she an amazing designer and artist, but she’s also a brilliant author.

And that little butterfly on Edgar’s nose? That’s my dad.

My dad loved butterflies, and when Staci added that tiny detail, it got me. I knew immediately how much he would have loved it. Somehow, it feels like a little piece of him found his way onto the cover of the book he inspired me to write.

And I can’t imagine anything more perfect.

Preorder will be available soon!

Happily Ever Afterlife is a midlife paranormal romantic comedy about Nora Robertson, a forty-five-year-old plant shop owner who’s been seeing dead people her entire life. Her relationship with the dearly departed is… complicated. She sees them, they see her, and boundaries are apparently just as difficult to enforce with dead people as they are with the living.

Then the afterlife recruits her as a rookie Grim Reaper.

Now she’s got a scythe, a ninety-day trial period she definitely didn’t apply for, and enough afterlife bureaucracy to prove that not even death can save you from paperwork.

Meanwhile, she’s falling for Aric, the local comic book shop owner, who has no idea the woman he’s dating guides souls on the side.

It’s dark, funny, romantic, and a little weird, but underneath it all, Happily Ever Afterlife is about grief, love, and learning to let go. Because after spending her entire life surrounded by death, Nora discovers that death might be the very thing that finally teaches her how to live.

ONE WEEK until the full cover reveal of Happily Ever Afterlife.

Excuse me while I scream, cry, and possibly vomit from excitement.

The cover was created by the ridiculously talented Staci Hart at Quirky Bird Covers, and I genuinely could not love it more. We went back and forth, tweaked little details, and somehow she took this weird little world that has lived inside my head for so long and turned it into something real.

It fits the story.

It fits Nora and Aric perfectly.

And, obviously, Edgar is on it. Because let’s be serious. He would have filed a formal complaint otherwise.

There’s also a little backstory behind the cover and some of the details tucked into it, which I’ll share when I reveal the whole thing next week.

One week.

ONE. WEEK.

I am so excited I want to throw up.

Happily Ever Afterlife is becoming very, very real.

Meet Edgar.

He didn’t ask to be in a paranormal romantic comedy.

He asked for snacks, preferably cheese.

Repeatedly.

Cover reveal is August 18!

Also, here is my website, Andi Blake. Come sign up there for book updates, giveaways, all the goodies.

What you may not know is that I’m also a huge comic book enthusiast.

That obsession started because of my husband, Phil.

Phil has loved comic books since he was a kid. Years ago, he wanted to share that world with me, but he knew handing me a random superhero comic probably wasn’t the way to do it. So instead, he bought me the Pride and Prejudice comic adaptation.

He knew me well.

I fell in love.

From there, my reading expanded into incredible stories featuring some seriously badass women. Black Widow—especially Phil Noto’s gorgeous run—quickly became a favorite. I devoured Babushka, Catwoman, Bitch Planet, and so many others. The storytelling, the artwork, the character development... I was hooked.

And that’s the thing.

Comic books have long carried an unfair stereotype.

I’ve seen firsthand how they inspire kids to read. I’ve watched reluctant readers discover a love of stories because they picked up a graphic novel. I’ve met writers who create unforgettable worlds and artists whose talent leaves me absolutely speechless. Every page is a collaboration between storytelling and visual art, and when it’s done well, it’s nothing short of magic.

Really, I should probably share more comic recommendations here.

If you’ve read Happily Ever Afterlife, you’ll probably recognize where Aric came from.

No, Phil isn’t Aric.

But there’s definitely some Phil in him.

Phil would happily spend his days running a comic book shop, talking about stories with customers, recommending new series, and helping someone find the perfect book. That passion naturally found its way onto the page. Manowar Comics exists because I’ve spent years immersed in this world alongside him.

Through comics, we’ve met some incredible people who have become dear friends. Like every community I’ve been part of—plants, death care, herbalism, publishing—there are occasional disagreements and drama. That’s simply what happens whenever passionate people gather around something they love.

But that’s not what defines the community.

What defines it is creativity.

Generosity.

Enthusiasm.

People who can’t wait to hand you a book and say, “You have to read this.”

So when you step into Manowar Comics with Nora, you’re stepping into a place inspired by real experiences and real people who genuinely love stories.

And if you’ve never picked up a comic book because you assumed they weren’t for you...

Maybe it’s time.

You might just discover your next favorite story.

When someone enters hospice, people need to understand that decision is not made lightly.

I’m speaking from personal experience, from walking alongside my own dad, and from years of being part of the death, dying, and grief community.

A dear friend of mine has recently entered hospice. She has terminal cancer. This wasn’t a snap decision. This wasn’t made because she “gave up.”

And yet someone actually said to her, “Well, don’t give up.”

So let me say this as plainly as I can.

Entering hospice is not giving up.

People do not enter hospice because they’ve quit fighting.

They enter hospice because their bodies can no longer tolerate treatment. Because the disease has reached a point where medicine can no longer stop what biology is doing.

That is not surrender.

That is reality.

And it is one of the most heartbreaking realities a human being and their family will ever have to face.

If you have never sat in a room with an oncologist, specialists, and loved ones while discussing the transition to hospice… if you’ve never watched someone weigh impossible choices… if you’ve never witnessed a body fail while the spirit inside still desperately wants to live…

I’m going to need you to keep comments like that to yourself.

Because they are not helpful.

They are not encouraging.

They are not loving.

Whether you intend it or not, what that person often hears is:

“You’re choosing this.”

“You’re not trying hard enough.”

“You’re giving up.”

That is not what’s happening.

I’ve heard and seen some stuff over the years when it comes to death, dying, and grief, and it still amazes me how casually people throw around words without stopping to think about the weight they carry.

Please.

Use critical thinking.

Before you speak. Before you type. Before you hit send.

Ask yourself how your words might land on someone who is living through the worst chapter of their life.

Do you honestly think my friend made this decision lightly?

She didn’t.

Do you think my family did?

Do you think when we sat in that room with my dad’s oncologist and made the decision to begin hospice, my dad was simply “giving up?”

Absolutely not.

His body was tapping out.

His spirit wasn’t.

A person’s soul can be hopeful. Strong. Passionate. Determined to stay. They can want one more Christmas, one more birthday, one more ordinary Tuesday.

That doesn’t mean their body is capable of giving them that.

Disease doesn’t negotiate.

Hospice exists because sometimes the goal is no longer to cure.

The goal becomes comfort.

Dignity.

Pain management.

Support.

Time together.

Peace.

Hospice is there not only for the person who is dying, but for the family walking beside them.

Is hospice scary?

Absolutely.

My dad was terrified when he entered hospice.

I’m incredibly grateful I was able to help ease some of that fear and show him what hospice really was. Every hospice experience is different, but what I know without question is this:

Hospice is not giving up.

It is one of the most compassionate forms of care we have.

So please, I am begging you…

Never tell someone entering hospice not to “give up.”

They haven’t.

Neither have the people who love them.

Sometimes love looks less like fighting for one more treatment and more like making sure someone is comfortable, surrounded by the people they love, and allowed to leave this world with dignity.

That isn’t giving up.

That’s one of the bravest acts of love there is.

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk on what never to say to someone entering hospice.

I could have set this book anywhere.

In the beginning, it was actually going to take place in Minnesota. But a few chapters in, something kept nagging at me. It didn’t feel right. The story refused to settle there.

Because this book is more than just a story.

When I say Happily Ever Afterlife is deeply personal, I mean exactly that.

I wasn’t born in Sioux Falls. I was born in Sioux City, Iowa. We moved to Rapid City when I was in fourth grade, then to Sioux Falls just before sixth grade.

Middle school.

Uff da.

Need I say more?

South Dakota became home.

It’s where I graduated. Where I fell in love with Phil. Where we got married. Where Logan was born. Where countless memories were made—the beautiful ones, the heartbreaking ones, and yes... the kind that eventually require a therapist.

We left South Dakota in 2005 and spent nearly two decades living around the country. We experienced different cultures, climates, incredible food, and met friends who became family. We truly believed we’d never move back.

Then my dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer.

Everything changed.

We came home in December of 2022, and here we are three and a half years later.

Looking back now, I don’t think this story could have been written anywhere else.

Happily Ever Afterlife isn’t just set near Sioux Falls. It’s set in Andersson Township, a fictional little town tucked nearby. But Andersson Township is stitched together from the places that shaped me and my family—the small towns my grandparents and great-grandparents grew up in, the communities where relatives still live, the roads I’ve driven a thousand times.

It’s Scandinavian stubbornness and Midwest sass.

It’s “Ope, sorry,” when nobody actually bumped into you.

It’s “You betcha.”

It’s “Well... I suppose.”

It’s lefse and Swedish meatballs.

It’s friendly people who will absolutely judge how you parked while bringing you a hotdish because they heard you’ve had a rough week.

It’s cornfields stretching to the horizon. Prairie grasses dancing in the wind. Big skies. Bison. Gravel roads.

It’s ancestry. Family stories. Generations of people who built lives in this place.

And woven through all of that are the conversations we usually avoid.

Death.

Dying.

Grief.

The things society whispers about, if it talks about them at all.

I wanted to wrap those difficult conversations in something unexpected: dark, wildly inappropriate humor, love, hope, found family, comic books, ghosts, plants, and the beautiful, messy reality of what it means to keep living after someone you love dies.

Many of the moments in these pages are inspired by my own life. There are places around Sioux Falls you’ll recognize. Pieces of how Phil and I met found their way into Nora and Aric’s story. Family traditions slipped between the chapters.

And if you knew my dad...

You’ll recognize him immediately.

Henry, Nora’s father, carries so much of him. His humor. His warmth. His love of family. His appreciation for cheese and smoked oysters.

Writing Henry often felt like getting to spend a little more time with my dad.

People sometimes overlook places like South Dakota. They think excitement only exists in bigger cities like Chicago or Tampa. But after living across the country, I’ve learned every place has its own heartbeat.

Ours just happens to beat beneath endless skies, among prairie grasses, coffee shops where nobody leaves quickly, Ole and Lena jokes, church basements serving bars and funeral meat, and neighbors who somehow know everything before you do.

This place has given me more stories than I could ever write.

Nora and Aric’s journey will span three books, but woven through all of them are pieces of my own family’s story. As the series grows, you’ll meet characters inspired by people we love, places we’ve known, and moments that shaped us.

I’m incredibly proud of this book.

And I’m proud of where I come from.

South Dakota isn’t perfect.

Neither am I.

But this place is part of my story.

It’s where my roots are.

And after spending nearly twenty years searching for home somewhere else...

I found my way back.

Or maybe...

Home was waiting for me all along.

Oof, that’s a little emotional.

Welcome to Andersson Township

A few blocks away sat But First, Fika.

The café belonged to my best friend, Louisa Watterson. We’d been inseparable since first grade, when we bonded over glitter glue and Barbies. It sat in the heart of downtown Andersson Township, among rows of old brick buildings that looked weathered yet stubbornly unkillable.

Andersson Township was split right down the middle by a century-old Scandinavian pride war—Olaf Hills on one side, Vasa Grove on the other—leaving a lefse rivalry that still simmered beneath every church potluck.

But we’ll get to that later.

Outside the café stood the town’s most beloved nightmare: a giant red Dala horse affectionately known as Big Red. Tourists constantly asked whether it was a sports mascot. Lou refused to explain.

A plaque beneath it read:

In honor of tradition, stubbornness, and strong coffee.

Don’t climb it.

Don’t question it.

Just fika.

I was thirty-five when I opened Manowar Comics.

At first, we operated out of a tiny downtown storefront that was barely big enough to handle Wednesday pull-list crowds. We outgrew it almost immediately. This location was a huge step up. We were near one of the busiest intersections in town, with plenty of parking, and close enough to the park that, on soccer tournament weekends, the shop turned into absolute chaos.

Somewhere along the way, Manowar stopped being just a comic shop.

It became a community.

This is only the beginning.

Meet Nora…

July 7 doesn’t merely arrive. It tiptoes in, quiet… and then, bam, it kicks me straight in the gut.

At 7:21 a.m., it came and went. Dad has been gone for three years.

I still can’t comprehend how that’s possible, but it is. There’s no mistaking it. I don’t want this day to come, but it does, every single year.

I will say it feels different this year. Not less. Never less. Just not the same. Grief does that. It never leaves. It changes. It shifts its shape. It softens in places and catches you off guard in others. But the hollow space in my heart remains. That sliver of my soul he took with him is forever gone.

I want our time back.

I want my dad back.

But there is never enough time.

Somehow I’ve had to figure out who the heck I am without him. I’ve learned a lot about myself. My brain has been rewired—from my stroke, from Dad’s death, from surviving things I never imagined I’d survive. Life isn’t the same since he died, and it never will be. I will never be the same either.

He’s still here, just in a different way.

He sends signs. Or, as Logan says, “signer signs.” Whether he slips into my dreams or turns the dryer on, his love and presence are felt. That is what I hold onto.

He is watching, guiding, protecting, and loving us from afar. I know he is proud of us. I know he misses us too. He is part of this beautiful universe, and while that thought brings me comfort… it still sucks.

Because I want him here.

Alive.

Healthy.

Today will hold joy, sorrow, tears, laughter, and a thousand emotions in between. And that’s okay, because that’s the reality of death and grief. It’s beautiful and messy and terrible and bittersweet. It’s jagged and delicate all at once. It’s a love-hate relationship that never really ends.

But through it all—the anger, the sorrow, the relief, the haze—I am grateful.

Grateful that I got to keep him for 43 years.

I'm grateful I have known a love so profound that its absence could reshape me.

And grateful that no matter how much time passes, I will always be his Andrea Girl.

I love you, Daddy. Always.

And did he ever have opinions.

He pointed at my phone. “Where’s this one?”

“Near Marge and Hank’s old house.”

“East side?”

“Yep.”

He frowned. “You’re a west-side girl. How about this one?”

“South, near Prairie Green.”

“That’s better. But no.”

I showed him two more.

He dismissed them both without missing a beat.

“The one by Lincoln is too old. Look at that kitchen.”

“It’s Mid-Century, I like it, plus we can remodel.”

“Open walls, who knows what you’ll find.” He moved on to the next house. “And this other area floods.”

“It’s on a hill.”

“Try driving down that hill in winter. And it’s too far away from us.”

“It’s twelve minutes.”

“Under ten would be better.”

I laughed. “Dad... you’re extra.”

Then I pulled up another listing.

“Okay, here’s one on the west side.”

A grin spread across his face.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

He pointed at the screen.

“This is it. Sold.”

We laughed.

As it turns out, he was right.

This was the one, and he could boss me around.

After 26 moves during our marriage, we’ve officially done something that feels almost suspicious…

We’ve stayed put.

I know. It’s a shocker.

This is the longest we’ve ever lived in one house, and somewhere along the way it stopped feeling like a house and became our home.

I remember someone once saying, “Oh… you bought another cookie-cutter house.”

Here’s the thing: I’ve never believed in cookie-cutter homes. Floor plans can be copied. Souls can’t.

Every house we’ve ever lived in has slowly become ours, one paint color, one thrifted treasure, one family heirloom, one plant, one memory, one laugh, and one slightly questionable decorating decision at a time.

I’ve always been a paint-the-walls kind of person, but lately I’ve realized I don’t just like color—I need it.

After Dad died, the world felt gray for a long time. Gray walls. Gray skies. Gray grief.

Now I crave deep blues, mossy greens, joyful pinks, warm golds. Colors that remind me life still has something beautiful to say.

So yes, I’m painting walls again. Staining. Shopping my own basement like it’s a home decor store. Making this place look more like us with every passing year.

And I know some of you are probably shocked we’ve had the same address for three years. So are we.

But this house has given us more than an address. It fits this season of our lives. On the days my body flares and walking is an accomplishment, everything I need is on one level. It has quietly taken care of me in ways I never could have planned for when we bought it.

So we’re not going anywhere.

This house has watched us heal, laugh, survive, dream, and begin again.

It’s not perfect.

It’s home.

Now... what the heck happened?

On Monday, I shared that I had decided to try Xolair with my allergy/immunologist. We thought it might be a good option to help manage my MCAS. Since there is a very small risk of anaphylaxis, all first-time injections are done in the office with a 90-minute observation period.

Well...

Of course I’d end up in that itty-bitty percentage.

About 45 minutes after the injections, Phil and I were just sitting there while I worked on edits for my book. Then, out of nowhere, a massive wave of nausea hit. My hands became drenched in sweat. It felt like all the blood rushed into my ears—I could barely hear anything because everything sounded muffled. Then I realized I couldn’t swallow.

I managed to get out, “Something’s wrong,” and motioned to Phil.

He jumped up.

Within seconds, I was surrounded by the medical team checking my oxygen, blood pressure, and heart rate. They could immediately tell I was in trouble. They heard wheezing on my left side, my heart rate shot into the 140s, I was shaking uncontrollably, and breathing became incredibly difficult.

They gave me my first Epi injection immediately.

Things settled... for a little while.

Then about 30 minutes later everything came roaring back. It rebounded hard. I needed a second Epi injection along with a steroid shot. I still couldn’t stop shaking, and my blood pressure—which had been extremely high—dropped rapidly. That really concerned everyone. My fingers and toes were blue; however, given my autonomic neuropathy, my toes weren’t completely abnormal.

They were preparing for the possibility of a third Epi injection. If that happened, they were going to call an ambulance and send me across the street to Sanford’s emergency department, where I would have been admitted overnight for observation.

Thankfully, it never got to that.

I was able to go home later that afternoon.

Yesterday was rough. Honestly, it was terrifying.

It took me right back to the morning of my TIA—that same feeling of my body suddenly doing something I couldn’t control. Phil will probably have a new patch of silver hair after all of this.

Today I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. My neuropathy is definitely not amused. My mast cells seem to be throwing a full-blown tantrum. I feel like I have the flu—completely exhausted but somehow also wired at the same time. My throat and chest are sore, and the doctors warned me I’d probably feel pretty awful for several days.

One thing I can’t say enough: everyone at Sanford Imagenetics was incredible. They were calm. They were kind. They explained everything as it happened. There was no ambiguity, and for someone like me—who needs to understand exactly what’s happening, even when it’s scary—that helped more than they probably realize. Obviously, with my stroke risk, that played a part in their concern as well.

At one point, after the second Epi, the room became really quiet. Everyone was just... watching me. Waiting to see if it would finally work. Then Phil cracked a joke, and we laughed. We all realized we were just staring at each other. I think every single person in that room was silently thinking, Please... please let this work.

When I couldn’t stop shaking, a nurse wrapped me in two warm blankets. They checked on me every few minutes. They never made me feel like I was a burden. They took incredible care of me, and I’ll be grateful for that for a very long time.

The doctor was incredible. He stated that if we had waited 30 seconds more, things would have gone sideways quickly.

Again, with my autonomic neuropathy, swallowing occasionally glitches on me, so at first I wondered if it was that. But this was completely different. I've had breathing attacks from my soy allergy before, but this was on an entirely different level. I could actually feel my airway tightening. I could hear the wheezing, and there was no question—I was in distress, and they could see it too.

So... that’s the adventure none of us were hoping for.

Needless to say, Xolair is officially off the table for my MCAS. Because apparently my mast cells looked at the medication that was supposed to help them and collectively chose violence. The irony isn't lost on me: one of the hallmark risks of MCAS is anaphylaxis, and the treatment intended to reduce it is what triggered mine.

My allergist/immunologist was on vacation yesterday and returns today, so he’s going to come back to quite a chart note. We’ll figure out where we go from here.

For now, I’m resting and letting my body recover.

And maybe avoiding any new adventures for a little while.

I have my very first Xolair injection at my allergist/immunologist’s office to help treat my MCAS (Mast Cell Activation Syndrome).

So... what the heck is Xolair?

The short version is that it’s a biologic medication that targets IgE, an antibody involved in allergic reactions. By blocking IgE, it helps calm down overactive mast cells, making them less likely to release massive amounts of histamine and other inflammatory chemicals into my body. The hope is fewer flares, easier breathing, less inflammation, and maybe—just maybe—a nervous system that isn’t constantly acting like it’s responding to a five-alarm fire.

For me, MCAS isn’t just an allergy issue. Everything is connected.

When my mast cells flare, my neuropathy flares. My pain skyrockets. My body feels like it’s revolting against itself.

One of the biggest triggers has been hot flashes.

Because I don’t sweat normally thanks to my autonomic neuropathy, all of that heat gets trapped inside my body. Instead of cooling off, I turn beet red while my nervous system completely loses its mind. The pain is almost impossible to describe. Imagine shards of glass being shoved into your legs and face while someone simultaneously electrocutes you.

Ten out of ten. Do not recommend.

About a month ago, I started an estrogen patch because my hot flashes had become unbearable. Since estrogen patches carry a lower stroke risk than oral estrogen, my physician and neurologist felt it was the safest option while keeping a very close eye on me. I also have vascular testing scheduled in August because, after everything that’s happened with my stroke and ongoing neurological issues, we’re not taking chances.

I’m happy to say the hot flashes have already improved. It isn’t perfect, but it’s a relief I’ll gladly take.

Tomorrow starts the next chapter.

Because there is a small risk of anaphylaxis with the first few Xolair injections, I’ll receive the medication at the clinic and bring my EpiPen with me. They’ll monitor me for 90 minutes afterward to make sure I don’t have a serious reaction. If everything goes well, I’ll continue receiving my first few doses there before eventually transitioning to injections at home.

I’ve also been warned that I may feel pretty crummy for a couple of days afterward. Fatigue and feeling run-down aren’t uncommon, so we’ll see what this week has in store.

If you pray, pray.

If you send good vibes, I’ll happily take those too.

If you’re the type who simply crosses your fingers and mutters, “Come on, body... cooperate for once,” I’ll take that as well.

Here’s hoping this is one more step toward fewer flares, less pain, easier breathing, and getting a little more of my life back.

Can I be honest?

I wish I didn’t need any of this.

I wish there were a magic tea, the perfect herb, one yoga pose, one supplement, one meditation, one elusive answer that would somehow quiet my immune system and nervous system.

Believe me, I would’ve found it by now.

I’ve spent nearly a decade studying herbalism and integrative medicine. If anyone is going to try the natural route first, it’s me. I’ve brewed the teas, changed my diet, taken the supplements, practiced meditation, done the breathing exercises, rolled out the yoga mat, and searched for every possible root cause (another word I am tired of seeing because now it’s a wellness buzzword).

And I still do those things.

Every week I go to acupuncture. I meditate. I practice yoga. I get craniosacral therapy. I even get this incredibly strange mouth massage that is torture and miracle. (If you’ve never had someone massage the inside of your jaw, count yourself lucky.)

None of those things are a waste.

They help.

But they don’t stop my mast cells from misbehaving. They don’t prevent neuropathy flares. They don’t keep me breathing when my body decides histamine is today’s personality.

What I’ve learned is that healing isn’t a contest between pharmaceuticals and holistic medicine.

It’s both.

It’s knowing when an herb is enough and when it isn’t.

It’s understanding that sometimes your body needs medication, and sometimes it needs quiet walks, nourishing food, sleep, acupuncture, movement, laughter, and a really good therapist. Most of the time, it needs all of them working together.

I want to stay on this earth for a very long time.

I also want that life to be one I can actually live.

If taking medications and giving myself a monthly injection gives me a better quality of life, then that’s the decision I’m going to make.

Not because I’ve abandoned holistic medicine.

Because I’ve embraced discernment.

I’ve said this before, and I’ll probably say it a hundred more times: health is not black and white.

Neither is medicine.

Neither is wellness.

I’ve seen incredible things come from both worlds, and I’ve seen plenty of nonsense come from both worlds too. The pharmaceutical industry deserves criticism. So does the wellness industry, which lately seems determined to convince people that every illness can be fixed with the right influencer, supplement code, or overpriced powder.

It can’t.

At the end of the day, this is my body.

My life.

My risk.

My research.

My decision.

And I’m at peace with that.

Now it is time to continue editing my book and keep my mind busy, because I am quite anxious about tomorrow.

I specialized in rare plants, herbs, custom arrangements, terrariums, and, increasingly, funeral work. That last part wasn’t entirely intentional. Turns out that grieving families appreciated it when the florist could communicate with the deceased.

Not everyone saw ghosts.

I did.

This is only the beginning.

My first experience as an author was a whirlwind. I went from indie author to traditionally published. I landed on bestseller lists and, for a brief moment, found myself sitting right behind the Divergent series. Then everything unraveled. Publishing drama. Life. Expectations. The carefully imagined future I thought I was building. Eventually, I walked away convinced I would never write another book again.

Oddly enough, I was okay with it.

I still wrote. I wrote articles and essays. I opened my apothecary and poured my creativity into product descriptions that often sounded more like poetry than marketing copy. Apparently, no matter what I did, words found a way to sneak into the room.

Then my nervous system imploded.

One day, I was running a business and managing life. The next, I could barely put a sentence together. Whether you call it a stroke, a neurological event, or my body staging a full-scale rebellion, the result was the same. The thing that had always come naturally suddenly felt impossible.

About nine months later, I wrote a poem.

It wasn’t much. Just a small thing. A flicker. But it was proof that maybe the part of me that wrote hadn’t disappeared entirely.

Then Dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer.

If you’ve been here for any length of time, you already know that story.

Everything I wrote was about him. Updates from doctor’s appointments. Reflections on anticipatory grief. The strange experience of loving someone while knowing time is running out. Every word carried the weight of an invisible countdown clock.

Dad and I talked about writing often during those final months.

“Don’t stop writing,” he would tell me.

“Tell your story. Tell our story.”

He’d acknowledged that people are terrified of death. They avoid conversations about dying, grief, loss, and mortality as if acknowledging them somehow invites them closer. Including him. When his sister died, his beliefs changed. Dad knew I’ve always been the opposite. I’ve spent much of my life walking directly toward those conversations. As a child fascinated by mortality. As a death doula. As someone who believes grief deserves witnesses, not silence.

Then Dad died.

And despite all those years talking about grief, despite helping others navigate loss, I discovered something cruel and humbling.

Sometimes grief steals your own words.

After he died, I couldn’t find language big enough to hold what had happened. Certainly not enough language to write a book.

But life has a funny way of opening doors when you’ve stopped looking for them.

When we moved back to Sioux Falls, I found a therapist because I knew losing my dad was going to shred my universe. One day during a session, she said, “I know you want to write a book someday about your dad. I have an idea.”

She handed me a novel written by an author she knew.

I started reading An Obesity of Grief.

Then I started noticing names.

Family names.

Places I knew.

Pipestone. The farm. Mathilda (my great-great-great grandma).

About a fourth of the way through the book, I realized something that felt almost impossible. I knew these people—or at least knew of them.

The author, Lynn Haraldson, was family.

So I did what any reasonable person would do. I sent an email to a complete stranger and essentially said, “Hi. I think we’re related.”

Turns out we were.

And somewhere between reading her story and discovering this unexpected family connection, something shifted inside me.

The characters started talking again.

Not in some overly dramatic movie scene where inspiration strikes like lightning. It was quieter than that. Fragments of dialogue. Pieces of scenes. Little moments that would drift through my mind while I was making dinner or sitting in doctors’ offices, even during MRI’s.

Slowly, pieces of my life began slipping into fictional lives. A little of me. A little of Phil. A little of my family. A little of my grief. Sentence by sentence. Chapter by chapter.

Somehow, a story appeared.

Even through a brutal six-month flare-up last year.

Even through brain glitches.

Even through neuropathy flare-ups.

Even through MCAS deciding that peace and stability were overrated.

I kept writing.

And somehow, against all odds, I wrote an entire book.

The longest book I’ve ever written.

A book about grief and love. About midlife and death. About ghosts and healing. About family and new beginnings. About finding humor in places society says humor doesn’t belong.

Every page contains pieces of the people I love. My family is there (Grandma Betty has shared some good stories). My experiences are there. My marriage is there.

Even Edgar made it into the story.

Let’s be honest. He’d tell you he is the real star.

Which brings me to something else I’d like to share.

This new chapter of my writing life won’t be published under my given name. It will be published under a pen name.

Andi Blake.

My dad’s name was Blake.

It’s still strange saying was instead of is. That’s grief for you. It turns simple grammar into emotional warfare.

But every time I see the name Blake, every time I write it, every time it appears on a page or platform, I think of him.

Because I made him a promise.

A promise that I would keep writing.

Hell or high water.

The truth is, the author I am today barely resembles the author I was thirteen years ago. I’ve lived too much. Lost too much. Learned too much. This book isn’t remotely similar to anything I’ve written before because I’m not remotely the same person who wrote those earlier books.

I never thought I’d write another novel.

Then my dad had to go and die.

Thanks, Dad.

I say that with all the love, grief, sarcasm, and dark humor a daughter can fit into two words.

Because somewhere inside the devastation, he handed me a reason to begin again.

This book is a promise I made to him, but it’s also a promise I made to myself.

Proof that grief didn’t get the final word.

Not the grief of losing Dad.

Not the grief of losing Grandpa Bob.

Not the grief of losing the future I thought I was supposed to have.

I’ve had to grieve my health. My body. My brain. The person I used to be. There are days I still miss her. But writing this book was never about becoming that version of myself again. It was about meeting the person who survived.

So here I am.

Still grieving.

Still healing.

Still writing.

Still telling the story.

Just under a different name.

And I want to thank my fabulous distant cousin for helping me find my voice again. Love you!

The weird little book about a woman who collects souls, a man who collects comics, a sarcastic ghost, a tiny gremlin dog, and the messy, beautiful reality of love, grief, and starting over in midlife is finally making its way into the world.

Happily Ever Afterlife is coming Fall 2026!

In the coming months, I’ll be looking for proofreaders, advance readers, and brave volunteers willing to read my words before the rest of humanity gets their hands on them.

If you’d like to be part of the launch team, let me know below.

Thank you for cheering me on through this journey. I made a promise to my dad, and oh, you will definitely recognize him in the book. This is a very personal story with many wild and true family anecdotes.

I can’t wait to share Nora, Aric, Will, Bastian, and the wonderfully chaotic world of Exit Strategy Consulting with all of you.

The cancer bell means different things to different people, but I can tell you what it meant to my dad.

My dad had terminal cancer. There was never going to be a remission story waiting for him at the finish line. The chemotherapy and radiation weren’t meant to cure him. They were meant to buy him time. And time was exactly what he wanted.

More mornings. More conversations. More family time. More ordinary days that suddenly become precious when you realize they are numbered.

When he finished chemotherapy, he asked me, “I don’t know if I should ring the bell. I’m never going to go into remission. Is that even fair? Should I?”

I told him the truth.

“You don’t have to ring it if you don’t want to. But you have every right to. Nobody gets to decide what that bell means to you.”

So he rang it.

The nurses gathered around him. Other patients looked on. People applauded. There were tears. The same thing happened when he completed his radiation treatment.

Afterward, he said, “You were right. I’m glad I rang it. For a moment, I felt happy that I was able to have more time.”

That has stayed with me.

Because I don’t think the bell is only about remission. Sometimes it’s about survival. Sometimes it’s about endurance. Sometimes it’s about walking through something unimaginably difficult and making it to the other side of that particular chapter. I watched what chemotherapy did to my dad. It wasn’t pretty. I watched what radiation did to him. That wasn’t easy either.

But it gave us more time.

Not always the best quality of time. Not always comfortable time. But it was his choice, and those extra months became memories we still hold tightly today.

There should never be pressure to ring the bell. If someone doesn’t want that moment, it should be completely respected.

But I also think it’s okay to celebrate it.

I remember sitting with my dad during one of his chemotherapy appointments. The main treatment area was full, so we were placed in a private room—a sentence that still breaks my heart when I think about it. At one point, I stepped out to get some water. As I walked down the hallway, a woman was ringing the bell. Her family stood beside her. Nurses were clapping. People smiled through tears. I stopped and clapped too. My eyes filled immediately. Everyone around us had a different story. Different diagnoses. Different odds. Different futures. Deep down, it hurt because I knew my dad would never hear the words “cancer-free.” But at the exact same time, I was genuinely happy for that woman and her family. Their chapter on that oncology floor was coming to an end. They were walking out the doors and into a future they had battled to reach.

That’s the thing grief teaches you. You can be happy for someone even as your heart breaks. You can celebrate another person’s miracle while mourning the one you’ll never get. You can feel joy, jealousy, gratitude, sorrow, hope, and anticipatory grief all at the same time.

Life isn’t black and white.

Most of it happens in the gray.

And the gray is where we learn that conflicting emotions can coexist. Neither one cancels out the other. Both can be true.

With Father’s Day creeping closer, I feel that lesson again. There is always a small ache when I see friends posting photos with their dads. Lunch dates. Vacations. Backyard barbecues. Simple moments I would give anything to have again.

And yet, I’m happy for them, truly happy. I’m grateful they still have that time. The ache and the happiness exist together. Just like they did in that oncology hallway. Just like they did when my dad rang the bell. There is no right or wrong way to navigate grief. Feel all of it. The joy. The envy. The gratitude. The sadness. The love.

Personally, I like the cancer bell. And I know my dad did too. For a brief moment, after everything he endured, he had something precious: joy. And more importantly, it reminded him that the treatments had given him what he wanted most.

A little more time with us.

That’s something our family will always cherish.

Today is your birthday.

It’s strange, isn’t it? The way people sometimes wonder why we still celebrate the birthdays of those who are gone. As if death erases the day a soul first arrived here. As if love suddenly stops keeping count.

But we celebrate because that day still matters. You still matter.

Just as we remember the day you left this world, we remember the day you entered it. Your age forever paused, while the rest of us keep moving through time, carrying pieces of you in our pockets like worn stones we rub when grief gets sharp.

You were never big on birthdays, but I loved being your May birthday twin. I still laugh thinking about those years in Chicago when you and Mom came to visit us, or when we came home to South Dakota. There’s that photo of you wearing a paper crown with my peach and ivory quilt tied around your shoulders like a cape, pretending to be king for the day. You looked ridiculous and regal at the same time.

Very you.

And then there was your final birthday here with us—your first day in hospice.

God, I remember every second of it.

You were impatient for everyone to hurry up so you could already have pizza and beer with us. That’s all you wanted. Your family nearby. No grand speeches. No dramatic send-off. Just simple love sitting around you in a room that already knew what was coming, even if none of us were ready to say it out loud.

Your birthday is still sacred to us. The third one, you’re spending somewhere out in your corner of the universe.

I’ll make your favorites today. I’ll put flowers beneath your tree. And somewhere between the laughter, the memories, and the ache that never completely leaves, we’ll celebrate you the way we always have.

With love. With stories. With inappropriate humor.

I love you more than anything in this world, Daddy. I miss you every single day. We all do.

Forever 68.

Forever my dad.

Skol!

But an arborist looked at it gently and said, “I think it still has a chance.”
Turns out she was right.

Now look at it.
Exploding in blooms. Pink and stubborn and wildly alive.

Just like my dad was.

Resilient.
Rooted deep.
The kind of man who weathered storms while cracking a joke with mud on his boots and grief tucked quietly behind his ribs.

We name everything around here, every plant and odd little living thing that crosses our path, but this tree has only ever had one name: Dad’s Tree. Because part of him lives inside it now. I know that sounds poetic and maybe a little haunted in the softest possible way, but grief changes the architecture of a person. You begin seeing your people everywhere. In sunsets. In old songs. In lilac blooms glowing gold at dusk like the sky itself lit a candle.

Nature keeps teaching me the same lesson over and over again:
the depth of our roots matters.

Storms will come. Sometimes they arrive like a freight train with teeth. Sometimes they uproot parts of us we thought were permanent. Sometimes surviving requires braces, support, patience, and ugly healing seasons nobody claps for.

But there is beauty in the terrible.
There is regrowth after devastation.
There is life tucked inside what looked broken beyond repair.

It’s okay to mourn the destruction while still being grateful for the blooms. Both things can exist together. Grief and beauty often share the same soil.

And every morninga when the sun catches Dad’s Tree just right, glowing through those blossoms like heaven showing off a little, I swear it feels like him saying:

“See? Still here.”

Or maybe begins, depending on how you look at it.

Where everything goes a little quiet.

Not actually quiet. Life is still loud. Edgar needs something. My body is doing its own unpredictable thing. My brain is halfway through three different thoughts and has forgotten the fourth. But underneath all of that, there’s this… pause.

I’m there right now.

Because I am so close to finishing the first draft of my manuscript.

Like… so close.

And I keep having this very real urge to squeeeeeee and also just sit here and stare at the screen like,
Did I actually do this?

Because I’ve been working on this story for over a year.
Not in some perfectly structured, color-coded, “writer at a desk with a clear mind” kind of way.

No.

Life has been very much life-ing in the background.

Post stroke.
Neuropathy.
Grief that was so dark, deep, and raw.
MCAS brain and body just doing whatever it wants, whenever it wants.
And a solid six-month flare that absolutely tried to take me out of the game.

There were days my brain wouldn’t cooperate.
Days, my body said no, girl, we aren't getting out of bed today.
Days grief sat so heavy I wasn’t sure what was mine and what was the story’s.

But here’s the thing.

I’m still here.

And I’m still doing it.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that—of the exhaustion and the frustration and the “try again tomorrow”—this world kept growing.

I didn’t just write a story.

I built a world.

And I adore it.

It’s funny how much of my life is threaded through it.

Grief is there.
Loss is there.
Love—messy, unexpected, midlife, deeply human love—is there.

All of it woven into the bones of the story. Now I am standing at the edge of finishing, and I realized how much of my life made it onto those pages.

And maybe that’s why this feels so big.

Because it’s not just a manuscript.

It’s everything I kept choosing to come back to, even when it would have been easier to stop.

If all goes as planned, it’ll be heading to my editor by June or July.
My cover artist is already working her magic, which somehow makes this feel even more real—like it’s stepping out of my head and into the world, whether I’m ready or not.

And I think I am.

Or at least… I’m ready enough.

So yeah.

I’m sitting in this quiet, right-on-the-edge moment.

Partly disbelief, gratitude, and barely-contained excitement.

And also—

Squeeeeeee!!!!!