Before there were vampires.

Before there were detectives.

Before there were supernatural laws.

There was simply a feeling.

I knew I wanted to write a place that lingered long after readers closed the book.

I grew up loving all things supernatural. Whether it was books or movies, I was drawn to worlds where creatures didn't just go bump in the night; they walked among us, sometimes boldly enough to make us question who the real monsters were.

It was between the covers and pages of books where I learned that supernatural worlds aren’t built around the monsters.

No. They’re built on hunger.

Every unforgettable fictional city wants something from the people who live there and its visitors.

Derry, Maine wants your innocence.

Gotham City wants your hope.

Silent Hill wants your guilt.

And Talo… Talo wants what you’re willing to become to stay alive.

Every supernatural city has an emotional currency

Worldbuilding is structured; however, in order to take worldbuilding to the next level and create an emotional edge, you have to create lore.

Lore is more than just generating the backstory to how your fictional city came to be, it’s about creating stories deeply rooted in the town. The stories that are whispered out of respect for the dead— or fear of them.

It’s the urban legends that people retell around the campfires while silently praying that they’re not true.

Lore is the collection of unspeakable phenomena that locals panic over and tourists secretly hope to experience.

When I started creating Talo, I knew I wanted a city rich with eeries layers, riddled with news headlines that read like nightmare fuel, all while humans and supernatural entities shopped at the same grocery store.

The payoff— in my mind would be glorious, so instead of asking myself, “What will I find in Talo?”

I started asking:

What does this city reward?

What does it punish?

What does everyone quietly accept?

In a city like Talo. trust is rewarded, respect and honor are too.

And when it comes to punishments, that’s different… because in a world where the immortal and the mortal co-exist, the punishments can and do vary.

Laws are drafted to protect all forms of life. Different sanctions had to be created to make my entities feel safe and seen, including an addition to the Federal government.

Talo is not a city for the meek. It’s a city where darkness is accepted. It’s a city where if someone goes missing; the “Missing” signs don’t go up, but doors are secured more than usual.

Building Talo from the ground up meant more than creating a space for humans, I had to answer a major question:

What kind of place allows monsters to live beside ordinary people?

Not beneath them.

Not above them.

Beside them.

Talo isn’t dangerous because of monsters…

Since building Talo from the ground up, I have come to the conclusion that monsters don’t make a city dangerous.

Permission does.

I am currently drafting a novella and a future serialized fiction exclusively for my Substack (details coming soon), plus I am working on a collection of short stories for an anthology that introduces readers to Talo. While brainstorming, drafting and editing these works, I am reminded of the humans that live in Talo.

On the surface, Talo resembles an ordinary township.— not large enough to be considered a city, but packed with people…and creatures. The biggest plot twist of them all…

They all know the others exist.

And somehow...civilization keeps moving.

How’s that for adaptation?

It’s been a dream of mine to walk amongst supernatural entities, knowing that they are just that but also knowing that there is a barrier between us.

Laws?

Ancient pacts?

Unspoken agreements?

Whatever the answer...it was enough to convince ordinary people that tomorrow would arrive.

Whatever it is, I knew that it would not only make my citizens feel safe, but also added a unique level of adaptation. Citizens of Talo not only know of the “monsters”, they’re in line with them at the coffee shops, parent pick ups at the schools, they’re neighbors, co-workers, even lovers.

All of a sudden, the extraordinary is a part of the daily grind without disrupting civilization…for the most part.

Enter Saigon

I wrote Saigon while daydreaming. Before Talo had a map, it had a heartbeat. Saigon was written because I wanted to take something from the shadows and bring it to the light.

A detective who’s never had a supernatural experience yet is bound to them, comes face to face with the most sinister thing she has ever seen in her entire police career.

One encounter shifts her world’s axis forever. Suddenly the impossible isn’t folklore anymore.

It’s evidence.

And she accepts her fate; however, in doing so, she just might die. It’s a moment that blends the light and the dark, the good and the bad.

The human and the monster.

Writing Saigon confirmed that Talo could exist because every city has a veil.

Peel it back...and you’ll discover people simply trying to live ordinary lives beneath extraordinary circumstances.

Talo has lived inside my imagination for years. Writing Saigon was the first time it finally breathed.

The city becomes another character

In Saigon, the city never announces itself as dangerous. It doesn’t need to. The streets still exist. Businesses still operate. People still go about their evenings. This is exactly what makes Talo unsettling.

Horror rarely lives in abandoned places. It lives in places where people have learned to keep walking.

That’s the question I kept asking while writing:

How many impossible things can become ordinary before they stop feeling impossible?

Life continues around them despite the danger.

The city quietly whispers:

This has happened before.

Every City Asks a Different Question

When I began building Creswell County, I thought I was creating different locations.

What I was actually creating were different conversations.

Every city asks its residents a question.

Every story is simply someone’s answer.

Cascade City asks:

Can love survive after we’ve become different people?

It’s a city of second chances, quiet longing, bookstores, coffee shops, familiar sidewalks, and people brave enough to try again. Romance doesn’t erase the scars there, it simply asks whether they’re worth loving anyway.

Talo asks:

What are you willing to become to survive?

Its monsters aren’t interruptions to everyday life, they’re woven into it. Appetite, power, sacrifice, and identity aren’t hidden beneath the city’s surface. They’re part of its foundation. Living in Talo means accepting that survival often comes with a cost.

And then there’s Rock Forest.

Rock Forest doesn’t ask for your heart.

It doesn’t ask for your survival.

It asks something far more unsettling.

What happens when the truth refuses to stay buried?

Missing people become cold cases.

Family histories become curses.

Silence becomes inheritance.

Every trail feels like someone disappeared just beyond the tree line.

Questions for your own fictional city

If you’re in the middle of worldbuilding, let’s take a break and create the lore.

Reflect on the following prompts about your fictional world:

• What does your city quietly reward?

• What do people pretend isn’t happening?

• What emotion hangs in the air?

• What secret would newcomers notice first?

• What keeps people from leaving?

• What keeps them coming back?

I used to think worldbuilding meant drawing maps. Now I think it means understanding appetite.

Every city hungers.

Some consume dreams.

Some consume hope.

Some consume love.

Talo consumes certainty.

Once certainty disappears...anything feels possible.

This week’s featured story is Saigon, one of the first glimpses into Talo’s darker corners.

Read it.
Listen to the silence.
Pay attention to what’s left unsaid.

Because in Talo...the monsters aren’t always the first thing you should fear.

Every city has a skyline.

The unforgettable ones have a soul.

Every week, I’m giving myself a short assignment inspired by Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird. These aren’t polished chapters or excerpts from a novel. They’re snapshots of the creative process, the moments between finished drafts where stories begin to reveal themselves.

This week’s prompt asked me to write about a room that remembers someone who hasn’t lived there in years.

Here’s where it took me.

I love claiming that this is where it all began, but I would be lying. This was the place where love came to thrive. This is where it died instead.

From the moment she set foot into this space, this room…the energy shifted like car gears.

You accelerated while she yanked the hand brake, sending both of you crashing onto your California king bed.

Pillow talk ensued.

You mused on about love.

Falling in it.

Drowning in it.

Living off it.

While she… she did her best to dispel it.

Deflecting it with subject changes.

Parrying it as the soles of her feet paced my dark cherrywood floors.

Rejecting it with every heavy scoff.

Yet, she stayed.

One week became one month, and then one month became six more.

Her perfumes lingering in the air as thick as a summer haze; they were no match for my ceiling fan or your heart. You took her scent in as if it were your oxygen.

Your life source.

Then there were all the clothes. Denim, silk, rayon, cotton, all of it littering my floor like textile tumbleweeds.

She must have had a distaste for closets because she never used yours.

A year into the…relationship—is that what you called it? Yeah, a year in and every element of you was vaporized, replaced and overrun by her existence. You and I were outnumbered by her endless hordes of shoes, makeup, handbags and her ego.

She stored her secrets within these walls like contraband. If you had heard the things she said about you when you were gone, I know you would have cried harder than you did when it was all over.

“He’s too easy. He’s so fragile. I can get anything and everything I want from him. It’s perfect.” She loved the thought of you yet hated to be with you.

But you. You loved her harder, filling this space to the brim with bouquets of bright, exotic flowers, lace lingerie that she never wore. You even went so far as changing me as if that would change her mind— change her heart.

I can still feel the cold film of that sickly pale pink color you painted over my cracked-pepper-black walls. “This color will make the room brighter,” she told you while shellacking my walls with that mess—without primer, mind you.

You were tending to the baseboards; your tears absorbed by the paint yet staining this room while your identity slipped away with each brushstroke.

By year two, something had happened where you two were home more often than ever. She complained about “cabin fever” and argued that at least you could “go outside.” You, on the other hand, argued that you didn’t feel safe outside.

“Are you serious?” You asked her. “There’s a damn pandemic outside and you think I want to be out there?”

Her shrill wails consumed every inch of our involuntary confinement. Her juvenile war cry sent you reeling toward your phone, where you ordered her a new handbag.

Her crying ceased—for the time being.

What a cycle to witness.

Her pouting. You buying. Rinse and repeat, my friend.

Arguments haunt this space. I’m sure they haunt every inch of this place, but in here…they’re not just spirits.

They’re ghosts. Emotional souls tethered to this space, haunting your tortured heart.

Well, they used to.

Now, as I watch you take one last look at this room, you’re smiling again. It’s been a while since I have seen a genuine smile on your face in this space.

It brightens me and restores me.

Man and room, we replay the good, the bad and the ugly like an old newsreel. Who would have thought that I would remember everything that happened here too?

What’s the phrase again?

If these walls could talk…

If I could, I would remind you just how great of a man you are. It’s been an honor to be the space where you laid your head and hung up your scrubs. You are stronger than you think; these walls held your dreams intact too.

And remember, it’s okay to love as hard as you do. Yes, some will break your heart, but others will heal it, and the right one will fortify it.

Even after you’re gone, the memories are embedded here.

Not just the perfumes.

The dents in the walls from her fits of rage because you forgot the ketchup…

Or a straw…

Or when you bought the wrong flowers.

The sounds of laughter will ring in the middle of the night and whispered confessions will echo between the walls.

I’m going to miss being your witness, your safe space…your place of peace—before she came along, but there is joy in knowing that the next space you occupy will become your new vault for your secrets, your truths and your life.

Just promise me that you’ll never date someone who loves pink as much as she did.

Before you go...

I’d love to hear from you.

What place still remembers a different version of you?

It could be a bedroom.
A dorm room.
A front porch.
A favorite café.
A city you’ve outgrown.

Leave your answer in the comments. I’d love to read your story.

Until next week’s assignment,

— P. Rose

The goal isn’t perfection.

The goal is to stay close to the page.

This week’s prompt unexpectedly became something else entirely.

With the last of Jason’s item’s gone, the two bedroom apartment we once shared felt new. Standing the middle of the living room void of the couch and loveseat we had purchased two years ago— back when we were optimistic about our future, I exhale. Air escapes my lungs with ease and triggers my shoulders to drop then the rest of me relaxes so effortlessly that I can feel my toes grounding with the floor.

“You’re okay.” I say a loud. Part reassurance and part check in.

I am okay.

Looking toward the kitchen, joy heats up my chest when I see the electric kettle and all of the coffee bar accessories, including the espresso machine. Jason never bothered to learn how to use it, just depended on me to be his home barista and service him double shots on command. I should have confessed to him that I had only and always served him dark roasts while mine were the real thing.

He was lightweight; cringing through his first sips then— when he thought I wasn’t looking, dogpile his cup with sugar and creamer. His disrespect for a good cup of coffee was absolutely criminal.

I laugh out loud. My giggles echoes in the space; it’s light yet hearty. I can’t remember the last time I laughed with my whole body.

So I laugh again.

And again.

And again.

What’s so funny? I’m not sure but I love the way my body feels when I’m laughing. My shoulders are softer, my belly expands and retracts like I’m on the ab machine at the gym. My arms are loose and I feel like I’m on a cloud.

I’m weightless.

When my laughing fit wanes, there’s silence again. I scan the open floor plan from the kitchen to the living room then the balcony. Everything is so still.

So quiet yet, I can hear things.

In the living room, I can hear my best friends and I laughing at the dozens of Reels we send to each other despite being the same room. I can soft Jazz lofting through my speakers on Sunday mornings while I enjoy a day of rest and relaxation. I can hear the sizzle of various pans in the kitchen as I make a pan seared Branzino, basted in butter, dill and garlic.

It’s just for me. And it’s perfect.

I can hear the soft tapping of Fig’s ever long dew claws as he patrols the place before giving it the “All Clear” and retreating the bedroom with me. If any of us is happy about this break up, it’s definitely Fig, my mocha brown cat. Rob tolerated him while Fig tried to be nice, but in the end, Fig caught on quicker than I did. He kept his distance from Rob when he came over and chose to sleep in the guest room when he officially moved in.

Who says cats aren’t smart.

I continue to listen and I can hear the click-clack of my keyboard. I’m typing away, creating and writing again. The fevered typing is manic yet melodic.

I’m on a roll. I can tell. Whatever I’m writing, I can tell it’s special. Something that I have been brainstorming for months— maybe even years.

Keep going, Mel. Keep writing.

And I do. The typing fades then I can hear my record player going again. The static transition before a song begins to play.

Saturn by Stevie Wonder plays.

I close my eyes, smile and let the tears free fall.

“Packing my bags, going away. To a place where air is clean…On Saturn.”

My body sways to the invisible melody. I can’t stop myself as the song continues to play.

“Truth and happiness just can’t be bought…or sold.”

I spin.

I twirl.

I flourish.

I’m alive.

As the song concludes, I return to my body. My face is wet with tears but my heart is light despite it drumming inside my chest. My feet ground with the wood flooring again and a new sound comes to me.

It’s my own voice but I’m not singing.

I’m talking—reciting something.

A book? No, it’s a script.

I’m reading a script out loud.

And it’s my script. The story that I have been trying to bring to life for five years.

I’ve done it. I did it. I wrote the script and I’m reading it.

I strain to hear myself. I’m in the second bedroom— I have plans to turn it into my office and just from listening to my future self, I can tell that I did just that.

My voice rises and falls from the distance before I hear myself say, “That’s it. It’s finally done.”

It did it.

I can do it.

Standing in the living room, void of a couch, a loveseat and the person who I thought would be my forever, I can hear my future.

And it’s perfect.

Well, I did.

And if you’re reading this, I’d like to believe you needed that PSA too.

We’re nearing the halfway mark of July and already deep into the third quarter of 2026. (Is anyone else side-eyeing the fact that we’re already in Q3?)

My mind has been everywhere.

So much so that I haven’t written, created, or even cracked open my current reads as much as I wanted to.

If you sit still long enough, you can almost hear my Substack cracking like discarded rattlesnake skin.

Before you get this check-in twisted, though, this isn’t me complaining about everything I haven’t done.

No.

This is me looking myself in the eye and saying...

Go ahead.

Say it with me.

There.

Now comes the harder part.

Actually doing it.

Well... before we can do it, we have to figure out what it is.

So here are the questions I’m asking myself today. Maybe they’ll help you, too.

Journal Prompts

What are three things I need to accomplish before July 31 that would genuinely make me feel accomplished?

How will completing those three things move me forward?

What roadblocks are slowing my progress? (They’re usually a combination of mental and physical obstacles.)

What detours can I create around those roadblocks? (Think routines, schedules, boundaries, tools—anything that keeps you moving instead of stopping.)

Finish this sentence: Completing these items will...

I say this all the time, but I truly believe I’m not creating in isolation.

That’s why I started this Substack.

I know I’m not the only independent author or creative trying to balance a full-time job, parenthood, adult responsibilities, friendships, relationships, writing, reading, content creation... and somehow still finding time to breathe.

We’re all spinning plates.

And when one crashes...

Whew.

Sometimes we crash right alongside it.

But here’s what I’m reminding myself today:

There will always be another project.

Another opportunity.

Another book.

Another event.

Another idea.

There will never be another you.

Your work deserves your full attention, not whatever fragments are left after you’ve exhausted yourself trying to keep every plate in the air.

So today, I’m choosing a different approach.

I’m setting a few plates down.

I’m picking up the ones that matter.

And I’m locking the hell in.

I hope you’ll join me.

What have I actually learned?

As writers, we’re constantly chasing what’s next.

The next chapter.

The next draft.

The next publication.

The next idea.

Rarely do we pause long enough to examine who we’ve become in the process.

With six months of 2026 behind me and my personal writing fellowship beginning this week, it felt like the right time to grade the first half of my year, not by word count, followers, or finished projects...but by the lessons that quietly changed the way I approach this work and the kind of writer I'm becoming.

This is my midterm.

Question One:

What did ambition actually look like?

I began January the way I begin most years: with an ambitious list of goals:

Books.

Podcasts.

Newsletters.

Content, content, content.

At first glance, it looked productive. It made me feel like I was finally getting my shit together. In reality, it was overwhelming.

So I reassessed. I sat down with all my projects. The new ones, the current ones and the archived ones. Sifting through each of them, reconnecting with them then figuring out where I wanted to go with them and even deciding if it was the “right time” for certain projects.

Instead of chasing every possibility, I chose a handful of tangible goals that felt sustainable. Goals I could actually live with instead of simply admire on paper. The goals that not only made me productive, but made me excited to show up every day.

For the first time in a long time, my creative life began to feel less like a race and more like a rhythm.

Question Two:

What brought me back to the page?

Ironically, it wasn’t another productivity system.

It wasn’t a planner, a new notebook, or a challenge.

It was permission.

Permission to reconnect with my writing from the inside out. To remember why I started telling stories before I worried or cared about algorithms, publishing schedules, or whether something was “good enough.”

I’ve spent the last six months becoming friends with the page again.

That relationship has changed everything.

Question Three:

Where did I finally hear my own voice?

In my podcast.

Between the Drafts began as a place to talk about writing.

Somewhere along the way, it became the place where I learned how I naturally think. Without a script or polished essay in front of me, I found myself speaking more honestly than I ever had in writing.

The podcast reminded me that my voice isn’t something I have to manufacture.

It was already there.

I simply had to give it somewhere to live.

Question Four:

What am I building that didn’t exist six months ago?

A world.

Not just stories, but cities.

Histories.

Neighborhoods.

Rules.

People who belong to places that only existed in my imagination until I sat down long enough to build them.

A place where every street has history, every neighborhood has a reputation, and every story feels like it could only happen there.

Watching Creswell County take shape has reminded me that writing isn’t always about discovering characters.

Sometimes it’s about discovering where they belong.

Question Five:

What lesson do I keep relearning?

The first draft is about quantity.

Quality can wait.

I knew this intellectually. Living it has been another lesson entirely.

I’ve spent years trying to write beautiful first drafts; now I’m learning to write complete ones.

Editing can only improve what already exists.

The blank page has nothing to work with until I put words to it.

Question Six:

What have I stopped resisting?

The process.

For so long, I measured success by completion.

Finished books.

Published essays.

Completed checklists.

Now, I’m beginning to appreciate the quiet days where research, revisions, messy outlines and rabbit holes are not distractions but destinations to the unknown.

The slow mornings that don’t look productive but somehow make the work stronger.

I’ve fallen in love with becoming the writer instead of simply becoming someone who has written.

Question Seven:

What am I finally saying no to?

The urge to chase every “good” idea.

If you’re a writer, you know the feeling.

A new story appears.

A new business idea emerges.

A new series lives at the front of your brain.

A new notebook calls to you.

A completely different direction starts calling your name.

Six months ago, I probably would’ve dropped everything to follow it.

Now?

I archive it.

In fact, giving an idea somewhere safe to wait has become one of the healthiest creative habits I’ve built this year.

Not everything needs to become today’s project.

Some ideas are simply asking to be remembered.

Maybe that's the real purpose of a midterm. Not to measure how much you've finished, but to remind you how much you've grown.

Final Grade

If I were grading this year solely on completed projects, I’d probably be too hard on myself. But that’s no longer the metric that matters most.

This year has been about building foundations.

Finding my voice.

Learning restraint.

Trusting process.

Creating worlds.

Becoming the kind of writer my future books deserve.

Tomorrow, I begin a personally curated writing fellowship that will carry me through the second half of 2026.

I’ll spend the next several months reading more intentionally, studying craft more deeply, and continuing to write, messy drafts and all.

The funny thing about midterms is that they aren’t the end of anything. They’re simply proof that class is still in session.

So here’s to the second semester.

I’m still learning.

And honestly?

I hope I always am.

Cascade City is hopeful.

Talo is haunted.

Rock Forest? Rock Forest keeps receipts.

I stand on business when I say that setting has never been my “thing”, but apparently, I have been subconsciously building a world all my own for my stories to dwell in.

Cascade City is the first city I broadcasted to the world through A Seat At the Table.

Talo has been living rent free in my head for years and I’m finally sharing it.

Then there’s Rock Forest. The home of my first novel, UPGRADE.

Humble Beginnings

Rock Forest came to life in twenty years ago— that’s right, 20 years ago. Before the city was named, the drama of UPGRADE created the foundation for the city.

Despite my aversion to setting; my editor recognized something in my writing and encouraged to me flesh out the city, add depth to the settings in the book and give my characters spaces to interact in.

By time UPGRADE was published in 2018, Rock Forest felt real and has been begging for me to return to it ever since.

Heartbeats of the City

I believe that every city I’ve created, has asked a specific question not just of itself, but the characters live there:

Cascade City asks:

What happens when love survives?

Talo asks:

What happens when secrets wake up?

And Rock Forest asks:

What happens when the bill comes due?

In Rock Forest, people rarely find themselves at the beginning of a story. They’re usually standing in the aftermath. The affair has already started. The lie has already been told. The addiction has already taken root. The opportunity has already been accepted. The damage has already been done.

And the question is never if there will be consequences.

The question is: What will you do when they arrive?

My first novel, UPGRADE, is a cautionary tale about what happens when your life choices catch up with you? What are the consequences? Where are the lines drawn? And what lessons to they learn?

I would like to believe that in Rock Forest, some characters learn their lessons, while others would prefer to bury the truth as deep as they can so they move on with their lives.

In my world, Rock Forest is a city layered in mystery and intrigue. It’s the city where people learn that every decision leaves a footprint.

Some are small.

Others follow you for years.

Tainted Love Resides in Rock Forest

When I first created Rock Forest, I didn’t realize I was building a city obsessed with consequence. Looking back now, I can see it everywhere. In the stories. In the characters. In the choices they make when nobody’s looking.

After publishing UPGRADE, Rock Forest stayed on my mind. I wanted to tell more stories in the city and make my own version of Castle Rock. Of course, I knew that Rock Forest wouldn’t be a land of traditional happily ever afters (HEAs); I wanted Rock Forest to be a city overflowing with thrillers and drama— lots of drama.

With a few novel ideas in the pipeline, I started to play around with short stories set in Rock Forest. Sometimes the settings were loud and clear through descriptions and then there were times when I let the characters and their behaviors reveal the type of city Rock Forest is.

Love’s Catch 22 might be one of the clearest examples.

At first glance, it’s a story about infidelity. But underneath that?

It’s a story about what happens when someone delays a decision for so long that the decision begins making itself.

The Rock Forest Rule

Every city in Creswell County has a rule.

Rock Forest’s rule is simple:

The truth always arrives.

Sometimes it arrives as a text message.

Sometimes it arrives as a knock at the door.

Sometimes it arrives years later.

But it always arrives.

In Love’s Catch 22, the protagonist spends the entire story trying to avoid a conversation. By the time the truth arrives, it arrives violently.

Rock Forest is full of stories like that.

Not because the city is cruel.

Because the city is honest.

Maybe that’s why I keep returning to Rock Forest.

It’s messy.

Complicated.

Human.

Its people are rarely heroes or villains. They’re just people trying to live with the consequences of being human. And maybe that’s why Love’s Catch 22 feels so at home here.

Because long before the knife appears...

Long before the text message arrives...

Long before someone asks, “How much do you really love her?”...

The story is already over.

The consequence is simply catching up.

Extra | Listen to Love’s Catch 22:

Not the fear of a blank page.
Not the fear of rejection.
Not even the fear of publishing.

The fear of finally creating something you genuinely love.

After revisiting and rewriting a thirteen-year-old vampire story, I found myself confronting a truth I wasn’t prepared for: I actually liked what I’d written.

And somehow, that felt terrifying.

In this episode, I’m sharing what this latest round of rewrites has taught me about self-editing, creative growth, perfectionism, and the emotional truths that keep surfacing as I build the world of Talo. I also share updates on the Talo anthology, new lore, exciting visual developments for the city, and a glimpse at a darker project quietly taking shape in the background.

If you’ve ever questioned your voice, worried about getting the details wrong, or felt pressured to create at someone else’s pace, this conversation is for you.

Inside this file:

✦ Why liking my own work felt scarier than criticism
✦ The surprising joy of self-editing
✦ Creative fears that emerge when your universe expands
✦ The emotional truths I’m learning as a writer
✦ Anthology updates and worldbuilding news from Talo
✦ A sneak peek at a new project currently known as Project Twice

Pour your coffee, open your notebook, and settle in.

Let’s talk about the version of the story that scares us the most—the one that’s finally becoming what we always hoped it could be.

— P. Rose

A coffee shop.
A skyline.
A neighborhood.
A house with enough rooms to move my characters through.

And honestly?

That mindset kept my stories emotionally small.

Because while drafting the City Files series and continuing to expand Creswell County, I realized I’m not just creating locations.

That realization became the center of this companion episode.

In this file, I dive deeper into:

• emotional architecture

• fictional cities as belief systems

• why setting should pressure your characters emotionally

• and how The Greenhouse Effect quietly became one of the earliest emotional blueprints for Cascade City.

While revisiting the short story, I realized the greenhouse itself symbolized everything I was trying to emotionally communicate about Cascade City:

Controlled warmth.
Fragility.
Beauty under pressure.
Emotional preservation.

And once I understood that?

I started realizing that every fictional world quietly teaches its people how to survive.

In this episode, I also discuss:

• Stephen King’s Derry, Maine

• The Continental from John Wick

• Hogwarts’ emotional atmosphere

• and how setting becomes more powerful when it emotionally shapes behavior instead of simply housing characters.

Because maybe the question isn’t:

“Where does my story take place?”

Maybe the real question is:

“What does my world believe?”

And once we begin answering that question, our settings stop feeling like backgrounds.

They become living systems.

They become emotional pressure.

They become memory.

And maybe that’s the difference between a readable story and an unforgettable one.

Thank you for listening to another file.

And welcome back to Cascade City.

— P. Rose

The warm cafés.

Rain on the windows.

Late-night jazz.

Couples kissing under the streetlights.

You know, the typical sights and sounds of romance, but what interested me in creating a city centered around love and romance, wasn’t the romance. It was what happens after love gets tested and how the people— the characters react and endure.

This inspiration is what birthed Cascade City, a place full of people trying to preserve the fragile things:

Marriages.

Dreams.

Various versions of themselves.

Memories.

Hopes.

Building Cascade City

While drafting my romance novel, A Seat At the Table, I made an early decision to build a fictional city that felt like love. I wanted to do more than add coffee shops and buildings, I wanted to create spaces where emotional ties would dwell and thrive.

From the 3C Arts Center that’s introduced early on, to the Fremont building where my main character, Maya’s law office is. I wanted these spaces to hold emotional intensity, elegance and beauty all their own.

I envisioned Cascade City as a neighboring city to Chicago, with its beautiful skyline far enough to admire and close enough to escape to. Cascade City is smaller than Chicago but with a vibrant personality.

At first glance, Cascade City is fresh, clean and a place of curated beauty. With upscale apartments, brownstones, high end restaurants and relaxing cafés and storefronts, but beneath the spaces, there’s ambition, intimacy, elegance and emotional intensity that cannot be ignored.

The Birth of Cascade City

Even though Cascade City was formally introduced in A Seat At the Table, I have come to realize that I have been birthing elements of it in a few short stories I have written over the years, including one of my personal favorites, The Greenhouse Effect.

This story is pulled from a personal experience, reimagined…but, when I revisited the short story to share on Substack, I realized something almost immediately:

Not because of the location itself,
but because of what the city emotionally represents.

A controlled environment.

A beautiful space holding unbearable pressure.

Two people trying to keep something alive after loss has already entered the room.

This tale takes place outside of the bustling business area in Cascade City; this is the part of Cascade City where families do more than reside— they build here. They love here and they grow here.

Breaking Down The Greenhouse Effect

The Greenhouse Effect is a story layered with grief, emotional avoidance, masculine silence, shared mourning, intimacy and vulnerability , all under 1200 words.

We’re introduced to a loving couple, bonded yet broken by an unexpected loss (a trigger warning to anyone who has ever experienced the loss of a child.) Both are grieving; however, the husband struggles to admit his pain while his wife cannot release herself from hers.

His silence and avoidance of the loss enrages his wife and he realizes what they both need in order to not just mourn but to heal from the devastation.

It’s the shared mourning that brings them back together and resets their hearts.

So before A Seat At the Table…

Before I fully understood what Cascade City was becoming…

There was The Greenhouse Effect.

A story about grief.
Marriage.
Emotional survival.
And two people trying to find each other again inside unbearable loss.

Looking back now, I realize this story quietly became one of the emotional foundations for the city itself.

So I wanted to bring it back.

What kind of environments do your characters emotionally live in?

Not just physically.
Emotionally.

What does your fictional city believe about love?
About grief?
About survival?

And what happens when those beliefs fail?

— P. Rose

Some stories follow us.

They linger in the back of our minds. They shape the way we see love, loneliness, danger, power, desire, grief, survival… and eventually, they begin shaping the stories we tell ourselves. In this episode of Between the Drafts, I found myself reflecting on the fiction that built me, not just books, but films, television, music, atmosphere, emotional tension, and the kinds of worlds I keep returning to again and again.

This episode became a conversation about creative obsession.

About vampires and hidden worlds.
About cities that feel alive after dark.
About found families, emotional ecosystems, supernatural intimacy, and characters trying to survive their own unraveling.

I talk about the stories that shaped the way I write:

• Interview with the Vampire

• Fledgling

• Chronos

• The Strain

• Living Single

• The Fifth Element

• Stephen King’s Bill Hodges trilogy

• and so many others that taught me something about atmosphere, longing, symbolism, setting, and emotional depth.

Permission to stop writing what I think people want from me.
Permission to stop shrinking the supernatural elements that naturally call to me.
Permission to embrace the darker, stranger, more emotionally layered stories that have always lived at the center of my imagination.

And honestly?

I think this episode marks a turning point for me creatively.

Because for a long time, I tried to write what sounded impressive instead of writing what haunted me. But the stories that stay with us, the ones we keep revisiting, usually reveal something deeper. Maybe they’re mirrors. Maybe they’re maps. Maybe they’re trying to tell us who we are before we’re ready to say it out loud.

So this episode is for:

• the writers obsessed with atmosphere

• the creatives haunted by unfinished worlds

• the readers who love hidden cities, dangerous love stories, and morally gray characters

• the artists trying to reconnect with what actually inspires them

And maybe most importantly…

This episode is for anyone learning how to trust their own creative instincts again.

Listen to Between the Drafts // File 008: The Stories I Keep Running To

And afterward, tell me:

What stories do you keep returning to — and what do you think they say about you?

— P. Rose

I mean the chaos of waking up with another story idea.

The kind that arrives uninvited.
The kind that whispers “what if?” while you’re already juggling three other projects and makes you question your loyalty to your current work in progress.

That’s what this week’s episode of Between the Drafts is about.

In File 07, I’m talking about:

• why idea generation is actually a gift

• the myth that new ideas mean you’re procrastinating

• how writers overwhelm themselves trying to act on every idea immediately

• why I keep journals, crates, sticky notes, and mood boards full of unfinished concepts

• and how to nurture your creativity without abandoning your current work

Because honestly?

This episode is part encouragement, part creative intervention, and part permission slip for the writers whose brains never stop generating worlds, characters, dialogue, and possibilities.

And if you’ve ever felt guilty for having “too many ideas” while still trying to finish your current project…

This file is for you.

In This Episode:

• “Story idea generation is not procrastination.”

• Why every idea deserves to be logged somewhere

• My favorite ways to organize story concepts

• Mood boarding as a storytelling tool

• Why creative overflow can actually protect your writing career

My Favorite Line From This Episode…

“As long as we’re generating ideas, we’ll always have stories to tell.”

And honestly?
I love that for us.

Listen to Between the Drafts — File 07 now.

—P. Rose

A city.
A house.
A coffee shop.
A bedroom at 2 a.m. while rain hits the windows.

But what if that’s only the surface?

In this companion episode for CITY FILES // 002, I’m digging into the idea that setting isn’t really about location at all.

It’s about belief.

Because the worlds that stay with us, the ones that feel immersive, addictive, impossible to leave behind, aren’t memorable because of architecture alone.

They’re memorable because the world itself believes something.

Darkness is expected.
Power always demands consequence.
Love changes people.
Ambition is rewarded.
Secrets survive because everyone agrees not to look too closely.

From the eerie tension of Stephen King’s worlds to the seductive hierarchy of Anne Rice’s vampires, to the unspoken rules of John Wick and the MCU… we’re talking about how fictional worlds quietly train characters how to behave.

In this episode, I also talk about:

• Why “white rooms” happen in fiction

• The difference between describing a place vs. understanding its demands

• How setting shapes dialogue, conflict, and emotional choices

• The hidden psychology behind romantic spaces in A Seat At the Table

• Questions you can ask yourself to deepen your own worldbuilding

And yes… there’s homework.

Because you know I can’t help myself.

Reflection Questions from This Episode:

• If your setting had a belief system, what would it be?

• What gets rewarded there?

• What gets punished?

• What do people pretend not to see?

• What is your world quietly teaching your characters?

• Are they obeying… or resisting?

This episode pairs with:
CITY FILES // 002 — Setting Isn’t Place. It’s Belief.

So grab your notebook, your draft, your coffee, and let your world start talking back to you.

— P. Rose

A city.
A house.
A street corner.
A coffee shop placed exactly where it needs to be for the scene to work.

But what if that’s not what setting actually is?

What if setting isn’t about where your story takes place,

but what your world believes?

Because when you think about the stories that stay with you,
the ones that feel lived in…

it’s never just about where the characters are.

It’s about how the world operates around them.

The quiet dread of Castle Rock isn’t just tied to the town itself,

it’s tied to the understanding that something is always slightly off.
That darkness doesn’t arrive.

It’s already there.

The world of Anne Rice’s vampire universe doesn’t just give us vampires…

it gives us rules about power, desire, immortality, and consequence.

Even the Marvel Cinematic Universe isn’t just a collection of places,

it’s a system built on responsibility, legacy, and the cost of power.

These worlds don’t feel real because of their geography.

They feel real because of their belief systems.

Setting as Belief

Every environment teaches the people inside of it how to behave.

Whether it’s intentional or not.

A city that values ambition will create people who chase.

A town built on secrets will create people who hide.

A place rooted in love and connection will create people who stay,
even when they should leave.

And your characters?

They’re responding to that belief—whether you realize it or not.

The Shift

Instead of asking:

Where does this scene take place?

Ask:

What does this place demand from the people in it?

Because once you understand that, everything changes.

Dialogue becomes sharper.
Conflict becomes inevitable.
Choices become clearer.

Your characters stop existing in space.

And start reacting to a system.

Applying It

If your setting had a belief system, what would it be?

• What is rewarded here?

• What is punished?

• What is ignored?

• What do people pretend not to see?

Because once you answer those questions…

you’re not just building a setting anymore.

You’re building a world your characters have to survive.

Reflection

• What does your story’s environment quietly teach your characters?

• Are your characters aligned with that belief—or resisting it?

• If your setting had a rule no one says out loud…what would it be?

Next File// 003
Cascade City: The Art of Becoming

Turns out… it was deeper than that.

It was fear.

In this special companion episode of Between the Drafts, I’m pulling back the curtain on something I’ve struggled with for a long time: writing my characters into “white rooms.”

You know the ones.

The scenes where people are talking, moving, feeling…
but you have no idea where they are.

No atmosphere.
No life.

Just… space.

Press play on today’s episode:

What This Episode Covers

This isn’t just a reflection, it’s a working session.

We’re walking through how to renovate your white rooms and transform them into spaces that feel lived-in, layered, and alive.

Inside the episode, I break down:

• Why I avoided worldbuilding (and how it held my writing back)

• The “white room” note that changed everything for me

• How I started building Cascade City in A Seat At the Table

• And the exact framework I’m using now to fix my scenes

The White Room Renovation Framework

If you’re writing alongside me, here’s your blueprint:

1. Walls → Define the environment
Where are your characters actually?

2. Windows → Add perspective
What’s happening beyond the scene?

3. Furniture → Ground the moment
Choose 2–3 meaningful details that reveal, not decorate.

4. Atmosphere → Set the emotional tone
What does the space feel like?

5. Movement → Let the room respond
If nothing in the environment affects your characters…
you’re still in the white room.

Your Homework (because you know I had to give you some)

Take the last scene you wrote.

Now ask yourself:

• Are my characters boxed in a “white room”?

• Can I see beyond the moment?

• What objects matter here?

• What does this space feel like?

• Does anything in this environment shift my characters?

Then rewrite it.

Not perfectly.
Just… more honestly.

Bonus Drop ☕

I’m taking this even further over on my Buy Me a Coffee.

I’ll be:

• Reading a scene from Upgrade

• Breaking it down

• And showing you how I would renovate it now

(If you’ve ever wanted to see my process in real time… this is that.)

Final Thought

I used to think setting was just a backdrop.

Now?

I understand it’s a character.

If this episode hit for you, leave a comment.
Let’s talk about it.

Because I know I’m not the only one who’s been writing in white rooms.

— P. Rose
Between the Drafts

Not forcing it.
Not trying to turn it into something “smart” or profitable or polished.

Just… letting it exist.

And the more I sit with it, the clearer it becomes.

I think I want to open a reading lounge.

Not a bookstore.
Not a café.
Not even just a creative space.

Something softer than that.

I’m imagining a place where nothing is rushed.

Where the lighting is low, the music hums instead of shouts, and the shelves aren’t organized by genre, but by feeling.

Where you can walk in, pick up a book you’ve never heard of, sit down with a cup of something warm, and just… exist for a while.

No pressure to perform.
No pressure to produce.

Just presence.

There would be secondhand books.

Old stories with worn pages and folded corners.
The kind that feel like they’ve already lived a life before finding you.

Maybe some vinyl.
Maybe journals.
Maybe small, strange, beautiful things that don’t quite belong anywhere else.

And somewhere in the space, there’s a table.

A few tables. For the writers.

The ones who say they’re “trying to get back into it.”
The ones who haven’t written in months.
The ones who don’t call themselves writers yet… but are.

You’d be allowed to sit there.

No explanation needed.

I don’t know when this happens.

I don’t know how it happens.

But I know this:

I don’t want to just write stories anymore.

I want to build a place where stories can live.

So… I’m starting small.

I created something simple.

A little preview of what this space might feel like.

The Velvet Reading Room: Starter Kit No. 001

It’s a curated bundle—books (for physical kits), prompts, a playlist, and a note from me.

A way to sit in the energy before the doors ever open.

If this space existed…
would you come?

— P. Rose

Not the kind that haunt houses,
the kind that live in old drafts, forgotten notes, and half-finished stories.

Recently, I opened a crate of them.
Read through everything.
Let it all breathe again.

There were 49 stories waiting for me.

And instead of feeling overwhelmed…
I felt something shift.

This episode is the beginning of that shift.

It’s where I talk about:
the anthology I didn’t plan,
the city I can’t stop building,
and the realization that maybe none of my work was ever random.

Welcome to the early stages of Talo, Illinois and Creswell County.

🎧 File No. 6 is live.

Until next Sunday,

— P. Rose

If this piece felt like something warm in your hands…
you can leave a little coffee here ☕️ and get an extra dose of gratitude.
(no pressure, just love)

Not the plot.
Not the characters.

The setting.

The world.

And for a long time, I believed that.

Because I love a well-built world.

The kind that lingers.
The kind that feels like it exists whether the story is happening or not.
The kind you could step into and immediately understand—even without explanation.

I’ve seen it done beautifully in the quiet dread of Castle Rock.
In the seductive, layered mythology of Anne Rice’s vampire universe.
In the grounded, immersive landscapes shaped by Octavia Butler.
Even in the stylized precision of John Wick and the expansive ecosystem of the Marvel Cinematic Universe.

So when my editor gave me feedback on my earlier drafts, especially UPGRADE;
it hit harder than I expected.

My characters felt disconnected.
Like they were moving through space that hadn’t been claimed.

White rooms.

That phrase stayed with me.

Because it wasn’t just about description.

It was about absence.

A story without a lived-in setting doesn’t feel unfinished.

It feels uninhabited.

And readers can feel that, even if they don’t have the language for it.

At the time, I thought the solution was simple:

Add more detail.

More streets.
More landmarks.
More texture.

But that wasn’t the real problem.

The real problem was this:

I thought setting had to be real before I could make it believable.

Which meant…

If I wrote Chicago, it had to be accurate.
Recognizable.
Verifiable.

Every street name.
Every landmark.

Because somewhere in my mind, there was a reader waiting to fact-check me.
Waiting to tell me I got it wrong.

And fear like that doesn’t just slow you down.

It limits what you allow yourself to build.

So instead of creating worlds…

I borrowed them.

Carefully.
Cautiously.
Without authority.

And that’s why my settings didn’t breathe.

Not because I lacked imagination,

but because I didn’t trust it.

The Shift

Everything changed when I stopped asking:

Is this real?

And started asking:

Does this feel lived in?

Because setting isn’t about geography.

It’s about presence.

The rhythm of a place.
The patterns of the people in it.
The way the environment responds to those who move through it.

And once I understood that, everything opened up.

Because suddenly, I wasn’t just writing people.

I was building ecosystems.

UPGRADE gave me Rock Forest.

A Seat At the Table gave me Cascade City.

And somewhere in the middle of drafting something new,
I found myself developing Talo, Illinois.

At first, they felt separate.

Different stories.
Different tones.
Different needs.

But when I stepped back, I realized something I hadn’t planned for.

I wasn’t just writing books anymore.

I was building a universe.

Reflection

• What kind of world does your writing naturally create, even if you haven’t named it yet?

• Where do your characters feel most alive?

• What would still exist in your story…if your main character disappeared?

Welcome to the City Files, a series exploring the worlds behind my stories.

Next File // 002
What If Your Setting Isn’t a Place—But a Belief System?

This is the first page of Stranger: Rebirth. (Title change possibly pending)

Or… at least, it was.

Before I realized it wasn’t telling the truth yet.

Before the Ritual…

This was my original opening. I can’t lie, I really thought I nailed this opening when initially wrote it. I thought I was in the moment; however, during my reread of this short story, I found that it wasn’t bad… but it was distant.

It described the moment, my main character’s awakening so to speak, but it didn’t immerse me (or readers) in it.

Enter the red pen…

Under the Red Pen

This is where things start to get honest. Revisiting a 13-year old story with fresh eyes and fresher writer mindset was refreshing and exciting; after I tossed my perfectionism aside for the moment and realized that if I wanted to improve thus story, I needed to be open to changes.

You’ll notice I wasn’t just fixing grammar,
I was questioning everything.

• Where is my main character emotionally?

• What is she actually experiencing in her body?

• What details matter… and which ones are just noise?

The biggest shift here was this:

I stopped writing what happened.
And started writing what it felt like.

After the Ritual

This is the version that finally felt like her.

Closer. Sharper. More present.

Less explaining,
more experiencing.

The Shift

This version?
She was too aware.

Too polished.
Too… safe.

She was telling me everything,
and somehow, I wasn’t feeling anything.

So I stripped it back.

Took out the over-explaining.
Cut the distance.
Got closer to her body and closer to the moment where things didn’t make sense.

Because that’s where the truth was hiding.

Not in the sky.
Not in the snow.

But in the fact that she wasn’t reacting the way she should.

That’s what changed everything.

The tension stopped living in the scene,
and started living inside of her.

And once I found that?

The story finally started breathing.

What’s Next?

I keep going.

I keep editing and building out this world that my character has returned to.

With pages of red ink to go, I’m not intimidated.

I’m determined.

Because some drafts describe the moment.

The right draft becomes it.

— P. Rose

There’s a version of me that still flinches at the sight of a red pen.

Not because I don’t love writing, but because somewhere along the way, correction started to feel like rejection. Like proof that I got it wrong. Like my words weren’t enough.

In this episode of Between the Drafts, I’m unpacking that fear.

Where it started.
How it followed me into adulthood.
And what it looked like to sit down with intention, and face it head on.

This isn’t just about editing.

It’s about perfectionism.
It’s about vulnerability.
It’s about learning how to see feedback not as destruction… but as direction.

Because somewhere between the first draft and the final version, there’s a conversation happening, and the red pen might not be tearing your work apart…

It might be trying to guide you back to it.

🎧 Press play when you’re ready.

— P. Rose

She said, “You’ll never make any money.”

I smiled, left her office and never returned for the remainder of my Senior year.

Of course I’m not a full time writer… yet, but I am a writer with a 9 to 5 job who refuses to let corporate America defer my dreams of being someone’s Favorite Author.

Yes, I punch in and out, log into Teams, take calls and meetings and (in the past) complained about my 30-minute lunch break but… I have found ways to overcome the struggles, reflect and achieve some pretty cool author-esque milestones all while “working for the man.”

To be clear, this article isn’t about to bash my job or anyone else who is in the same boat as me, in fact, I hope it does the opposite. I hope it inspires my fellow writers who are working their daily jobs, to reflect on how they can still carve out joy— and writing time while punching a clock.

Because the reality is this…

In this economy, we need our jobs but that does not mean that we have to sacrifice everything that we love to become a work horse.

No, we’re still writers and we’re still on a journey to publishing in its various forms.

Admissions

Between me, you and the internet, I like my job. It’s chill and challenging at the same time. I have been working remote for almost three of the five years that I have been with the company and for that I am thankful. Even if I was still at our corporate office, I would still like my job.

Enjoying my job has made clocking in feel less mandatory and more routine (and my ADHD ass LOVES a routine).

In addition to enjoying my work, I have been finding time during my work day to get some writing time in.

• Editing for 20 minutes before I clock in.

• Brainstorming on my lunch break.

• Adding a short writing session into my to do list for the work day.

Creating small windows of time during my work day to work on something writing related has been essential for me and helped me make progress in my projects.

The Struggles

Because despite my admissions, every day isn’t perfect and I have found myself struggling with a few things:

#1: Creating a “balance.” (Work-Home-Writing): This has never been easy for me from the get go; however, adding personal writing deadlines has added to my stress of trying to “do it all.” And even though I have a good rhythm with working and writing, it’s the learning when to shut down and return to life part that I am currently working on.

#2: Time Management: We already know that time is precious; however, we can— and do waste it like there’s always more to come. I know I’m guilty of this BUT…I’m working on it. Well I’m trying to.

While struggling to manage my ADHD, I have been seeking out the culprits that aid in my time management struggle.

For me, it’s only one: Social Media

Yep, my phone is my issue. Any little “break” in work day and I am quicker to grab my phone over opening my laptop and diving back into a project. It doesn’t matter if I’m online shopping (at random) or doom scrolling on various apps, what feels like five minutes has actually been thirty.

Time jumps exist, people.

I have been working on my relationship with social media and doom scrolling. I even reflected on a recent hiatus I took from it.

Who is P.Rose?

I Had to Log Off to Hear Myself Again

On Saturday, March 14th, 2026, I made a conscious decision not to post or doom scroll on social media. I thought it would only last the weekend; however, when I found myself picking up a book or my sketch book, instead of grabbing my phone that following Tuesday. I felt like I had accomplished something great…

Read more

5 months ago · 1 like · P. Rose

I learned a lot from my time away from social media; however, despite what I learned, the application of said lessons has been hard to implement. So now, it’s about me being mindful and intentional:

Putting my phone face down

Charging it away from me

Responding to text messages then putting the phone down (I’m always tempted to scroll after a text response as if it’s a reward).

#3: Learning to Prioritize Projects: Project management is a major element of my role at work, yet… it’s an unholy war when it comes time for me to manage projects.

From new novels to anthologies, screenplays and Substack posts, I place EVERY project in the “Category A” pile then turn around and get upset when projects are either forgotten or delayed.

I can’t blame the 9 to 5 on this struggle. This one is all me.

Achievements

Because despite the struggles, I have been moving a mountain or two.

Self Published A Seat At the Table

In November 2025, I published my second book— my first romance, A Seat At the Table. I edited, formatted, designed and even marketed the book while working. I was determined to put the book out, taking into account how long it took for me to release my first book, UPGRADE (which I need to edit…again) I knew I couldn’t play myself this time around.

I locked in and brought my dream to life.

Working on Book #3

I am adding to the roster. Of course, I had plans to publish another romance and a thriller this year; however, after taking inventory of all my WIPs, I decided that I wanted to do something different and create an anthology of some of my themed short stories.

While working, I have been (quietly) building this anthology and it’s setting. I have made no excuses and set a deadline for myself.

More details on this anthology are coming VERY soon.

::cue shameless plug to subscribe for updates::

Looking Ahead…

To my fellow writers who are also working a 9-5 or 10-6 or even a 10-10, please know that the time clock isn’t our enemy, it’s resource. Our jobs not only take care of our homes, they are funding our future projects. It’s a delicate resource (again in this economy) but it is a valuable resource nonetheless.

And understand this, being a full time employee— and parent and/or partner or caregiver is already a lot. So let me hold your hand (virtually) and say this:

We CANNOT do it all…at once.

We have to find and/or create a balance that allows us to keep the lights on and bring our dreams to those lights.

Narrow your projects down — Focus on 1-2 a month (depending on their length and needed focus)

Pay attention to where your time is being spent (outside of you working)

Maximize your “free” time.

Communicate your creative needs (at home— not the office)

I used to envy the full time author and spent more time daydreaming about being in that space or scrolling through social media feeling some type of way when I saw another author publish their fourth, tenth or twentieth book.

Not anymore.

Today, I pay attention to my own pace. I am looking at the detours, the forks in the road and even the potholes that are trying to derail me on my journey to publishing.

It was never the job’s fault.

It’s been mine and with this realization, I can shift, grow…

and write.

-P. Rose