I can barely remember a time in my life when I wasn't writing something. My grandfather got me my first computer—a Mac Classic—when I was six years old. I learned to type and play computer games on it. I played Oregon Trail and Carmen Sandiego. I typed schoolwork on it and printed it out on my dot matrix printer. And I wrote so many damn stories.

They didn't have to be good or thought-out or sensible. I wrote stories that only made it a page before I ran out of ideas. I wrote fanfic before I knew what fanfic was. I wrote my epic fantasy series that would take the world by storm (decent worldbuilding, everything else kind of rubbish). Then I started working on my next fantasy epic (same).

Then one day, many years later, I got published. And I wrote more and more. I wrote Doctor Who charity short stories. I wrote spinoffs. I wrote Sherlock Holmes. I hammered out submissions to things that paid, things that didn't paid, things that claimed they paid. I just had to write. I had to. I would get out of bed at six in the morning and sneak out into my garage workshop because I'd finally figured out how I wanted to end a book.

And I wrote whenever. First thing in the morning, late at night. On planes. At rest stops. Whenever it hit. I had to. I couldn't not. Whether I had something to say or not. I had to be writing something.

That all went away.

In 2021, my grandfather started acting stranger, meaner. He'd always read my books and articles. Even if I figured he couldn't make sense of them, he'd want to. Then one day in March of that year, he told me I wasn't a real writer. My stories didn't make sense. He'd passive-aggressively say I should hold classes at the local library to teach people to read my stories.

We found out that summer that he was very sick. Age, dementia, heart problems, all sorts of things. He'd held up for so long because he was a literal genius. I saw the signs but didn't recognize them for what they were. I thought he was in a bad mood, or that I'd said or done something that upset him. Then he'd tell me the government was calling and leaving him coded messages. Or I'd find him sitting in his car in our driveway, insisting he was sitting in a stolen pickup truck and we had to take him to the police station so he could turn himself in. I understood now why he said the things he said. And yet.

He was in and out of hospital, in and out of hospice. I was so stressed and exhausted, it compromised my immune system to the point that I got shingles. I couldn't help the way I wanted to or even get out of bed. And it was only getting worse all around. After he came home, I'd find him sitting in the living room at 1am, fully dressed, asking if I was ready to go to breakfast. The doctors gave him a year tops, and we prepared for him to move in with my uncle and aunt. Somewhere where he could live the way he wanted, have multiple people to check on him, have a comfortable bedroom and bathroom and not have to climb stairs.

We were all stressed, my whole family. My pay was cut at one of my major freelancing gigs because I couldn't keep up with my work. Similar things happened throughout my family. I was adapting to this, realizing we'd all have a rough year ahead of us seeing my grandfather out. But I sure as hell wasn't writing. I was barely managing to get my actual work done, barely paying the bills, what the hell kind of time or business did I have to write about aliens and ghosts and owl men? Once in a while, a horrible little corner of my brain would pop up: "When this is all over, you'll have time to write." Like it was an inconvenience and not the mortality of the man who raised me, put me through college, looked after me when I was sick.

And then it was. One night, my grandfather called to tell me we had to go out and buy him a sleeping bag. A few hours later, my uncle called. Charlie had passed in his sleep between nurse shifts. Never mind a year. Between the first 911 call and the call from hospice, it had been two and a half months.

It's been a year and eight months since he died, and writing is like pulling teeth. Sometimes I manage it. Once in a blue moon, I get a burst of fear. Generally when it's "Get this story in or else." But it hurts to write. Maybe it's the guilt, realizing I got what I want. Maybe I'm just still that messed up.

But it also hurts not to write. I think about how I could barely stop myself before. How a therapist recently told me that maybe, maybe, I should start imagining a life where I'm no longer a writer. (I've switched therapists.) I play tabletop games so that part of my brain doesn't fully atrophy, so I'm still creating characters and coming up with ideas regularly. But I miss that need.

I do have some things coming out soon. Some stuff that's been in the wings for months and even years. And I'm trying every day to get back to the things I used to do. But I promise, if you're someone who follows me for my stories, and now you're just seeing book review after book review... this is part of the process. The more I read, the more I remember how much I want to write.

It's coming back. If that's what you're here for, just know I'm busting ass for it to come back. And if it's not... well, thanks for reading all of this and learning a bit more about me. I hope before long to be telling you more about books I'm in. And hopefully when I'm back to it full-time, it'll have been worth the wait.