Still Here.

TO:

The ones who came out when it wasn’t safe.
The ones still hiding because it isn’t safe.
The ones learning, exploring, and reclaiming.
The ones who lost family, friends, jobs, and homes just for existing.

Happy Pride.

You belong here.

Elementary

It’s Sherlock Holmes Day, which means we’re all supposed to raise a toast to the great detective. But let’s not forget the real puppet master. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. A man who gave us one of the most brilliant minds in fiction. then got so annoyed with him, he tried to kill him off.

That’s the kind of petty I aspire to.

Doyle wanted to write serious historical dramas. Holmes was paying the bills. So what does any self respecting author do? Toss their golden goose off a waterfall. BUT it didn’t stick. The people wanted more. Turns out, when you create a character smarter than you, they will outlive you.

Holmes has become more myth than man. He taught us that logic can be cold and that brilliance doesn’t come with peace of mind. that sometimes, you can know everything… and still feel like nothing.

So today, I salute Doyle for crafting a detective too sharp to stay dead and too broken to be happy. And I salute Holmes for making misfits like us feel just a little more useful.

Riddle me this:

I speak without a mouth, and hear without ears. I have no body, but I come alive with wind. What am I?

I changed the title

When I first started this book, I called it The Thirteenth Hour. It made sense. It was literal. It pointed at the core of the story. Those lost minutes, that impossible space between the real world and whatever the hell lives under it.

But somewhere along the line, it started to feel… predictable. Like something I’d seen before. Something you could scroll past on a shelf and barely remember. That’s not this story.

This book is about being the last thread holding everything together. It’s about legacy, obsession, and what happens when time itself starts to unravel.

So I changed it.

Escapement is a horology term. the part of a watch that controls the release of energy. It’s what makes the tick happen. But it’s also what stops the whole thing from spinning out of control.

That’s Luther. That’s the story. That’s the title.

I’ve been writing Anyway

I haven’t slept great lately.

The kind of rest where your body lays down but your brain keeps stitching things together. dialogue, images, poems, entire scenes that I forget by morning.

But I’ve been writing anyway. Little pieces. A poem while dinner cooks. A paragraph during work.

Most of it doesn’t feel “big” or “worth sharing,” but that’s the trick, isn’t it?

The work still counts.

And sometimes the small things are just the start of something deeper.

I’ve decided to stop waiting for the perfect mood, or the ideal moment. I’m writing because I need to. Even if it’s weird or messy.

That’s what this whole site is for.

The draft never sleeps. And neither do I, apparently.

living poet society

I’m throwing my poetry into the mix. nothing polished. short, strange, ugly, beautiful, broken. thanks for wandering into the dark with me.

the dead still speak

April 23rd marks World Book Day, a celebration of stories, authors, and the written word. It’s no accident the date shares ground with the deaths of Shakespeare and Cervantes. both died on April 23rd, centuries ago. Two giants of language, gone on the same day.

But writers don’t stay dead. Their words echo through cracked spines and late night pages. Books don’t rot the way bodies do. They haunt instead. And every time we read, we resurrect something.

So today, light a candle, Crack the spine, and Read something old. Let the voices come through.

The dead still speak to those of us who listen.

🕯️ From the Other Side: A Quote

“A dream itself is but a shadow.”
— William Shakespeare, Hamlet

⚰️ Recommended Reading From the Grave:

• Mary Shelley – Frankenstein
  A story about life, death, and what we create when we play god. Still too relevant.

• Edgar Allan Poe – The Fall of the House of Usher
  Crumbling legacy, unspoken madness, and decay that seeps into the walls.

• Shirley Jackson – We Have Always Lived in the Castle
  Isolation, poison, and the quiet, beautiful horror of being left behind.

• Oscar Wilde – The Picture of Dorian Gray
  Sin in slow motion. A soul rotting out of sight.

• Miguel de Cervantes – Don Quixote
  Madness and stories wrapped into one. Truth and fiction taking turns wearing the mask.

The Draft Never Sleeps

The draft keeps waking me up.

I’ve rewritten this opening a dozen times. This place is where I put the things that won’t stay dead. Thoughts that don’t fit anywhere else.

If you’re here, you probably know what I mean. Maybe you’ve got your own haunted pages.

This blog won’t be tips and tricks. It’ll be writing from the edge of something unnamed. Sometimes fiction. Sometimes not. Sometimes I won’t know the difference.

But if the draft never sleeps, I might as well write it down.