Hello! I hope everyone is doing well, and not losing their minds already.

Now that the magic of the holiday season has worn off, and we’re all looking down the barrel of another year with more shit going on, I’ve got some things I’ve been thinking about.

I’ve been really lucky to have had a lot of creative success this past month. I’m usually someone who needs to focus on one project at a time, but for some reason I’m able to divide my attention between several projects.

So let’s talk goals.

In the past three weeks (as of writing this), there has been a snowstorm every Monday. Pair that with the distinct lack of work this time of the year, and you got yourself a recipe to keep me inside.

Two weeks ago I submitted “From the Sea Fret” to #SmallPitch, and it was fairly successful for me! I got three requests to submit, though I only followed through on two because I didn’t feel like they were all a good match.

At the time of writing this, I haven’t heard anything else, but I’m trying to remain optimistic.

The reason I say “trying” is because of the current trend in the publishing world. More and more presses are choosing to shy away from queer stories, and with international tensions rising (especially between Canada and the USA), I worry about the reality of getting my story traditionally published.

On the flip side, Canadian Media — specifically queer Canadian media (looking at you, Heated Rivalry) — has received an unexpected international interest. This bodes well for not only my work, but for my goals of publishing.

Where does that leave me? Well, I’ve decided to wait until May/June before I’ve made a choice on whether to keep trying with traditional publishing. This gives time both for me to make sure I have enough money for self publishing, and also anyone who might be interest to get back to me.

I originally wanted to do trad publishing because my job takes away my free time for half the year. Having a publishing house and/or an agent who could help with everything that came with publishing (ex., talking with cover artists, marketing, distributing, etc.) is really valuable to me.

However, I don’t want to spend 2026 sitting and waiting to be noticed. I would like to make more moves towards publishing, and so I’m gonna do that.

In honour of me getting about 3/4ths of the way with my current rewrite of “The Strings of Willis Manor”, I’d like to share the opening page!

Content Warning: Graphic depiction of medical emergency (i.e., vomiting, seizure-like movements, pain)

The black rose bushes watched on impassively as I had my attack. The roses didn’t care about my health; they only cared that the ominous clouds above heralded an oncoming storm.

Icy wind sliced through my sweat-coated clothing. My face was so damp from perspiration that I wouldn’t have felt any rain, had it started to fall.

My attacks always followed the same steps, but unfortunately, each had enough variation that I could hardly prepare for it. I could hope desperately that I would lose consciousness, and only brace myself for the ones that kept me awake.

First, came the nausea. It crept up the back of my throat, slowly filling all the crevices of my mouth. Every breath I took was considered, for worry of instigating an attack by a haphazard inhale.

Second, the black dots around the edge of my vision. Pinpricks of shadow that hum and buzz in my periphery. At that point, my head became light, and the certainty of what’s to come freezes all thoughts. Internally, I tried to run to the edges of my brain in an effort to escape what felt like my impending doom.

Third, was the blinding white pain. It ignited across my skin, with no inch being left untouched. Involuntarily, my muscles spasmed to try and get away from the searing agony. I’ve broken bones from my limbs trying to fling themselves away from the pain, and I’ve been held down to prevent myself from clawing off my traitorous skin. I always hoped – no, prayed – to pass out. Today, I remained awake.

While my legs spasmed in random directions, I tried to gasp for breath through the burbling liquid that was collecting in my lungs. My nails dug into the armrests of my wheelchair, arms quivering from the attack.

Finally, the worst part of all. It could take minutes or seconds for my body to work up to its grand finale, but it eventually came to the same end. With my very limited control over my body, I leaned as far over the side of my wheelchair as I could.

Muddy-green bits of tissue – pieces of guts, and insides – strung out of my mouth like long pieces of hair. The sinew splated down into the damp grass. There, a strand of muscle, and there a curling piece of stomach lining. It reminded me of the imported noodles that Mama insisted upon special company.

Just like that, it was over. Those handful of minutes were the center pillar that my life revolved around. I was shaking, reeling from the violence. With barely enough strength to lift my arms, I let my head lull back as I waited for some semblance of strength to return.

The cool breeze caressed the sweat on my face, and the goosebumps from the touch made my recovering body ache. I breathed the fresh air deeply, and imagined it clearing out the sickness in my lungs. I couldn’t fool myself so easily, but it was comforting to pretend for a second.

And that’s it! Things may shift around or change by the time this is (hopefully) released for the public to read, but that’s the beginning of my gothic domestic suspense :)

That’s all I got for this month! I hope you enjoyed, and I’ll see you next time.

Cheers.