Writing a novel while juggling life isn’t always easy. Life doesn’t pause just because you have a story burning inside you—something epic that’s desperate to be told. It just keeps chugging along like a runaway locomotive, oblivious to your creative struggles.
Sometimes, the only time I can write is late at night—midnight, one in the morning—when the house is finally still. The kids are asleep at last, the world outside is quiet, and it’s just me, my keyboard, and the warm glow of my desk lamp. It’s exhausting, sure, but also very rewarding. Because in those late hours, something magical happens: the story unfolds for the first time.
By the time my readers see this book, it will have been revised, polished, and fine-tuned. But right now? Right now, I’m the first to experience it in its raw form as it flows from my fingertips, clacking across the keyboard, shaping itself on the virtual page before me. And for a moment, I’m not just the writer—I’m the first reader, stepping into a world that didn’t exist yesterday.
