On interruptions, intention, and finishing anyway

I didn’t prioritise writing in 2024 and 2025.

That’s the truth. The reasons were many, of course, but the responsibility is mine. What was meant to be a small house renovation spiralled into something much larger. Moving back in and settling down took longer than expected. A bad viral fever derailed travel plans. After that, work. And death. And a wedding. A short break. The holiday season. Suddenly, the year was over.

2025 flew by.

I didn’t stop writing entirely. I wrote in bursts—uneven, imperfect stretches wherever I could find space. That’s how the book got finished. Slowly. Quietly.

Because I already had two books out, I wanted the third to be different. Deeper. I briefly considered writing western romance and quickly abandoned it (after a month - not so brief after all). I want to write about the life around me, about what I see, what I live with, what I struggle to articulate. About things I care deeply about. I wanted this book to carry a theme and some weight.

That’s harder than it sounds when you’re writing romance.

Trying to give a story emotional depth and chemistry and desire and steamy sex, without sounding preachy or idealistic, is a constant negotiation. There are contradictions everywhere. You’re trying to honour complexity while still delivering pleasure. Trying to be honest without being heavy-handed.

Some days, it felt impossible.

But I pulled through.

I think I’ve done a decent job. And I’m learning to let that be enough. Everyone measures “good” differently.

Nothing will ever be perfect. That’s a difficult truth to accept, especially when your work is public and people have opinions, and they’re not shy about sharing them. But that’s a reckoning for another day. Possibly a rant. Or something just shy of one.

For now, the book is done. And that matters.