It’s Been a While, But I’m Still Here

So… you might be wondering if I completely forgot about my website and blog posts. Want the honest answer?

Yes. Sometimes, I did forget. Most of the time, I just didn’t know what to write. Not much was happening in my life—well, until everything started happening all at once and I suddenly had zero time to make a post.

But here I am. Making a post. Yay me.

First thing I want to mention: I have officially finished writing book three, and I’m currently working on book four… with many breaks thanks to writer’s block. Book two is almost done being edited, so I’ll be starting the copyright process soon. I am not looking forward to that at all.

On that note, the hardcover and eBook are available on Amazon! The softcover is still pending distribution. I may have made a rookie mistake and forgot to switch the softcover ISBN. Instead, I submitted it with the hardcover ISBN. Yeah… that one’s on me. But don’t worry—I don’t think there are any other obstacles. So I’m just going to keep hoping it cooperates and gets distributed soon. When it does, I’m probably going to march into a nearby Barnes & Noble and ask them to bring in some shipments.

Which brings me to my second thought: If you’ve read my book—whether physical, eBook, or on Campus—I need your help. Spread the word. Tell your friends. If you hated it? Fantastic. Tell them anyway. Make them read it so you can mock it together. Then have them tell their friends. And so on. If you loved it? Tell your friends! Tell your loved ones! Tell the random kid on your sports team.

I have a goal. I don’t need to be the next JK Rowling or Brandon Sanderson or whoever else you admire. I don’t need to be an international superstar. People don’t even have to know my name.

I just want to be a New York Times bestselling author. That’s the dream. And I hope one day I can reach it. Even if you buy the book just to burn it—guess what? I still sold a copy, so thank you.

Moving on from book stuff… guess who started back at work? Me! No swim lessons yet, but guess who got Lifeguard Certified? Also me! I had my first shift yesterday and honestly, I had so much fun. Who would’ve thought staring at a pool could be entertaining? The guy I was shadowing brought his phone on stand—no, I didn’t shove him in the pool—and it drove me insane. To be fair, he did help an older lady out, so I can’t be completely annoyed. Although the other guard went out the emergency exit to run across the street for Red Bulls. That part annoyed me. Those doors should’ve been locked.

ANYWAY. In my last post, I mentioned I was moving. I’ve officially moved into the house and finished my room. Most of it is Harry Potter–themed. I have a poster of Maxine Mayfield right when you walk in, and it is glorious. There are snitch LED lights around it to keep the Harry Potter vibe alive. I want a poster of Jinu next. Yes, I like K‑Pop Demon Hunters. No, I’m not ashamed. Judge me all you want—it brings me comfort. Some parts are cringe, sure, but the overall message makes me happy.

And finally, the last thing I wanted to say: I have found my signature, thanks to Flame. I am now questioning if that’s actually her code name or nickname—I AM SO SORRY IF IT ISN’T. MY BRAIN IS FRIED. OR SOMETHING. I DID NOT GET ENOUGH SLEEP LAST NIGHT.

Cough. Moving on. Here is a sneak peek of book four! Under the Surface of Writing.

“I’ve never impressed a girl,” Jack admitted, ducking his head. “Most think I’m weird. And I’m a red-head. For some reason, we’re not as attractive as blonds or browns. Plus, Astyrian exists. He’s literally the definition of the perfect guy. All of the girls swoon over him. Him and his muscles. Gosh, how did he get those muscles? I’ve got half of what he has.”

Jack flexed, revealing a respectable—if not Astyrian-level—set of muscles. “I need to ask that man for tips.” 

“Don’t feed his ego,” Helen teased, swatting his head. “You’ve still got muscle. Shows you’ve been trying during training. Astyrian’s swords are not light.”

Jack considered that, then nodded. “Yeah, okay. You’ve got a point there. Those things are literal metal bricks.” 

“And you haven’t dropped one on your foot yet,” Helen added, eyes sparkling.

“Hey—now, let’s not jinx me,” Jack said quickly, throwing his hands up. “I can barely keep a plate of lemon meringues from dropping. I don’t need a sword on my foot. Well… I guess it

could be in my foot if it dropped in the right direction.”

“Jack!” 

“Sorry, my bad,” he apologized, then suddenly covered her ears and screamed a chaotic string of nonsense: “AFTY POLY MORIOP. DIGGLY JIGGLYY. POLLY WANTS A CRACKER. ME KIDDIE POOL, ME KIDDIE POOL, SPLASH, SPLASH, SPLASH!” 

He dropped his hands, blinking at her innocently. “Did that clear your brain?” 

Helen snorted. “All I see is you splashing around in a little kiddie pool.” 

Jack pointed at her dramatically. “Okay, hold on. If I were in a kiddie pool, I’d be doing cool splashes. Like—like warrior splashes. Very dignified.”

Helen raised an eyebrow. “There is no dignified way to splash in a kiddie pool.”

“There is if you commit to it,” Jack insisted, already gesturing like he was narrating an epic prophecy. “You gotta, like—” He scooped imaginary water with both hands and flung it upward in a dramatic arc. “—make it dramatic. Slow‑motion. Epic soundtrack. Maybe lightning.”

“That’s a storm,” Helen replied, snorting. “Not you.”

“I am the storm,” Jack said, puffing out his chest like a roaster preparing for battle.

Helen slapped a hand over her mouth to smother a laugh. “Jack, you would get kicked out of the pool in a heartbeat.” 

“I’d get kicked out with honor.”

“By a lifeguard half your height.” 

“It’s not my fault fifteen-year-old boys are short,” Jack scoffed, waving a dismissive hand.

“They’re fifteen,” Helen said, rolling her eyes. “They’re supposed to be short while they wait for their last growth spurt or whatever it is you men go through where you suddenly grow twenty feet and lose your girl screams.”

“We do not scream like girls!” Jack exclaimed, staring at her as if she’d just accused him of treason. “Where did you get this silly little idea from?” 

Helen stared at him like he’d just lied under an oath. “Jack, I have heard you scream. And you’re seventeen, not fifteen.”

“That was not a scream,” Jack said, brushing imaginary dust off his uniform with exaggerated dignity. “That, young lady, was a  battle cry.” 

“It cracked.”

“...it was a strategic crack-?” “Let me guess,” Helen said, crossing her arms. “The noise you made when being chased after by a little girl with glitter on her hands was planned too.” 

“Yes,” Jack replied immediately, nodding with the confidence of a man defending his doctoral thesis. “I was… uhm… alerting the dogs that glitter was around.” 

“I didn’t even imply that it was a note only dogs could hear,” Helen said, flashing him a triumphant grin.

“Well—anyone would shriek if a little gremlin girl with glitter was chasing them!” he protested, throwing his hands up. 

Helen blinked slowly. “Jack. She was six. You were the one who gave her glitter for the art lesson. Remember? You hosted it to give the kids something fun to do.” 

“Yeah, well… six is the worst age!” Jack insisted, eyes widening like he was reliving a war flashback. “They have little hands that just grab onto everything! And they’re fast. Especially those little glitter-covered, pigtailed girls and mud-coated, mullet boys!” 

He held up a finger before she could interrupt. “Glitter doesn’t leave either. It stays. Sticks to you and haunts you. It could be years, but you’d still find specks of glitter on you from your little sister’s fourth birthday party after she violently whacked a glittery unicorn because it didn’t give her a wish!”

“SHE ATTACKED A UNICORN?”

“Oh, it was fake.” 

Helen facepalmed so hard her palm echoed. “You didn’t think to include that?”

“Nope.”

Helen dragged a hand down her face, groaning. “You can’t just drop ‘whacked a glitter unicorn’ into a sentence with no context whatsoever!”

Jack waved his hand like a conductor dismissing criticism. “It added dramatic flair.” 

“It added a heart attack.”

“Even better!”

Helen stared at him. “You, Jack Orgill, are impossible.” 

Jack lifted a finger, chin tilting upward.“Nuh uh! I am resourceful.”

“You’re absurd,” Helen said, shaking her head. “One day, someone’s gonna chase after you with a knife.”

“That six-year-old did,” Jack said. “Glitter is a sharp, emotional knife, my friend.”

“So you ‘survived’ a six year old?” 

“A feral six year old that had marked me with the look as soon as she had walked into the room,” Jack corrected, placing a hand over his heart dramatically. “There is a difference!” 

“The look?” Helen asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“The ‘I’m about to traumatize you for the rest of your life’ look.”

Helen lost it. She bit her sleeve to keep from laughing too loudly. “You’re ridiculous.” 

“But alive,” Jack said proudly. “Which, unfortunately, I cannot say for the little glittery unicorn piñata my sister had.”