Writing twelve books in one year is a choice that sounds insane once you're living it.
But every day, I sat down. Some days the words came like they'd been waiting for me. Other days I had to drag them out like they were stuck in mud. Either way, I showed up. Because my daughter was counting on me to believe in myself. Because I was counting on me to believe in myself.
The work was physical. My back ached from sitting. My eyes burned from staring at screens. My hands hurt from typing. But underneath the physical exhaustion was something else: purpose. Momentum. The feeling of building something that mattered more than managing the wreckage.
I learned to live in multiple worlds at once. The world of deadlines and word counts. The world of being a caregiver. The world of being married and present. The world of dishes and laundry and ordinary life. The world of Lark Mesa, where these women were falling in love and finding home.
My husband brought me coffee. My daughter asked how the writing was going. Cairo, Odin, and Frey reminded me that bodies still need to stretch, doors still need to open, and ordinary life does not pause for a chapter ending. Then I sat back down and kept typing.
The work didn't feel like a job because it didn't feel optional. It felt like survival. It felt like love.