I’m currently editing the final chapter of my new novel—the first round of many, of course. The road to a finished book is anything but short, and this one has taken me through some unexpected turns. But as I reach the end of the story (again), I feel something I haven’t in a while: genuine pride.

This book has been an emotional roller-coaster. Some of the subject matter hit close to home; more personal than I’d planned, perhaps. There were moments I had to stop and just sit with what I’d written. Moments where the fiction blurred with memory.

It’s still rough in places, and it’ll need polish, pruning, and probably a few quiet arguments with myself about sentence structure. But there’s something deeply satisfying about seeing a project come this far. The characters feel real. The story breathes. And for the first time, I can see the shape of the finished book in the mist.

There’s still a lot of work ahead (editing is its own kind of wilderness) but for now, I’m simply happy. Happy with the story. Happy with the progress. And excited for what comes next.