Every story must end, but not all endings are created equal. Some arrive with a thunderclap, others with a whisper. Some leave us satisfied, while others leave us haunted, turning the final pages over and over in our minds. Endings, more than any other part of the story, carry the weight of everything that came before. They are the echoes that linger, the last impression we carry.

As I reflect on January, I can’t help but think about the endings I’ve written—and the ones I’ve yet to write. Each one is a puzzle piece, a deliberate choice that brings closure but also leaves room for the imagination to roam. Because the best endings don’t just wrap up the story; they expand its reach, ensuring it lives on long after the final word.

The Anatomy of an Ending

Crafting a meaningful ending is both an art and a responsibility. It requires care, precision, and a willingness to leave some threads untied. Here’s how I approach it:

1. Honesty Above All: An ending must feel true to the story. It doesn’t have to be happy or tidy, but it does need to honor the journey that came before it.

2. Echoes of the Beginning: I often revisit themes, imagery, or questions from the opening scenes, creating a sense of symmetry that feels inevitable yet surprising.

3. Lingering Questions: Not every mystery needs solving. Sometimes, the unanswered questions are the ones that linger longest in a reader’s mind, keeping the story alive in their imagination.

4. Emotion First, Resolution Second: People remember how a story made them feel more than they remember the details. I focus on delivering an emotional payoff that resonates, whether it’s joy, sorrow, or a mix of both.

Endings That Stay With Us

Some of my favorite endings are the ones that refuse to let go. The ones that challenge us, unsettle us, or make us rethink everything that came before. Stories like those remind me that endings aren’t just conclusions—they’re invitations. They ask us to reflect, to imagine, and to carry the story with us into the world.

As I write my own endings, I think about the stories that shaped me, the ones that left their mark. I hope that, in some small way, my words can do the same for someone else.

How Do You Like Your Endings?

What makes an ending memorable for you? Do you crave resolution, or do you prefer a touch of ambiguity? Share your favorite endings—books, movies, or even personal stories—in the comments.

As January comes to a close, I’m reminded that every ending is also a beginning. The story might end, but the journey continues. Let’s see where the next chapter takes us.

There’s a moment every storyteller experiences, a whisper in the quiet, a flicker in the dark, when the story chooses you. For me, that moment wasn’t a single event but a lifetime of quiet invitations from the shadows. The myths and legends I grew up with didn’t just entertain—they carved a path. A path that led me here.

I write to explore the spaces others avoid. The cracks where light doesn’t reach. The truths hidden in metaphor and memory. Writing is both a calling and a compulsion, a way to understand the world while challenging it. It’s not always easy, and it’s rarely straightforward, but it’s always worth it.

The Influence of Folklore

Growing up surrounded by tales of banshees, selkies, and fae wasn’t just an introduction to storytelling—it was a way of seeing the world. These weren’t just stories of creatures and curses; they were lessons wrapped in shadows. They taught me to question what I couldn’t see, to listen to the spaces between words, and to trust the power of a well-told lie.

Folklore reminds us that nothing is simple. A hero can have blood on their hands, and a monster can save a life. These contradictions are where I find my inspiration. They’re where the heart of every story lives.

Why Darkness Calls

Dark stories aren’t just about fear. They’re about transformation. They take us to the edge of what we think we know and ask us to step closer, to look again. Darkness reveals. It strips away the façade and leaves us with what’s real: raw, unfiltered, and undeniably human.

I don’t write about darkness because it’s easy. I write about it because it’s honest. The shadows teach us resilience, courage, and the power of facing what we fear most. Whether it’s a cursed forest or a grieving heart, these stories remind us that we are more capable than we believe.

The Stories I Want to Tell

This year, I want to dig deeper into the roots of my own shadows. To tell stories that challenge, unsettle, and resonate. Stories where the lines between good and evil blur, where the heroes are flawed, and where the monsters reflect our own hidden truths.

I want to write tales that linger, that follow you into your dreams and resurface when you least expect them. Because those are the stories that matter—the ones that leave their mark.

What Draws You to the Shadows?

We all have our reasons for being drawn to the dark, whether as readers or creators. What is it that calls to you? Is it the thrill of the unknown, the beauty of the macabre, or the truths hiding just out of reach? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Writing isn’t just an act of creation—it’s an act of discovery. And in the shadows, there’s always more to find.

There’s something timeless about mythical creatures. They’ve prowled the edges of our imagination for centuries, slipping between fact and fiction, haunting our dreams and shaping our fears. From dragons guarding hoards of gold to selkies shedding their skins, these beings hold the power to reveal not only the mysteries of the world but also the secrets we keep within ourselves.

But mythical creatures aren’t confined to ancient legends. They thrive in the stories we tell today, reimagined and redefined to reflect modern fears, hopes, and desires. This week, I’ve been exploring the ways these creatures continue to evolve in my own writing—and why they remain so vital to our storytelling.

The Creatures That Haunt Us

Every culture has its monsters, its guardians, its in-betweens. They’re not just relics of old beliefs—they’re mirrors of who we are. Take the banshee, for example: a harbinger of death, yes, but also a reflection of grief’s raw, keening wail. Or the phoenix, a creature that burns itself to ashes only to rise again—a metaphor for resilience, transformation, and the cyclical nature of life.

When I write about these beings, I’m not just borrowing from folklore. I’m asking questions:

• What do these creatures represent today?
• How do they challenge or comfort us?
• What truths do they force us to confront?

Breathing New Life Into Old Legends

One of my current projects centers on a creature rarely explored in modern tales: the Cù Sìth, a spectral hound from Scottish mythology. Known for its emerald-green fur and eerie howl, the Cù Sìth is said to foretell death. But what if there’s more to its story? What if it’s not just a harbinger, but a guide—one that walks the line between this world and the next, helping souls find their way?

This reimagining gives the creature agency, depth, and a purpose that goes beyond its traditional role. It’s not about rewriting the myth; it’s about uncovering the layers beneath it.

Why Mythical Creatures Endure

Mythical creatures endure because they adapt. They shape-shift to fit our fears, our dreams, and our changing world. A dragon in a medieval legend might represent greed, but a dragon in a modern story could symbolize environmental destruction or the power of the natural world. The context changes, but the core remains.

When I write about these beings, I want them to feel alive—not as relics of a forgotten past, but as forces that still walk among us. After all, who’s to say they’ve ever left?

What Creatures Speak to You?

Do you have a favorite mythical creature? One that fascinates you, terrifies you, or feels like it belongs in your own story? Share your thoughts in the comments. I’d love to know which beings haunt your imagination.

Because at the end of the day, mythical creatures aren’t just stories—they’re bridges to the unknown, reminders of our humanity, and proof that the line between reality and magic is thinner than we think.

Atmosphere isn’t just the backdrop of a story—it’s the heartbeat. In dark fiction, it’s the whisper in the trees, the chill that crawls up your spine, the sense that something unseen is watching. Atmosphere draws readers into the shadows, makes them linger in the unknown, and leaves them haunted long after the final page.

This week, I’ve been revisiting one of my favorite techniques: layering atmosphere into a story. It’s not just about what you describe; it’s about what you don’t say. The shadows in the corner of a room, the faint sound of footsteps on a deserted path—it’s the gaps in the picture that let the reader’s imagination run wild.

The Elements of Atmosphere

To create an atmosphere that lingers, you have to weave it into every part of the story. Here’s how I approach it:

1. Setting as a Character
   Every place has a personality. A forgotten graveyard, a crumbling castle, a forest heavy with mist—each carries its own energy. I don’t just describe what a setting looks like; I ask what it feels like. Is it suffocating? Inviting? Eerie?

2. Senses Beyond Sight
   Vision dominates our descriptions, but atmosphere lives in the other senses. The rustle of leaves, the metallic tang of fear, the cold touch of fog wrapping around your skin—these details make the scene visceral.

3. Subtle Foreshadowing
   Atmosphere thrives on anticipation. I drop small hints—a creaking floorboard, a flicker of movement at the edge of vision—that suggest something is coming. The key is to let the reader’s mind do the heavy lifting.

4. Let Silence Speak
   Sometimes, what you leave unsaid is the most powerful. A pause in dialogue, a moment of stillness, or a lack of explanation can fill the air with tension. Silence lets the shadows breathe.

A Scene in the Shadows

In one of my current projects, there’s a scene where a character enters an ancient, abandoned chapel. The details are sparse: warped wood, cold air, the faint scent of ash. But it’s the shadows that steal the show. They move when they shouldn’t, stretch too long across the floor, and seem to whisper when no one else is there.

The scene doesn’t reveal much plot, but it doesn’t need to. It sets the tone, hints at the danger ahead, and leaves both the character and the reader uneasy.

How Atmosphere Shapes Us

Dark fiction thrives on the unknown, and atmosphere is its greatest tool. It’s what makes the reader lean closer, their heart racing, eager to see what’s just out of sight. It’s the tension in the quiet, the beauty in the macabre.

What stories or scenes have drawn you into their atmosphere and refused to let go? I’d love to hear what lingers with you—whether it’s a book, a movie, or a moment in your own life.

Because in the end, it’s the atmosphere that stays with us. It’s not just what happens; it’s how it feels.

This week, I’ve been thinking about why we’re drawn to dark stories. Why do we seek out tales of haunted houses, cursed woods, and forbidden knowledge? Why do we linger in the shadows when it would be easier to turn away? The answer, I think, is that darkness gives us something light cannot: perspective.

What We Find in the Shadows

Dark stories aren’t about scaring us for the sake of it. They’re about confronting the unknown, testing our courage, and finding strength in vulnerability. They give us a safe place to explore danger, heartbreak, and loss without risking anything real—except perhaps a piece of our own understanding.

This week, I revisited one of my favorite myths: the Morrigan, the Celtic goddess of war and fate. She’s a figure of power and fear, a shapeshifter who appears as a crow, a maiden, or a hag, depending on her purpose. The Morrigan doesn’t offer comfort or safety. She forces those who encounter her to face their destiny, whether they’re ready or not.

It’s no coincidence that her stories resonate with me. The Morrigan reminds us that darkness isn’t just about endings—it’s about transformation. She challenges us to let go of what no longer serves and step into what we’re meant to become, no matter how terrifying it might be.

Embracing the Shadows

In writing, darkness isn’t just a tool—it’s a necessity. It allows us to create tension, depth, and truth. Without it, our stories would feel flat, as though they were missing the texture of real life. After all, how can we appreciate the light if we’ve never known the dark?

Here’s how I bring that balance into my work:

1. Conflict as Catalyst: Every character must face their own darkness—whether it’s fear, guilt, or regret. It’s not about making them suffer; it’s about showing how they grow.
2. Atmosphere Matters: Shadows, whispers, and silence can say more than dialogue ever could. I try to let the setting do some of the storytelling.
3. Truth in the Pain: Darkness isn’t just about horror—it’s about honesty. Sometimes, the scariest thing we can do is tell the truth, both to our characters and to ourselves.

What Darkness Speaks to You?

Think about the stories that have stayed with you long after you’ve closed the book or walked out of the theater. Were they filled with light, or were they shaped by shadow? What truths did they show you?

The darkness we crave isn’t about destruction—it’s about discovery. It’s where we go to find what’s hidden, what’s real, and what’s worth fighting for.

So let the shadows linger. They have so much to teach us.

Stories have always been our way of making sense of the world. Long before we had science to explain the stars or the tides, we had folklore—whispers of gods, spirits, and creatures that lived alongside us in the shadows. These stories weren’t just entertainment; they were warnings, lessons, and maps for navigating a world we didn’t yet understand.

But folklore isn’t static. It evolves, reshaped by every voice that tells it. This week, I’ve been diving into one of my favorite myths, peeling back its layers and imagining how it might look in a different light. What if the villain wasn’t truly evil, but misunderstood? What if the hero’s victory came at a terrible cost? What if the ending wasn’t an ending at all?

The Story That Sparked It

One tale that has captured my imagination is the legend of the selkies—seal-like creatures who can shed their skins and walk as humans. Most versions of the story cast them as tragic figures, forced to live on land after their skins are stolen by humans. But as I revisited the myth, I couldn’t stop asking questions: What if the selkies weren’t victims, but powerful beings with their own agendas? What if the stolen skin was a trade, not a theft? And what might a selkie’s revenge truly look like?

These questions led me to start crafting my own version of the story, one where the boundaries between victim and villain blur, and the sea becomes a stage for justice as much as tragedy.

Breathing New Life into Old Tales

Reimagining folklore isn’t about discarding the original—it’s about honoring it by finding new angles, new emotions, and new truths within it. Here’s how I approach the process:

1. Start with the Core: What’s the heart of the story? Is it a warning? A lesson? A question? Understanding the original purpose helps shape the new version.

2. Flip the Perspective: Who is telling the story, and whose voice is missing? Sometimes, shifting the point of view unlocks an entirely new narrative.

3. Add Modern Relevance: Folklore reflects the fears and values of its time. What might those same themes look like today? For example, a selkie’s tale could become a metaphor for identity, autonomy, or environmental loss.

4. Let the Story Speak: Folklore has a way of guiding its own retelling. Pay attention to what feels natural, even if it veers from your original plan.

What Stories Speak to You?

Folklore belongs to all of us, shaped by the hands of every storyteller who passes it on. What myths, legends, or fables resonate with you? Which ones would you reimagine if you could?

The beauty of these stories lies in their adaptability. They grow with us, changing just enough to reflect who we are while keeping the bones of the past intact. And maybe, in reimagining them, we’re not just telling a story—we’re keeping it alive.

The selkies may be just one chapter in a long line of legends, but they remind us that every tale, no matter how old, has room for something new.

We often think of magic as something distant—hidden in ancient forests, bound in dusty tomes, or whispered in the stories of those who came before us. But magic doesn’t always need to be grand. Sometimes, it’s in the soft creak of a floorboard, the way the wind stirs the trees, or the simple act of noticing what others overlook.

This week, I’ve been searching for the extraordinary in the ordinary. Not because I set out to, but because it found me. A flicker of movement in the corner of my eye became a spark for a story. A half-forgotten lullaby hummed under my breath turned into a theme for a character. The seemingly mundane has a way of speaking to us, if only we’re willing to listen.

Finding Stories in the Everyday

Writers are often asked where our ideas come from, and for me, the answer is simple: everywhere. The clink of a teacup on porcelain. The smell of rain-soaked earth. The feeling of déjà vu when walking a familiar path. These tiny moments are the seeds of something larger—pieces of a puzzle that don’t yet have a frame.

This week’s inspiration came from the most unexpected places:

• A single candle burning on my desk, its flicker casting shadows that looked like moving figures.
• The quiet hum of my neighbor’s wind chimes, caught in a breeze too gentle to be noticed otherwise.
• A mundane dream that lingered longer than it should, its fragments begging to be turned into something tangible.

The Alchemy of Transformation

The mundane is a treasure chest of inspiration waiting to be unlocked. It’s not just about what you see, but how you choose to see it. That candle isn’t just a source of light—it’s a storyteller, casting shadows that hint at the unseen. Those wind chimes aren’t just decoration—they’re a language carried on the breath of the world.

As writers, our role is to take these everyday sparks and transform them into something magical. We look closer, dig deeper, and weave connections where none seem to exist. It’s an act of creation as old as time—and as fresh as the next idea that sneaks up on us.

What Do You See?

I challenge you to look at your world with new eyes. What detail have you overlooked today? What ordinary moment could hold extraordinary meaning if you let it? Share your thoughts in the comments—I’d love to hear what magic the mundane has brought to your life.

The greatest stories don’t always start with grand gestures or ancient prophecies. Sometimes, they begin with a whisper, a flicker, or a single step into the unknown.

Here's a recap of my backlist. These books were released during 2024. This puts them in one place to find on the blog. Keep watching for my upcoming 2025 releases :)

You can also join me on FACEBOOK TWITTER and my BLOG

The start of a new year always feels like stepping into the mist—uncertain, shrouded in possibility, and laced with just enough dread to keep things interesting. While others are busy penning resolutions and clinking champagne glasses, I find myself drawn to the quieter moments, where the veil feels thinner and the whispers of stories yet to be told are louder.

This year, my stories will dig deeper into the cracks of what we see and what we fear. The haunted places we avoid. The myths we half-remember but refuse to repeat aloud. The chaos we can’t help but crave. These are the spaces I want to explore in my writing—and bring you along for the journey.

The Stories We Need

Darkness gets a bad reputation, but isn’t it where the most interesting stories begin? The ghost at the edge of the forest. The cursed artifact no one dares to touch. The stranger who knows more about you than they should. These aren’t just tales to be told—they’re truths we bury in metaphor and shadow.

I want to tell those truths this year. To take the darkness and shape it into something beautiful, terrifying, and unforgettable.

What’s Coming in 2025

Without giving too much away (where’s the fun in that?), here’s a glimpse into the stories I’ll be breathing life into this year:

• A tale of a haunted island, where the dead walk not to scare, but to warn.
• A reimagining of an ancient Scottish myth, where betrayal and blood are the currency of power.
• A novella exploring the fine line between faith and fear, set in a village where prayers go unanswered and rituals demand sacrifice.

Each of these stories carries a piece of me—and, I hope, a piece of you too.

The Invitation

This isn’t just about me spinning tales in the dark. I want to know what haunts you. What myths, fears, or forgotten whispers linger in the back of your mind? Drop them in the comments, and maybe they’ll find their way into one of my stories. Or maybe, just maybe, they’ll spark something in you.

The new year is here, and the shadows are waiting. Let’s walk into them together.