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Most of that time, no one knew.

The stories lived in folders. In notebooks. In half-finished documents saved under names like final_v3_REAL_THIS_TIME. They lived in my head more than anywhere else—reworked, doubted, rewritten, abandoned, resurrected. Not because I didn’t love them, but because I was scared of what would happen once they left me.

Publishing felt like exposure.
Like standing in a room and saying, This matters to me—do with that what you will.

For a long time, I couldn’t do it.

Not because I didn’t believe in the work.
But because believing in it made rejection feel lethal.

So I waited. Years passed. Life happened. Kids grew. Loss accumulated. Fear learned how to sound reasonable. Not yet. It’s not ready. You should fix that chapter. What if no one cares?

And then 2025 happened.

Something shifted—not dramatically, not heroically. I didn’t wake up fearless. I just woke up tired of hiding. Tired of treating my own work like something that needed permission to exist.

So I published a book.

Then I published another.

And another.

One a month.

Not because it was a strategy. Not because it was smart. Honestly? Probably because it was reckless in the only way that matters—emotionally honest.

Those books weren’t written in 2025. They were written across fifteen years. Some were revised. Some were rebuilt. Some were dragged out of the dark and forced to stand upright. What looked like “a lot” from the outside was really just backlog meeting courage for the first time.

Now it’s 2026.

And there are more coming.

A lot more.

Stories I started years ago. Stories I thought I’d never finish. Stories that survived moves, divorces, jobs, depression, fear, and silence. They’re finally becoming real—not because the market demanded them, not because I cracked some code, but because I stopped waiting for the perfect moment to be brave.

Let me be clear about something:

This isn’t a marketing scheme.

If it were, I’d be doing a terrible job. I couldn’t market my way out of a wet paper bag if my life depended on it. There’s no mastermind funnel here. No artificial scarcity. No “content calendar optimized for conversion.”

There’s just work.

Art.

The thing I kept doing even when no one was watching.

Releasing this many books in a year might be a horrible idea.
It might confuse people.
It might dilute attention.
It might go unnoticed.

But here’s the truth I finally accepted:

I don’t want to die with my best work still hiding.

I don’t want my stories to exist only as “almosts.”
I don’t want fear to get editorial control over my life anymore.

So I’m choosing visibility over safety.
Completion over perfection.
Truth over strategy.

If you’re reading this and thinking, That’s too much, that’s too fast, that’s not how it’s supposed to be done—you’re probably right.

But we only live once.

And I’d rather be wrong in public than silent forever.

These books are not promises of success.
They’re proof of existence.

They’re me finally saying: This is what I made. This is what I survived. This is what I’m willing to share.

If they find readers, I’ll be grateful.
If they don’t, I’ll still be standing.

Because the real milestone wasn’t publication.
It was permission—finally granted, by me.

Fifteen Years in the Dark