I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again:

This is not a solo journey.

Yes, the writing often happens in silence. In stolen hours. In notebooks and notes apps and long, stretched moments between everyday life. But the truth is—I’m never really alone in this.

Because you’re here.

And that? That changes everything.

When I first stepped into the publishing world, I knew writing a book would take heart. What I didn’t expect? How much placement, keywords, and reviews would matter in actually getting that book into the hands of readers like you.

So today, I want to pull back the curtain and share something that might surprise you - especially if you’re a reader who believes your review is “just one review.”

Spoiler: it’s not. Not even close.

Yesterday, I shared what it feels like to stand on the edge of something I poured my whole self into. A book. A reckoning. A tether.

Today, I want to talk about the moment I first heard one of its central characters - but not in the way you might think.

Because when I first heard Izayah speak…

I didn’t hear his voice.

I felt his thoughts.

There was no dramatic reveal, no clear image, no snappy dialogue. Just hands - his fingertips cradling a whiskey glass. And beyond that? A tree-lined field. Quiet. Still. Vast in its nothingness.

Not grief. Not peace.

Something in between.

A void I knew too well.

Izayah didn’t enter the scene.

He arrived in my spirit.

And that might sound strange to someone who hasn’t written a character who lives in their bones but if you’ve ever created something that surprised you with its intimacy, you’ll understand.

Before I even knew the color of his eyes or the weight of his voice, I could feel the weight of his silence. A silence asking questions I was afraid to put into words:

How do I move forward?

How do I let someone in?

What do I say when words feel like too much and not enough?

These are the same questions I’ve been asking myself through this entire journey. The same questions I wrote around yesterday. The same questions I still don’t have a perfect answer for.

But maybe Izayah doesn’t either.

Maybe that’s the point.

He’s a part of me. Not the loudest or the flashiest, but the one turning thoughts over and over, trying to understand before he acts. The one who carries something heavy in silence, hoping someone sees past the armor.

Now, with Moons and Shadows nearly in your hands, I hear him more clearly. I see more of his face. He’s still figuring it out - still grappling with what to say and what to leave unsaid.

Just like me.

And if there’s even one reader - someone sitting in their own quiet, wondering if anyone else gets it - who finds a reflection in him, in that stillness, in that weight?

That will be the highest compliment I could ever receive.

Because this book isn’t about perfect answers. It’s about holding space for the questions. The quiet ones. The ones that echo like memory.

Yesterday, I spoke about survival and layered healing. Today, I’m speaking about presence. The kind that sneaks in before the words do.

Izayah never asked to be seen.

But he’s here now.

And maybe, just maybe, so are you.