I certainly did not expect the last couple of days to be as sad as they were, but David Lynch’s work was–regardless of it not being age appropriate–such a massive part of my childhood, I have imagined this is how normal people felt when Mr. Rogers died.

I think the feelings are heightened by how many others feel it–my Bluesky feed was overwhelmed with by people posting similar disbelief and sadness and tributes. Then every time Kyle MacLachlan says something, I just start ugly crying, whether it was his initial post about the news or today’s opinion piece.

My own much simpler reflection was posted to Patreon, far less eloquent but processing the need for art in a time of rising generative AI usage and squeezing the life out of creators that we see around us. I think that, too, is why I was hit with just profound sadness.

I openly, rather loudly, absolutely loathed The Return. I felt so disappointed and betrayed, I’m now writing a twelve-book grudge series and dedicated The Killing Beach to a fictional character–that’s how intensely mad I was. But to quote myself at Patreon here: I would rather art that I find deeply imperfect but that is saying something or doing something unique than milquetoast trash made in an attempt to appeal inoffensively to the highest number of people. I want art with edges that cut me instead of being so filed down I can no longer feel the texture. I need art that stays with me and changes me and leaves me with questions I have to find my own answers for.

I am so grateful to have grown up with his work and influence. I am grateful my media wasn’t censored as a child and I could imprint on it as hard as I have–even though I was in my thirties before I could watch a scene with BOB without covering my eyes. I am grateful for the stuff I loathed because spite fuels me and now I have a series in progress that brings me tremendous joy.

Lynch’s family has asked that everyone take ten minutes to mediate tomorrow (January 20, so possibly today when you read this) at noon PST, so 3pm EST which is my time, to reflect and spread peace, in remembrance and appreciation for his birthday. Tomorrow is, of course, day one of the newest shitshow in the US, so I’m unplugging to get work done and will set a reminder timer. Of course I can’t mediate, I never have been able to, but I’m going sit down in my Twin Peaks t-shirt and will make an effort to be grounded in the present and focused.

I am, at least, finally starting to feel like myself again, and hope that my brain is on the mend from burnout, because it’s awful to be sad and not writing. Feeling nostalgic, of course, so I’m writing a little Waverly backstory scene that’ll go up for Patreon.

This year will be terrible and I have no real solutions or answers, other than create what we can, care for those we love, and celebrate what we’ve got.

(the gif and title is, of course, from one of the Log Lady intros to Twin Peaks back in the day, which are a little bonkers but memorable)

I’m sure there’s someone, somewhere out there who had a great 2024, but I don’t know them. Everyone in my circle is tired and behind on stuff they mean to do (or need to do), and just generally exhausted after so many crises this year.

This time off has been an absolute mess between Shawn’s issues and our Hail Mary pass for Libby’s health and literally just as I got the last of the bed put together on Thursday (the frame was about four hours), the plumber called about a work order, which no one gave me notice about (an issue from the inspection in the summer so…not like I would have known to expect it, either, because it’s been six months). After madly cleaning all night–again, I have been living in total chaos putting furniture together and moving stuff from room to room–they didn’t come Friday, which means now they’re coming Monday. I can’t even wind down ahead of Christmas now (which I am, of course, spending alone, because there is no one I can trust to not infect me with the plague; good thing I enjoy my own company, I guess) because I am so anxious, as I don’t like people in my home.

I am very lucky–I have this new bed, I have a new laptop, I’ve cleared out some junk, I’ve gotten various cats to the vet and been able to try new treatments for Libby. My cats are (mostly) healthy. I’m not dead. I have people in my life who care about me. Wonderful people bought my books this year and I have new readers, a couple of which actually liked the new book. I keep focusing on that even as I continue to feel like three nervous breakdowns in a trenchcoat.

But I feel like I am broken when I’m not writing. Technically the Waverly 4 revisions this year was like writing a whole new book, since I doubled the word count, and I’ve written a lot of shorter things, but I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin and getting more and more resentful daily. I’m absolutely miserable but my brain just gives me gibberish when I have a WIP out. This too shall pass, but it’s just amplifying what a mess everything has been.

Though I continue to be resentful about the situation the last few months of the year that put me in this position of burnout now, I’ll deal with that in the new year.

So I have no countdowns or recaps. I can’t remember what I read or watched or played (other than Silent Hill 2, which I am replaying right now). I figured out why Demon Fall wasn’t working and I don’t have to throw out the 21K I’ve written but I have to rearrange it and write new stuff earlier, and so that’s going on hold again for Waverly 4 revisions. I am positive I will have to move the release date but I’ll see what, if anything, I get done over the next ten days as I unplug again.

All I’d personally like out of 2025 is to not lose any pets (or if Libby is going soon, that she’s comfortable and at peace), to keep a roof over my head, and to get some joy back from writing instead of feeling like I’m broken. And for my friends in the US to not die horribly with round two of that fascist fuck in charge. And to not have the Cons in fed government here.

That is probably asking for too much at this point.

Happy Solstice (which is Maya’s birthday and the last day in The Taiga Ridge Murders; the longest night of the year is a good time to read it if you haven’t). Let’s hibernate, hold onto what we can, and hope things are a little better soon.

So I may still be offline as you’re reading this–I haven’t decided yet, but I did discover that my scheduler here finally works again (it didn’t for the longest time), and I’m scheduling this just in case. I’ve spent nearly two weeks now trying to unwind from how exhausting work has been the past few months atop several other stressors, so I’m cleaning, baking, playing some games, reading, and letting the WIP noodle around my brain a little to figure out where it has to go.

But regardless, today is the day: you can now read my a slow-burn gothic horror and dark fairy tale about isolation and female rage.

It’s been thirteen years since Maya McGlynn set foot in Taiga Ridge Lodge, the northern Ontario luxury resort where she grew up. She was Maisie, daughter of the caretakers, and thought of the lodge as her own.

That was when her parents were arrested as serial killers.

It’s been ten years since Maya last had contact with the lodge’s owner, who promised her—upon the conviction of her parents and her whole world forever altering—that she’d always be taken care of.

That was when she changed her name and stopped returning his calls.

It’s been two years since Taiga Ridge Lodge had visitors. Since bookings wavered and rooms were closed off, its halls grew silent, and it never fully reopened after pandemic lockdown.

That was when she let herself forget it existed.

Now, Maya has received notice that the owner has passed and, as promised, she is being taken care of: Taiga Ridge Lodge and all its property is hers to dispose of as she sees fit…as soon as she visits her old home to make the final arrangements.

Now, a winter storm approaches, trapping her with restless ghosts, a stray cat, and a single voice on the radio for help.

Now, Taiga Ridge Lodge might not let her go again.

Kindle | Kobo | Nook | iBooks | Payhip | Paperback | Hardcover

And ICYMI, here’s the soundtrack.

I normally have books for sale but Etsy’s constant fees were getting to me and we might have a postal strike here. I also have to figure out shipping costs (the only thing Etsy had going for it) and…ugh.

I’m waiting on my hardcover copies as well. If you’re in Canada, a flat-rate extra small box is $16.99 plus tax. I can fit a couple of books in there, so if interested, give it some thought in case you’d like a couple and hopefully I’ll have more details next week. Or you can just grab it from Amazon!

I was hoping to write another horror book this month because I’ve got a big hole in my fall 2025 release schedule but…ugh. I’m still trying to work out Demon Fall for Patreon. After so many years of writing series, the standalone experiment of the past couple of years has been really interesting. They don’t do as well as Livi used to (which was absolutely nothing to write home about, believe me), but Dweller was comparable to Charon’s Gold in terms of preorder and has out-performed everything but Solomon’s Seal the past two years. Standalones have the added bonus of doing well in Kobo promos, too–I think because the horror/thriller ones are less crowded, I get a lot more eyes on my books there. Standalone buyers tend to operate a little like series buyers in that once they’ve read one, they’ll often go around to the other standalones rather than try a series, so having a few for a backlist is helpful now–one person buying a handful of books that I get three or four bucks on adds up here and there. Watcher absolutely tanked on release but it’s picked up a lot during the Halloween promos. I also find standalones a good entry point for new readers who might be intimidated by a big backlist with a lot of different series.

So I would like to do more of them, and overall horror (and mysteries) has been much better for my sanity, even when they don’t sell well right out of the gate; thus far, no hatemail–unless you count the “I’m not buying your new books until you go back to Livi”, which I am not–as the…particular readership that crossed over with UF that gave me a lot of grief does not seem to crossover with what I’m writing now.

All that is to say: horror/thrillers/mysteries have always been my favourite genres and as much as I try writing outside my comfort zone with them (Taiga Ridge was really challenging) this is still very much my happy place and I hope to continue for a while yet. I hope folks buy this book and dig it.