The mind is a fickle thing. Many of us are already on fire, quietly at war with ourselves. When the outside world demands more, we throw fuel on those flames until smoke fills our heads. Our sanity is the first to choke. And without it, dangerous things can happen.

Alexis’s head dropped, coming within an inch of the freshly decorated cookie before she jerked it back up. As she set the icing bag down, her other hand flew up, swatting her own cheek. Her skin stung, leaving a bright red handprint slashed across it. She wasn’t sure if it was punishment for almost ruining the cookies or a desperate attempt to force her brain to function.

“Wake up Alexis,” she muttered to herself. “I think it’s time for more coffee. Hmmm.. should I make more coffee Lucy?” She looked down to ask her dog Lucy.

The apricot standard poodle was in a deep sleep, twitching as if it were chasing a squirrel. Alexis stood and while stepping over her dog, a single corner of her mouth pulled upward into a soft sneer. She hovered there, balancing on one foot, forcing the sneer into a smile before extending her leg past Lucy so she wouldn’t disturb her.

“Glad one of us is getting sleep,” she said as she walked into the kitchen.

Alexis stood in front of the red Nespresso machine as she waited for the espresso to pour into the dirty coffee mug she’d been using for two days. Her eyes drifted across her house. The open concept floor plan and the mess of running a home baking business blurred all the rooms into one, the view mirroring the inside of her mind. Piles of dirty baking sheets were stacked on top of the stove, packaging boxes scattered across the dining room table, and a layer of flour sat on the peninsula.

Her eyes met her pillow and neatly folded blanket on the couch, and she was reminded of the last day she slept. “Has it really been three days? Fuck.” she whispered as she pulled her phone out of her pocket to confirm the date of the texts that came in. The ones from the loyal pain-in-the-ass customers and their last-minute huge orders. She stupidly agreed to them, knowing it would cost her sleep. But they needed the money. Her husband had been pulling doubles constantly to help make ends meet.

Alexis dropped an ice cube into the espresso, swirled the mug, and slammed it back. “I guess I’ll sleep when they’re— when I’m dead,” she shouted as she put another espresso pod into the machine.

She jolted as her phone vibrated in her hand. “Of course Carl is texting me at the crack of dawn.” She looked at the time and realized it was already noon. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Please don’t be on your way to pick up the order.”

She opened her phone to read the text. Her shoulders dropped as she realized she had over eight hours to finish and package the order. As she reached for her second cup of espresso, her phone vibrated again.
“What now? I gave you a thumbs up. Is that not sufficient enough for you Carl?”

Without thinking, she slammed the hot espresso back. “Goddammit, cunt fucker!” She threw the mug against the wall as the espresso burned her tongue and throat.

Lucy jolted awake, running out of the cookie room and straight to the front door, a vicious bark following her.

Alexis angrily opened the new message on her phone. This time it was from Dave, the other last minute order. She had seven and a half hours to finish that one. She gave the message a thumbs up and hurried back to her decorating station, leaving the shattered mug on the floor.

Alexis finished both cookie orders with an hour to spare. She scarfed down a couple of protein bars, fixed her messy bun, ensuring no hair was loose, and began working on the next orders. The ones she booked over two months ago and should have been almost done by now.

There were three stations going, one mixer running to make dough, the rolling and cutting station on the peninsula, and the oven. She alternated between each station, working as quickly as possible.

She was in the middle of putting a batch of cookies back into the oven for a few more minutes to get that nice golden brown when her phone vibrated. A text from Carl.

One minute away. I don’t have much time so please make sure everything is ready to go when I get there.

Her hand shook as Alexis gripped her phone, staring at the text.

“One fucking minute. What kind of heads up is that? Fucking asshole. Remember, Alexis, be nice. You need his money. Although you technically already have it. But still…”

“Beep. Beep. Beep.”
“Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.”
“Woof. Woof. Woof.”

The cookie timer and doorbell went off simultaneously, sending her dog into a barking fit. Alexis froze as the noises blended together, pounding through her body, starting in her eardrums and growing louder until they reached her racing heart.

The heavy knocking on the door snapped her out of the daze. She stopped the timer, threw her dog in the backyard and raced to the front door.

“Hi Carl. Sorry. I’m in the middle of a bunch of things right now. Come in,” she said, stepping aside.

“I’m already behind schedule, so can we hurry this up?” Carl said as he walked in, staring at his phone.

“Yep. I’ll go grab the cookies now.” Alexis pressed her lips together as she walked toward the back room.

“Here you go.” She stacked the three boxes of cookies, each holding three dozen, on the round dining table near the front door. “Thanks again.”

“I hope you figured out the flavor issue this time. Last batch was not up to par like your usual cookies,” Carl said as he struggled to balance the boxes in his arms.

Alexis didn’t reply. She stood there silently, biting down on her lips to cage the words you aren’t supposed to say to your loyal customers. Remember, Alexis, the customer is always right. Just nod and try to smile. Her breath began to pick up as heat rushed to her face. She gripped the wooden rolling pin tightly, willing herself to remain calm.

“Come make yourself useful and open this door for me,” Carl said with his back toward Alexis.

Her forced smile contorted into a vicious sneer as she walked toward him, her arm slowly rising over her head with every step. As Carl began to turn, Alexis swung the rolling pin against his temple. Her sneer slipped back into a smile as he fell, his head hitting the corner of the doorframe on the way down. A metallic tang hit the air as a slow crimson tide pooled around his head.

Alexis stood there for a few seconds, admiring the view, before she began choking as smoke filled the house.

“Fuck! I forgot all about the cookies. Fucking Carl!”

She ran to the oven and pulled the tray out. Instead of setting it down, she skipped back to Carl. She used her foot to roll him onto his back.

“Look what you made me do, Carl!” she said, holding the tray of cookies over his head.

Alexis threw the hot cookies onto his unresponsive face, brought the steaming baking sheet above her head, and slammed it down again and again. She then set the tray onto his face, braced one hand against the door for balance, and like a little girl, hopped onto it, jumping up and down as if it were a trampoline.

“Look at me, I’m jumping! I’m jumping! Daddy look at me I’m jumping!” she shouted. “How do the cookies taste now Carl?”

Her phone vibrated in her pocket and she jumped off Carl, quickly reaching for it. A text from Dave.

Sorry I’m late but I’m ten minutes away.

“FUCK!” She kicked Carl’s body in frustration.

She reached down, grabbed his legs, and dragged him across the living room into the bathroom, leaving a streak of blood on the floor. Knowing she didn’t have time to properly clean it, she grabbed a bag of flour and poured it over the blood. As it absorbed, it turned into a pale red, clay-like substance. She threw more flour on top.

Alexis picked up the cookies and threw them into the cookie room. She cleaned up just enough of the mess and went back to the work stations, putting another batch of cookies in the oven. Every minute counts, she thought to herself.

A few minutes later, Dave arrived and she let him in.

“Woah, what happened here?” Dave stepped over the flour mess on the floor.

“Oh nothing, just a baking accident. Clumsy me. A whole bowl of red icing slipped out of my hands. I didn’t have a chance to clean it up. It literally just happened.” She handed him the first couple of boxes of his order.

“This is not what I ordered. These look like absolute garbage,” Dave said, setting the boxes on the table as he took a seat.

“Excuse me?” Alexis’s heart began to pick up its pace again, her wrist throbbing. She leaned against the counter, her eyes fixated on the kitchen knives.

“I can’t take these. They are all wrong. I said I wanted the numbers navy blue. These are royal blue. I want my money back.” He held out his hand, waiting for cash even though he paid on her website.

“Umm..Ok..I’ll have to process the refund on the website. I don’t have cash on me,” she said as she dug her nail into her leg until the skin tore and began to bleed.

“Well this is a shame. Alexis, you need to get your act together. If you keep this up you’ll probably go out of business.” Dave stood up and headed for the front door.
“I know I won’t be retur—”

“AHHHHH!” Alexis ran and drove a kitchen knife into his back seconds before he reached the door. Dave fell forward, his head slamming against the doorknob.

Alexis rushed forward and yanked the knife out. She brought it up to see her reflection. A grimace smile looked back at her, flecked with blood. Then she brought it down into Dave’s back.

“They…”
She raised the knife and drove it down again.

“Were navy blue…”
Down again.

“Fuckin asshole!”
Down again. And again. And again.

After a minute, she left the knife lodged in his back and knelt over him, her breath ragged.

Alexis jumped up as she had a light bulb moment. She skipped to the peninsula and grabbed the stainless steel cookie cutters.

She pulled the knife out of him and dragged it through his shirt, splitting it open. She laid the assorted star-shaped cookie cutters along his back as if she were about to cut dough. She lifted her foot and drove it down onto the cutters again and again until they were pressed deep into his skin. Blood pooled around each shape like icing bleeding past the edges.

“Look, Daddy. I turned my passion into art just like you showed me. Are you proud of me now?” she called out.

Alexis plopped down onto the floor and leaned against Dave’s body. Her blood-slick hands propped up her elbows as she rested her chin in them, smearing it across her cheek as she drifted off into a micro nap.

She spent the next couple hours thoroughly cleaning herself, the house, then got right back to baking.

The back door opened around midnight, and her dog went running toward it, tail wagging. Her husband walked in and looked just as tired, if not more than Alexis. She walked toward him with a smile.

“Hi honey,” he said as he put his bag down and pet Lucy.

“Yay. You’re home.” Alexis went onto her tiptoes to kiss him. “Today was insane.”

“Sorry. If it makes you feel better, I had a crazy day too.” He kissed her forehead.

“I’ll help you with whatever you need after I go pee. You need to get some sleep tonight,” he said as he walked past her in a hurry.

“Umm… honey?” he called from the bathroom.

“Right… About that… I had a little slip today.” She hesitated. “But it’s their fault! They were both entitled dicks!”

“I’ll go get the shovel. But honey… we’re running out of room in the garden.”

It has been a very wet and stormy April, both literally and in life. I have struggled to get to the computer to write or even grab a book to read. I’m finding it hard to maintain my healthy routines, and old habits are creeping back in. But one thing that can always ground me and bring me back to the present is my garden. There is something so beautiful about being outside and working with your hands. It’s like the soil drains my anxiety and I’m able to breathe again. Not a shallow breath, but a deep belly one. Let’s not forget about the bees. Seeing them buzz around is one of my favorite things about the gardening season. To put it simply, they fill me with pure joy.

April tends to be the most overwhelming month of the gardening season for me. It’s when tasks start to pile on top of each other and everything feels like a priority. It’s also the time the last frost happens here in the Midwest and all the heat-loving plants can finally go outside. But it’s not that simple. The weather is very unpredictable in the spring, where temperatures can swing from very hot to a frost all in one day. I probably check the forecast several times a day. It’s like a new hobby of mine.

When trying to figure out when to start hardening off plants and moving them into the garden, I have to take into consideration a full week of the forecast. Sometimes I get stuck in analysis paralysis, so I just have to force myself to make a decision. I can either keep them inside and risk them getting root-bound and weak, or I can plant them outside and hope a fluke frost doesn’t happen. It is a risk either way. But in gardening, it is all a risk, as we can’t control nature. There is beauty in that. Learning to let go of control and still try something new, especially when you don’t know the outcome.

I have killed many plants as a gardener, but that has not stopped me from being excited to do it all again the next year. Because I know that some plants will survive and produce the most beautiful blooms. That, my friend, is hope in a nutshell. Knowing things may not work out as you plan, but trying anyway because the possibility of beauty is worth the risk.

What happened in my garden this past month? A LOT.

First, we cleaned up all the garden beds and amended the soil. I usually mix in some compost with cow manure and worm castings. I did this last year, and I noticed a huge difference in the plants and their blooms. One lesson I’ve learned over the years is that the health of the soil is one of the most important things for a garden. There is so much growth that happens underneath the ground before it becomes visible, which is just a great reminder for anything you pursue in life. When you start something new and consistently show up, a lot of your growth will not be visible. And I think that sometimes we can get very impatient or discouraged when there aren’t tangible or visible results. I’m guilty of this all the time. But if we just keep at it, we will eventually see those results.

Once the raised beds and containers were cleaned up and amended, it was time to slowly evict my seedlings from the house. At the beginning of the month, I planted all my cold-hardy plants into the garden. That included all of my snapdragons, foxgloves, violas, and chamomile seedlings. Towards the end of the month, I planted my black-eyed Susans, marigolds, and dahlias outside. This year, I planted the dahlias in a different area of the garden, as I have not had a fully successful year with them yet. Fingers crossed this is their year. We also put up netting support for some of the taller plants like the snapdragons and dahlias. I finally learned my lesson from the past couple of years and put a cage support on my peonies as well.

I almost forgot, I sowed all of my zinnia seeds at the beginning of the month as well. All 100+ of them. I usually overplant because not all the seeds will sprout. This year, it seems like all the babies wanted to be part of the garden, as about 95% sprouted, so I have way more than I need. But I will find a spot for most of them and share some with my mother-in-law. Zinnias are one of my favorite flowers, and I can’t wait to share more about them in the coming months. These, along with the celosia plants, won’t go into the garden until early to mid-May, as they cannot survive cold temperatures at all.

My garden is not just within the enclosure; it extends to several areas around our house. We have several perennial plants lining our backyard like roses, lilies, hostas, hydrangeas, etc. In front of the house, we have peonies, roses, daisies, coneflowers, asters, salvia, etc. Since it’s been so warm and wet this spring, these plants have started growing insanely quick and earlier than usual. An important April task was to prune the rose bushes. I took a couple of hours one Sunday to go through them and prune off all the dead branches. I remember feeling so grounded and relaxed that day. I was out there without any music, no podcast, nothing. It was just me, the plants, and the birds.

I think we need that often, a slow quiet moment in nature. We tend to fill our minds with something every second of the day, to the point that we can’t even hear our own thoughts. As someone who can live inside their head a lot, I need those moments of peace and quiet. This has proven to help with my creativity as well, cutting out the noise of the fast-paced world we live in now.

The past few years of gardening and continuous learning have resulted in our front and back lawn being filled with dandelions and other plants most would consider to be “weeds.” A weed is just a plant in the wrong place, and that is subjective. I will admit, when we first bought the house, we used to spray horrible weed killer and dig out each plant. But not anymore. When I stopped spraying harsh chemicals like weed killer and insecticide, our garden flourished. Weed killer is horrible for the environment and can harm beneficial plants and pollinators. (More on pest control in the coming months.)

Plus, weeds are usually the first source of food for bees and birds in the spring here in the Midwest. Just the other day, we saw a ton of birds on our lawn snacking on dandelions. We are one of a few houses on our block without a perfectly clean and manicured lawn, and I’m okay with that. There’s something about letting things grow where they want that feels a little more like us. And who knows, maybe after a few years we’ll go crazy and plant wildflowers in our entire front lawn.

As April came to an end, I’m happy to report that the snapdragons and violas have already started blooming, which is exciting. I’ve cut a couple handfuls of snapdragons already and brought them into the house, which is also one of my favorite things to do. I get to watch them go through the end of their life cycle. When I bring them into the house, I know they aren’t going to stay alive for long. Some flowers last longer than others, but what I’ve come to realize is that they have the power to keep me in the present. Every time I see their beautiful blooms, even as they start to fade, it brings me back to the moment. It’s like a soft reminder to stop, breathe, and just appreciate the beauty in the now. And as a person who is always thinking about what’s next, I feel incredibly grateful that gardening and flowers have become such a big part of my life, especially in tough seasons. It’s a daily reminder that there is beauty all around us, we just have to slow down to see it.

One Last thing….

Here’s a short video from April in my garden. I’m so excited to see how the garden continues to grow this year. Next up, May.

From the Shadows

April showers bring May flowers. We can read that phrase and think about gardening, or brush it off as a cliché. On one hand, yes, it makes me think about my garden and how all the rain we’ve gotten has helped wake up my plant babies. But it also makes me think about life and how sometimes we have to go through the storms in order to grow.

At some point, we have to stop and ask ourselves, do we keep going through the motions, doing everything to please everyone else and keep the peace, betraying ourselves day after day? Or do we take our power back, instead of waiting until we snap like Carrie?

Because where your energy goes, your power follows.

I can be a very pessimistic person. I went years of my life focusing on all the negative things that have happened to me and what I thought would happen. I lived with a limited mindset, stuck in a bit of a victim mentality, seeing everything through a tinted lens. Everything felt muted, like I was only seeing life in shades of grey instead of color.

It wasn’t until I had a complete breakdown, aka a panic attack aka my carrie moment except without telekinetic powers, that I realized I needed a change. I needed to reclaim my power and take control of my life. I needed to become an active participant in my own life.

Over the past couple of years, I’ve done a lot of work to rewire my brain and finally start seeing the color again. But I’m not perfect, and recently I’ve found myself slipping back into old patterns. I realized it’s because I’ve been giving away my power. Letting others, and the internet, get me riled up and angry. Following negative energy instead of protecting my own.

And when that happens, everything else follows. I don’t sleep well, my anxiety lingers, and I’m just miserable.

So I’m here to remind you, and myself, that your energy goes where your focus is. Stop letting others pull you down with them. It’s time to take control of our lives, choose carefully who we allow into our circle, set boundaries, living authentically and not feel ashamed for being ambitious and wanting more for ourselves.

And for me, that means taking my power back and focusing it on what actually fills me up, like my family, my garden, and of course my writing.

The Monster Grows (Book Progress Update)

🩸 Progress so far: First draft complete (70,927 words)
🎃 Recent win: Seeing my book printed and bound for the first time
🕯️ Biggest challenge: Preparing mentally to dive back in for draft two

I don’t have any big updates to give this month. As you may or may not know, I decided to give myself another month away before diving into draft two. March was a rough month and I needed more time to wrap up some other things.

That said, not a day goes by that my book isn’t calling to me. I hear her in the middle of a workout, while I’m at my 9–5, gardening, reading, she’s always there. I realize a part of me is dying to live inside that world again, to let myself get fully immersed. But I’m also terrified of the revisions. I’m well aware that my first draft is a bit of a mess.

My plan of attack is to read through the entire book without editing anything. Then I’ll read it a second time and do a reverse outline. From there, I’ll figure out what big picture things need to be revised and/or rewritten. I will definitely take you along my revision process over the next few months.

One exciting thing about all this is that the first time I reread my book, it’ll be in an actual printed copy. I thought it’d be fun to get some of my drafts printed, like a visual tracker to show how far I’ve come. What’s funny is that I had no idea how to design a book cover, so I made a very basic one in Canva and it ended up off-centered. But hey, it’s all a part of the learning journey.

Oh yeah… one more thing. I decided on a title for the book. Well, a working title. The Blood We Swallowed. Ahh!! I can’t wait to dive back in.

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A Bloom of Terror

Every month, I’ll plant a little horror here. Sometimes it will be a short fiction story, other times a personal essays.

The Haunted Shelf 📚🎬📺

This is where I’ll share book, movie, and show recommendations. I’d love to know what you’re reading and watching, so feel free to reply with your own favorites.

This month’s pick is all things Carrie. The book, the movie and the remake.

📚 The Book

Carrie was Stephen King’s debut novel and the first Stephen King book I’ve read. This book was a masterpiece. It reveals the story slowly, and then boom, everything explodes toward the end, figuratively and literally. I could not put this book down. It’s definitely up there with some of my favorite horror books (The Haunting of Hill House being my all time favorite).

For those who don’t know the story, it’s about a teenage girl, Carrie, who discovers she has telekinetic powers after her first period. She’s been bullied by her peers and repressed by her super religious mother. The story builds up to a prank at prom, and she snaps or should I say, takes her power back and gives everyone in her path hell.

I think the reason I resonated with this book so much is because it explores identity, trauma and personal transformation. We all want to be seen and belong, but at what cost? It also dives into power and what it looks like to reclaim it. If you haven’t read this book, run and add it to your TBR list. You won’t regret it.

🎬 The Movie

The 1976 film is a horror classic in my eyes. While the movie is very different from the book, it does a fantastic job of capturing the heart of the story. Sissy Spacek, who played Carrie, was phenomenal. She really brought the character to life. Piper Laurie, who played Carrie’s mother, was also great. Since this was made in the 70s, a lot of the supernatural elements from the book weren’t shown in the movie. Either way, this has moved up on my list of favorite horror films, and I highly recommend it.

🎬 The Remake

The 2013 Carrie remake was just okay. I watched it shortly after the original, and I’m sorry, but Sissy Spacek embodies the role of Carrie so well that it was hard for me to accept anyone else in that role. Don’t get me wrong, Chloë Grace Moretz is a great actress, she just didn’t do it for me in this movie. That being said, since it was made in the 2010s with more advanced technology, the film was able to show more of the supernatural elements that we didn’t get in the original. Overall, it was a good movie, and I enjoyed watching it.

📺 The Show-Coming Soon

Is anyone else excited for the Carrie mini series produced by none other than Mike Flanagan coming out in October?! I love his work and I’m really excited to see his adaptation of this story.

From My Creative Crypt

This is my little corner for fun extras.

This month I’m sharing a short horror film my husband Armando and son made a couple of years ago. The goal is to make another one this year with all three of us. My son wants to be a movie producer when he’s older, so who knows, maybe it’ll turn into a family affair. A girl can dream, right? 😜

Anyways, here’s a little peek into the creative minds of my family.

The Last Whisper

Thank you for making it all the way to the end of my haunted little newsletter. If you enjoyed it, I’d love if you replied back, shared it with a friend, or just let me know what you’re reading and watching. Your support means the world to me as I start this author journey.

Before I go, here is your reminder:

Let’s take some time to reflect on our lives and become aware of where we may be giving our power away. What situations or relationships are we overextending ourselves in? It might be time to set boundaries and limit those interactions.

This can also apply to social media. I know I have a toxic relationship with it at times and need to set strict boundaries around how much I consume. We have to stop letting the internet tell us how to think or make us feel bad about ourselves. The goal should always be to create more than we consume.

There may also be people in your life who aren’t rooting for you. People who try to control the narrative or influence how others perceive you. Be mindful of those relationships. Don’t engage and distance yourself if you can.

At the end of the day, we have to remind ourselves that other people’s opinions of us are none of our business. Because if we spend our days worrying about what others think, we’re giving them our energy, and our power.

That can also show up as constantly seeking external validation to determine our worth. But that power should come from within.

You are the main character of your life. You get to decide how you live it, how you express yourself, what brings you joy, and what you choose to pursue.

When you start putting yourself first, some people will see it as selfish, and that’s okay. Because honestly, I’d rather be the villain in someone else’s story than in my own.

Until next time,

Christina

Writing the first draft of my novel felt like a constant knife fight with myself. I made it out alive but I have an excessive amount of oozing stab wounds.

It was ten long months of starting and stopping. Thinking I was a plotter only to learn I was more of a pantser. Trying to write pretty, then deciding to write bad on purpose. Chasing word count goals. Discovering I don’t know how to write a fight scene. Stopping. Starting. Stopping again. Until I finally typed the last word.

The idea came to me from a simple dream. I was locked in a dressing room of sorts when the power shut off and one bright red light appeared. The light blinked like a phone suddenly ringing when you’re home alone. Loud and jarring. A giant rock settling into my gut the second I saw it. So naturally I pressed the button.

A screen lit up telling me the rules of the game. Or if I were in a Scream movie, I answered the phone only to be asked “What’s your favorite scary movie?”

I didn’t have a choice about whether I wanted to play. Just by pressing the button, I was already part of it. Only in my dream, I never got to the point where Ghostface showed up to gut me. I was just shown the game.

Perform or die.

The dream was short. Ambiguous. But it did its job as the opening act. It got my attention. I needed to keep watching to see what happens next. I needed to find out who the new Ghostface of this story was.

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Act I was exciting. The news media is talking about a murder in town, and everyone begins speculating who did it. Who were the suspects? What was their motive?

For me, that looked like my brain only being able to think about this dream. It was an intriguing plot. But I needed to know why. I started brainstorming. I brain dumped everything. I even outlined an entire short story around the idea.

And just when I decided to start writing it, Ghostface showed up and dragged his knife across my idea’s throat until it bled out. I took that as a sign. I needed to dig deeper. There was something more here. I could feel it in my bones. Something that spoke to my very real life experiences around the concept of performance. So I decided to make it into a whole ass book.

I started listening to all the novel-writing podcasts, reading all the books about writing a book, and convinced myself I needed to learn everything there was to know before I was even allowed to begin.

That’s when analysis paralysis set in.

You know that part in a Scream movie where you have no idea who the killer is? Everyone becomes a suspect.

I didn’t know which advice to follow. Was it Save the Cat? The three-act structure? First person? Third?

Finally, I decided to channel that Gale Weathers energy and push forward. I just started writing. I gave myself permission to begin even though I didn’t have all the answers. It took me six long months to write Act I. Six months to painfully learn the purpose of a first draft. To watch things pan out in ways I didn’t expect. To get stabbed repeatedly by Ghostface but survive by learning something new each time.

The first lesson nearly killed me.

Don’t try to make the first chapter perfect.

I rewrote my opening three times. Three. And guess what? When I finally reached the end of the novel and reread it, I realized it was all wrong anyway. It took me writing the end to learn how it should begin. That doesn’t mean I’m a horrible writer. It simply means I didn’t understand the full story yet.

As I kept going, I hit another wall. When I started writing the book I had an overall idea of certain events that took place, but I didn’t know how I would get to them. After the first few chapters without a roadmap, I got stuck. That is when I realized I needed a real plan. I was faced with the ultimate question authors are asked all the time:

Am I a pantser or a plotter?

I saw myself as a plotter. As someone who struggles with anxiety, not knowing what comes next literally terrifies me. I’m someone who needs to know the plan to function. I don’t like the chaos of not knowing.

Or so I thought.

I ended up turning to more craft books. I read Story Genius, and it helped me understand my main protagonist on a deeper level. I developed her backstory, her misbelief, and all the reasons why she makes the choices she does. It also showed me how to use scene cards to map out each scene.

But when I tried to plan every scene, something unexpected happened. The characters decided to surprise me and take a different course of action. I would spend so much time planning each scene and trying to stay within those parameters, but it was a waste of time for me. I felt lost, creatively boxed in, frustrated even. I started to wonder if I was even capable of moving forward. Just when I thought I knew who Ghostface was, they showed up and killed that suspect, aka the plotter persona I tried to play.

It was ironic. The woman who needs to always be one step ahead in everyday life to function needed to release control to write her book. Now I wouldn’t classify myself as a full-on pantser. I still need some type of outline. I decided to use loose outlines, with just a couple sentences for each scene. This allowed me to move forward and, quite frankly, was fun. I flew through most of Act II once I stopped trying to control everything. To be honest, I wasn’t exactly sure how Act III would go and discovered it while writing Act II.

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I did come to another halt when it was time to write the chapters for the second POV. She is technically a second protagonist. Her role isn’t as forward facing as my main girl but still her story is just as important. When I did my character work in early Act I, I did not focus on my second protagonist, and that came around to bite me in the ass when it was time to write her chapters. That brought me to another lesson..

Know your characters deeply. Know your main characters backstory, including the antagonist.

It’s so important to spend time with them and figure out who they were before they stepped into your story. And yes, that means writing backstories, origin stories, core turning points to discover what led them to their misbelief. Most of that will not be in the book, but it will help you understand the character and write from their view of the world and in their unique voice. (Side note, for Act I and II I wrote and focused on one POV at a time. That allowed me to truly live in their voice and story without having to bounce back and forth. By the third act, I knew them well enough to be able to alternate.)

I was finally moving forward with the story, but my attention was being pulled in too many different directions. I wasn’t able to give 100% to anything. I couldn’t keep going like that.

I had to focus on one thing at a time and minimize the distractions.

I was doing way too much. Trying to build my social media presence, writing short stories, posting weekly on Substack, maintaining a huge garden I started from seed. On top of that, I have a full-time job. I’m a mom and a wife. The list goes on.

I had to get serious with myself. Was I going to let Ghostface kill this book, or was I going to fight back?

If you know me, I’m a fighter. The first thing to go was social media. The posting and the consuming. It took up too much space in my head, and I hated the way it made me feel anyway. That alone made my mental health better.

Then I cut the rest of the noise. No more short stories. Less TV. Less podcasts. I didn’t need something filling every moment. I needed quiet. Because all that noise was fogging up my brain and making it harder to think clearly.

Now, I still had to keep my full-time job, so I needed a realistic writing schedule.

One that actually fit my life. I couldn’t write every day. On days I went into the office, my brain was fried by the time I got home. So I committed to four days a week. Whether I felt like it or not, I showed up. I set word count goals. I didn’t always hit them, but they kept me going.

Finally, I was building momentum. Every writing day I was moving the needle. I was dodging all the Ghostface attacks but still didn’t know who it was.

Then I got to Act III, where a lot of action was taking place, and I quickly realized I don’t know anything about writing a fight scene. I didn’t want to lose momentum trying to learn a new skill, so I left a placeholder. I wrote the bones and kept going.

Why spend so much time perfecting something that might not even survive revisions?

That’s when I learned momentum matters more than perfection in a first draft.

After all the lessons and stab wounds, I finally reached my final girl moment. I typed the last words of the draft.

Still standing. Still breathing. Bleeding.

And that’s when I finally understood the purpose of the first draft.

THE FIRST DRAFT IS YOU TELLING YOURSELF THE STORY

I did not fully understand my story until I finished writing it. Hell, I don’t think I even knew half the things were going to happen until I wrote them. Once I embraced the concept of the shitty first draft, I gave myself permission to write badly so I could actually get to know my story. And it’s one that I truly love. So much of my heart is in it. And now that it’s done, I realize it’s perfect for one simple reason.

IT EXISTS.

But even after finishing the draft, there was something else I couldn’t shake. A feeling I carried throughout the entire process. Something I had to face time after time.

Self doubt.

It’s the voice that questions everything. The voice that keeps whispering, not good enough. The voice that makes you want to start over or quit.

Mine would tell me all the reasons I’m not a real writer. My writing is too simple. It doesn’t sound intelligent enough. Who do you think you are to write a book? No one cares. It will go nowhere.

I kept waiting for the reveal. Waiting to unmask Ghostface. And when I finally did, it wasn’t a psycho boyfriend, or a jealous, fame-seeking cousin, or a crazy super fan.

It was JUST ME.

I’m proud of myself for pushing through and winning the battle that was draft one. But the truth is, she will never disappear. She’ll be waiting for me in draft two.

Only this time, I’ll be two steps ahead of her. Knife in hand.

And I’ll know how to keep writing.

Francisca lay in bed, staring at the thin lines of sunlight illuminating through the blinds. A tiny smile crawled onto her face when she realized what day it was. It was the first day of gardening season. Her secret weapon against Greta. Finally, she thought as she rose out of bed.

I’ve been thinking a lot about that version of me. The one who believes the garden can fix everything. But it’s not that simple. Yes, it’s great for my mental health and has the power to keep Greta (my inner gremlin) away, but what it truly gives me is hope. It softens my pessimistic side and brings out my optimistic one. It helps me have hope for tomorrow, hope that there is still beauty in the world, and hope for my own life. And oh boy, does it teach me patience and the fact that I cannot control everything.

But let’s be honest, real life is not like our dreams. Nothing is free. If we want all those things from the garden, we have to work for it. And gardening is a lot of work.

My garden has grown exponentially over the past few years. It started with a few veggies in pots and has grown into a 16’ by 24’ enclosure with multiple raised beds and too many to count pots. My favorite thing to grow is cut flowers. I do grow peppers, tomatoes, cucumbers, and a handful of herbs, but the majority of the garden is flowers.

As I step into my fourth year of gardening, I wanted to share its beauty with you and document my journey. So that is what this will be. I will recap each month, share gardening updates, maybe a few tips, lessons I learned (in life and gardening), and of course share its beauty through pictures and videos. I don’t know if this will have a specific format or what this will evolve into but for now it is my version of a garden diary.

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I live in the Chicagoland area, so my gardening season is limited. Even though spring is here, our last frost isn’t until about mid to end of April. That means all the heat-loving plants cannot be planted outside until then. However, my gardening season technically starts in late February as I start seeds indoors. There is something so magical about taking a speck of a seed, putting it in soil, and watching it grow into a big, beautiful plant. Between February and March, I have sown snapdragon seeds, black-eyed Susans, dahlias, foxglove, chamomile, marigolds, celosia, and viola jump-up seeds.

One thing about gardening is that you will fail and kill plants. I already had my first failure of the season. The first batch of foxglove seeds I planted all died except two plants. This is my first year growing them and, well, I was impatient. I took the dome lid off the tray too soon. The few sprouts dried up and died quickly, and the rest of the seeds never sprouted. It was like a slap on the wrist. Nature’s way of reminding me to be patient. I started a second batch and am happy to report all 12 seedlings are doing great.

This is also the time I map out the garden and think about issues from last year. A big problem we encountered was rats burrowing into our snapdragon and dahlia raised beds. Ugh, those critters make me sick. The year before last, we dealt with earwigs. I’m curious to see what kind of pest we will have to fight this year, because if there is one thing gardening has taught me, it is that there will be problems and I will not be able to control all of it. Anywho, we need to figure out a solution for the rats this season.

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While March is filled with a lot of tasks to do indoors, it’s also the time to clean up the raised beds and pots from last year. I will admit the garden was a hot mess. I was so burnt out last fall and neglected it the last couple months of the season. We did not do any cleaning up or anything. Earlier this month, Armando and I tag-teamed clearing out all the dead plants. The next step is to amend the soil, but it’s looking like that may be an April task for most of the raised beds.

One other exciting thing I’ve started doing is hardening off my snapdragons, chamomile, and viola jump-up babies. I’m pretty sure I potted up the snapdragon seeds too soon because they are so tall and are starting to flower already. They desperately need to go into the raised beds before they get root-bound and their growth is stunted. This is also a great reminder that the environment we’re in plays a huge factor in our growth. Sometimes we need to pull our roots up and plant them somewhere else in order to thrive.

While this past month has been tough for me personally, getting my garden going has helped. I usually have a handful of days throughout the month where I spend a few hours in our gardening nook. I will pop in an audiobook (currently listening to It by Stephen King) and just work in my own peaceful bubble. Sometimes it’s sowing seeds or potting up the babies to give them more room to grow.

One thing I have come to accept is that from the months of March through May, the nook will be a huge mess. But I have come to enjoy the mess because it means life is being born and I’m cultivating beauty. It also means I’m outrunning Greta and the screws of my anxiety goggles are starting to come loose.

As I come to the end of the month, I need to remind myself to take it one day at a time. I can sometimes try to do too many things at once and end up neglecting self-care. But what I’m learning is that sometimes all I need is to take things slow. To focus on one thing. I originally planned to start draft two of my novel in April, but I’ve decided to push it out one more month. The garden needs most of my attention this next month. The seedlings need to be nurtured and taken care of. And I know that if I take care of them, they will take care of me.

One Last thing….

My original plan was to share a video montage of the past month, but life happened and we just didn’t get to it. So instead, I’m sharing a couple of videos from previous years. Thanks again for reading. I’m so excited to share more throughout the season.

A quick note…. This issue is going out a few days late and was written before the 13th. Thank you for your patience.

From the Shadows

Happy Friday the 13th again! How lucky are we to get two of them back to back. I still can’t believe we’re already in March.

It’s the time of year when dormant plants like tulips and daffodils start poking out of the ground. They rested most of the year, and now they show up and take up space without apology for the next couple of months. There’s something powerful about that kind of quiet confidence. They play an important role as the first signs of spring. After five or six months of cold and snow in Chicago, even the smallest hint of life brings me joy.

March is also a time to celebrate women, although let’s be real, we deserve to be celebrated every day. We literally birthed every single person on this planet. How we were ever convinced that women are the weaker gender still baffles me. I mean, have we looked at the state of the world run by men? Okay, I’m not going to get all “angry feminist Stina” here… or am I? Either way, this month’s newsletter is a little love letter to women.

I grew up around women who held men on a pedestal and treated them like kings. Some grown men I know still can’t even get up and serve themselves dinner. I witnessed men behave horribly and treat women terribly, yet no matter what they did, they were forgiven and almost worshipped. Thinking about it still makes my blood boil.

Now, as an almost forty-year-old woman, I understand why this happened. It’s a cycle, one we continue to teach little girls every day. Women were taught to stay quiet, not take up space, and to serve. To take care of everyone else except themselves. We were literally bred to be people pleasers.

As we get older we’re faced with two paths. We either continue the cycle, or we say fuck that and reclaim our power. We take up space unapologetically. But here’s the kicker, even when we want a bigger life, or just one where we make the rules and live on our terms, the systems around us are designed to keep us small.

Most women are just trying to survive. The thought of pursuing something purely for ourselves doesn’t always feel like an option. To those women, I see you. And I plead: please start to prioritize self-care, even if it’s just twenty minutes a day. Do something just for you and no one else. I truly believe that if more women saw their own beauty and power, we would be unstoppable.

I’ve been lucky to find a partner who not only views me as an equal but supports me and cheers me on in all my dreams and endeavors. But the people pleaser still runs deep in me.

That is why I continue to write. I’m on a mission to show up as my authentic self.

A lot of my writing, including my book, circles a few recurring themes: gardening, identity, and women reclaiming their power. At the end of last year I kept telling myself I needed to keep writing to find my voice. But the truth is, I already have one. I just need to lean into it more.

To all the women reading this, let’s prioritize self-care (it’s not selfish) and take up space unapologetically and authentically.

The Monster Grows (Book Progress Update)

🩸 Progress so far: 70,927 words
🎃 Milestone: Finishing the first draft
🕯️ Biggest challenge: Accepting the final word count for draft one

I finished the first draft of my novel about a month ago. It still doesn’t feel real whenever I say or type those words. I’m incredibly proud of myself for showing up day after day, even when I didn’t want to. Writing a book takes time, and while my timeline was a bit lopsided, I enjoyed the process.

It took a total of ten months to finish the first draft. Six months to finish Act I and four months to finish the rest. In other words, it took me six months to fully believe in myself and take myself seriously as a writer. Once I embraced the concept of a shitty first draft and committed to focusing only on the book while sticking to a realistic writing schedule, I started to see small consistent results.

The biggest challenge toward the end was accepting the final word count. My goal was 80,000 words, and I realized I wasn’t going to hit that when I was almost at the last chapter and still about 10k short. I can sometimes get fixated on metrics as proof of achievement and worth, so I was beating myself up for not hitting that target. Writing my first book taught me some hard lessons and even revealed new things about myself. For example, I learned that I’m more of a pantser than a plotter. As someone who struggles with anxiety and usually likes to know the plan, this one shocked me.

As I came to the end of the story, I finally understood what so many authors say about draft one. This is the draft where you’re telling yourself the story. I didn’t fully see the big picture until I reached the end. I don’t know what the final story will look like after all the revisions, but I’m beyond excited to dive back in. I love the heart of this story, and I can’t wait to share it with all of you.

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A Bloom of Terror

Every month, I’ll plant a little horror here. Sometimes it will be a short fiction story, other times a personal essays.

The Haunted Shelf 📚🎬📺

This is where I’ll share book, movie, and show recommendations. I’d love to know what you’re reading and watching, so feel free to reply with your own favorites.

This month’s recommendations all center around women and the different battles we face every day. Each story explores power, control, and what happens when a woman starts to question the role the world expects her to play.

📚 The Book – Credenza

A pink horror book by Wendy Dalrymple. It was my first time reading this genre and I loved it. On the surface, it’s about a haunted heirloom and family secrets. But I really connected with the deeper themes of generational trauma and the fear of inheriting mental health struggles from your parents. Wanting to protect your child from it at all costs, but realizing you have to stop avoiding it and face it head on, because only then can you begin to heal. I can’t wait to read more from this author.

🎬 The Movie – Rosemary’s Baby

Rosemary’s Baby is a masterpiece. It’s the type of movie that will live rent free in your head for a while, at least it has for me. It’s a psychological horror movie with occult and folk horror elements. The film was released in 1968, but it still holds up today. The acting and visuals are great. It’s also a great example of how women, still to this day I might add, do not have full autonomy over their own bodies and how we are often gaslit and not taken seriously. I can’t speak highly enough about this movie. If you haven’t seen it and like occult psychological horror, run and watch it.

📺 The Show – Agatha All Along

This show leans more into fantasy horror, which is a sweet spot for me. It explores themes like generational trauma, motherhood, grief, identity, queerness, chosen family, and it has one hell of an anti-hero. And if there’s one thing I love, it’s a good anti-hero. (Another MCU favorite of mine is Loki.) There are supernatural and witchcraft elements, which again I LOVE. It’s safe to say this is one of my favorite MCU shows, and the vibe of it definitely sparked some inspiration while I was writing my book. The cast is mostly women and they are all fucking fantastic. The visuals were perfection. If I could go sit and write on the Witch’s Road, I absolutely would.

From My Creative Crypt

This is my little corner for fun extras.

This month I thought it would be fun to bring you into the world of my book… visually. While some aspects of the story may change and not survive revisions, the overall vibes will stay the same. When writing the first draft, there were times I struggled because I needed to see things visually. Here’s a small peek into the world I’ve been living in while writing this book.

The Last Whisper

Thank you for making it all the way to the end of my haunted little newsletter. If you enjoyed it, I’d love if you replied back, shared it with a friend, or just let me know what you’re reading and watching. Your support means the world to me as I start this author journey.

Before I go, here is your reminder:

Take up more space. Show up as your authentic self. Because when you suppress her, it hurts and cuts deep. You won’t ever be truly happy if you’re being a chameleon to appease the masses.

Cut the people pleaser in you loose. And yes, when you stop people pleasing, people will stop being pleased, and that’s okay.

Start prioritizing self-care every day. Take care of your physical, mental, and emotional health. Do something that brings you joy. Whether that’s reading, dancing, gardening, photography, whatever it is, prioritize it.

Wear whatever makes you feel good. No need to wait for a special occasion. The occasion is you.

When we know our worth, we become unstoppable. And quite frankly, the world will be a better place.

Shine bright. The world needs your sparkle.

Until next time,

Christina

Goodbye 38, Hello 39

Happy 39th Birthday, Christina! Another year alive is a privilege. Remember that. Yes, you are getting older, but I would argue that you are the best version of yourself. So let’s keep the annual tradition alive of writing a letter to yourself to reflect on the past year.

First off, I can’t believe it’s already been a year. Nicholas is basically your height now and will definitely be taller than you by the end of this year. He loves hot cheetos just as much as you did as a kid, maybe even more. He started band this year and got you hooked on watching Beast Games with him. We love that kid. You and Armando have officially been together for half your life, and your love for him grows deeper each day. I would argue you are one lucky lady and have a great life.

But let’s be real. You are still the ambitious woman you’ve always been and are always reaching for more. So naturally, you tried all the things and entered into a new kind of fight this past year. A fight with Greta. That is what you decided to call your inner gremlin. And boy, that bitch is stubborn, brutal, full of anxiety, and just will not quit. Sound familiar? It should, because she is YOU.

When you entered year 38, you had this goal of becoming a new version of yourself. Or at least an evolved one. A writer. But in order to let the writer live, you had to kill the old version of you and step into the thorny unknown territory. Something happens when you try to shed old habits. Your old self tends to come and dig their claws deeper into you, desperate to stay alive. Everything they know feels safe to them, so any change is the enemy. And a big part of your old self and your inner gremlin is your battle with anxiety.

But Christina, you should be so proud of how far you’ve come. Sure, you still have bad days and had a few anxiety attacks, but you no longer live with the anxiety goggles strapped on. That in itself is a huge win. And while there were days your old self resurfaced, you still continued to fight back and slowly began the shed.

One of the most valuable lessons you learned this year is that you cannot keep your thoughts and emotions—good or bad—bottled up inside. You have to let them out, whether that be talking about it or even just writing about it.

This past year you learned about a new powerful tool. It’s one you heard about for years but never actually gave a chance. You started doing daily morning pages where you journal for 2–3 pages first thing in the morning. You literally just handwrite whatever is on your mind. It is just your stream of consciousness from your brain to the paper.

It has done wonders for your mental health and your writing. It almost acts like a daily cleanse. Please keep journaling. I would even recommend consistently doing it before bed as well. You live in your head too much at times, and you need to release those thoughts. Trust me. It’s like lifting the bricks off your chest so you can catch your breath again.

The other part of this is talking about your feelings. You haven’t quite figured this out yet, but you are starting to do it more often. Speaking your truth is important. Otherwise, you may seem okay on the outside while stepping back into people-pleasing territory, but inside you are miserable. Please, Christina. One thing I want you to do more of in year 39 is speak your truth even when your voice shakes.

Speaking your truth in life naturally spilled over into your writing. This past year you worked on becoming more comfortable on the page. Letting yourself sound like yourself instead of who you thought you should be. Or who other people would want to read. This one is still rocky, but you’ve made progress.

Let’s be honest. You’ve been searching for an author box to put yourself into. You watched all the videos on the importance of building an author brand, so naturally you began this process. First you thought it was going to be about positivity and personal development. Then you started writing a horror book (we will get into this in a bit) and decided to put yourself in that lane.

But recently, when thinking about how you want to show up with your writing outside your novel, you aren’t sure what you want to do. You don’t feel like one thing. And that is because you aren’t supposed to try to be like anyone else. Yes, you wrote a horror novel and horror short stories, but that doesn’t mean that is all you can write.

I want you to take the next six weeks that you have away from your book and write whatever the hell you want. If you want to write about your journey with personal development, do it. Write about gardening. Do it. Short stories, both horror and non-horror. Poetry. Do that. Take these next six weeks to experiment and, for fucks sake, do not pay attention to the numbers! Remember, we don’t compare ourselves to anyone. It’s you vs. you.

This past year you also went down a new path with movement. One you never thought you’d take. Bodybuilding. There are three phases to this: bulking, maintenance, and cutting. You haven’t done a full on cut yet, so you can’t speak to that.

During the bulking phase, you needed to eat a lot and lift progressively heavier for 8–12 weeks. This is a period where you are growing muscle but also gaining some fat. Here is the kicker that fucked with your head because of how women were taught to think about their weight because of society… blah blah blah. You know the deal.

Every time you stepped on the scale and saw your weight go up (which is exactly what you were trying to do), Greta was right there to say one word to you: “FAT.” And there were days where you shut her down, but I know it messed with your head a bit.

But I want to remind you that those are just numbers and do not dictate your self-worth. You are actually strong as hell. And congratulations… you did what the bulk was intended to do. You put on weight and your muscles are growing. Remember, muscle weighs more than fat. I mean, come on. Even some of your T-shirts are a bit tight around the arms because of those guns. And yes, some of your jeans are tighter now too (those legs and that ass though), but again, they are just clothes. You can just get a bigger size. Please continue to do the work to unlearn those idiotic, unrealistic standards.

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Now let’s talk about the biggest lesson of year 38. You can do hard things. Christina!!! You wrote a fucking book. Holy shit! Take that in for a sec.

Writing a book has always just been an idea in the back of your heart, a far-off dream that you never thought was possible. You didn’t think you were smart enough, but this past year you went for it. It was kind of a snowball effect. First you just decided to start writing. Then you had a dream that you wanted to turn into a short story, but the idea grew and you knew it was much bigger than that. And just like that, boom, April came along and you decided to just go for it.

While it was a long ten months of fights with Greta and starting and stopping, you persevered and you should be so fucking proud of yourself. Once you locked into a real writing routine and focused only on the book, your momentum grew and you finished it. Now I know you know this is just the beginning and there is so much more work to be done before the book is publishable. But your first draft is doing what it needs to do. It exists! You are now in the top 3% of people who start writing a book and actually finish their first draft.

If there is one thing about you, it’s that you don’t just talk about doing things. You take action. So take the next six weeks and step away from the book. Let it rest so you can come back ready for draft two with fresh eyes. I know you want to jump back in and start editing, but you need the distance. In the meantime, go have fun and experiment with other stories, essays, garden diary post, etc. And read a lot. Read all different types of books and genres.

As you step into the last year of your thirties, I want you to do a few things. Love yourself every day. Tell yourself: I got this. Yes I can. I am enough as I am. My voice matters. Damn girl you fine. I am proud of you. Even on the days where you feel blah.

You have done a lot of work to reprogram your mind, but this is a lifelong journey, so you must continue to show up. Remember, the most important relationship you’ll ever have is with yourself.

I also want you to choose joy more. Do things that light your heart on fire. Dance every day. Lean into gardening again. It really does bring you peace and happiness. Play more. Embrace the little girl in you waiting with open arms. She needs to know that everything will be okay. Tap into her imagination and wonder. And truly let yourself play, in life and with your writing.

Christina, I am going to need you to get out of the house more too. I know you love your bubble. It’s peaceful. It’s safe. But deep down you want more adventure. Do not let your anxiety stop you from living.

And finally, I want you to be audacious. Be bold and brave. Take risks and own your story and vision. Especially with your writing goals and creativity. Create from a place of joy and play and share it audaciously.

But please do not focus on growing social media or trying to spit out weekly posts for Substack. This year is all about shaping your voice, owning your story, and just having fun with your writing.

I know you have pretty ambitious goals for your future as a writer, and you know it’s going to take some time to get there. But one thing I know is that you will not get there if you play it safe. Audacity will be your secret weapon.

You are a brave, intelligent, and strong woman, and I cannot wait to see where life takes us in five to ten years. Cheers to the last year of this decade. May it be filled with love, joy, laughter, play, and a lot of writing.

I love you Christina and I am so proud of you!

Update:

I’ve been craving a realistic rhythm that supports my writing instead of pressuring it. So early each month, I’ll share a feature piece, either a short story or a personal essay. The newsletter will come on the 13th, and during gardening season, I’ll share Notes from the Garden later in the month.

Bite Me

I didn’t know love could be so free.
I thought it was meant to be earned.
Nothing in life is free,
so you must give it perfectly
if you want to receive.
But not with you.
You give it freely,
never holding my imperfections against me.

You see me as I am
and who I want to be.
You are the mirror
that reflects belief back to me.

When darkness tries to wrap my heart,
you steal color from your own
and rip it apart.

You held the prism that is me
up to the sun,
and my quiet white light
broke into color
and burned bright.

You are one of a kind.
I’m lucky
our threads aligned.

You are my best friend,
like cheese and crackers,
better together
every time.

You stand six feet tall.
I barely reach five (ish).
When you fold me into you,
your heartbeat
steadies mine.

I didn’t know a person
could feel like a place.

Every night I dream.
If you are not there,
I run back
at full speed,
prying my eyelids open
because ordinary with you
is more than enough.

And if it turns out
you are Dracula,
fine.
Bite me.
As long as I get forever with you.

Happy Birthday Armando!

I did something huge over the past weekend, and I don’t think I’ve really taken the time to let it sink in. So after getting ready while listening to a new artist I discovered today, Queen Herby, I got the urge to do something I haven’t done in a hot minute. Record a video.

I did this for myself so I could remember this day. So I can come back to it when I’m doubting myself or feeling small. I didn’t overthink it. I just set up the camera and hit record.

This is the most natural I’ve felt on camera. It was just me. No mask. No pre-rehearsed speech. Just me… and a little bit of poodle butt. 🤪

Happy Friday the 13th! If you know me, you know my lucky number is 13 for many reasons. February is also one of my favorite months because it’s both mine and Armando’s bday month. Okay enough about us…time for the newsletter.

From the Shadows

When most people think about February, they think about love. Romantic love and friendship kind of love. The stores are filled with red and pink heart-shaped products to buy, because that’s how you show someone you love them, right? You buy something, give it to them, and say, “Hey, I love you this many dollars-worth.” I kid, I kid.

But in all seriousness, February can sometimes feel lonely for those who don’t have a partner or someone to celebrate it with. I think we’re focusing on the wrong kind of love sometimes or at least forgetting about one. We tend to be so generous with the love we pour into others but forget about the most important kind of love. Self-love.

Self-love is a lifelong journey because we’re always evolving into different versions of ourselves. To me, it looks like building a relationship with all parts of yourself, practicing radical acceptance, and prioritizing self-care. It means believing in yourself and stepping into the role of the main character in your own life. It means being the final girl in your movie and finally turning to face the monster chasing you.

Plot twist. The monster is yourself. Or what I like to call your inner gremlin. And unfortunately, they’re like Jason Voorhees. No matter how many times you kill them, they always come back to life.

A huge part of self-love for me is giving myself grace. Not being so damn hard on myself all the time and accepting the rougher, darker sides of me too. I still have flaws, and I still feel guilty when I rest instead of being productive. I still compare myself to others at times. There are days when my inner gremlin wins, grabs the mic, and she is brutal. But the next day, I take the mic back. I hype myself up, remind myself of who the hell I am and that I’m enough, and I try again.

There is no destination where we finally conquer self-love. It’s a lifelong journey, and we’re all figuring it out as we go.

The Monster Grows (Book Progress Update)

🩸 Progress so far: 68,647 words
🎃 Recent win: Finally learning that the job of a first draft is simply to exist.
🕯️ Biggest challenge: Writing action and fight scenes.

This past month was a huge win for me. I’m almost done with the first draft of my book, and I truly can’t believe I only have a couple more chapters left to write. 🤯 Don’t get me wrong, this draft is messy AF. But I’m incredibly proud of myself for sticking to my writing schedule and showing up on every planned day, even when I really didn’t want to.

I stayed off social media for the most part, and honestly… it’s been great. For my writing and mental health. A part of me doesn’t want to go back at all. Haha. I might start spending more time here on Substack instead. We shall see. More on that another time.

All that to say, I protected my creativity and my commitment to this book. Yes, I got a ton of writing done, but the biggest win is that I proved to myself that I can do this. That I can do hard things. I pushed through scenes I felt unsure about or didn’t know how to write, aka anything involving action or fighting. My google search history is questionable, so I started adding “for a horror fiction book” to the end of every search. Then I’d look at the image results, immediately gross myself out, and continue writing the gross scene anyway.

Writing Act III has been a journey. A hard one, but a fun one. I even started thinking about my protagonist’s future in a possible sequel (if I ever went that route) and made myself cry. These characters are fictional, but they already hold a special place in my heart.

I’m in love with this story, which is probably a good thing since I’ll have to read it a gazillion times. I know this book still needs a lot of work, but at least I got the bones down. It’s not quite a full skeleton yet and may be missing a bone or two, but it’s doing its job. It exists.

A Bloom of Terror

Every month, I’ll plant a little horror here. Sometimes it will be a short fiction story, other times a personal essay from my haunted garden.

The Haunted Shelf 📚🎬📺

This is where I’ll share book, movie, and show recommendations. I’d love to know what you’re reading and watching, so feel free to reply with your own favorites.

This month I’m doing things a bit differently. I’m recommending one nonfiction book and two movies. All of them explore self-love and the inner battles we go through, and each one carries a powerful message.

📚 The Book – Finding Me: A Memoir

In this memoir, Viola Davis talks about her life and the trauma she endured. She takes ownership of her story instead of letting pain and other people define her. It’s an inspiring story about healing and radical self-acceptance, something I’m trying to reach for myself.

🎬 The Movie – The Ugly Stepsister

This is a body horror movie and another take on the classic Cinderella story. It centers around the stepsister, who is not ugly but believes she is. She literally contorts herself to fit into extreme beauty standards. Although this movie takes place in the 19th century, it still feels very relevant today, as women are still held to impossible standards and pitted against each other. The film is beautiful, but parts of it are a bit disturbing and gross. I almost vomited during one scene…haha..Overall, it’s about self-betrayal and the extreme things we do just to be seen and accepted.

🎬 The Movie – The Substance

This is a psychological body horror movie about society’s obsession with youth and the unrealistic beauty standards placed on women. First, I want to give my flowers to Demi Moore because her performance in this movie was incredible. As women, we tend to look back and wish we were younger, so what would you do if you were given a drug that promised exactly that? The opportunity to be young again. Demi Moore’s character becomes addicted to it, and her sense of self slowly starts to deteriorate. I’ll admit this movie was pretty gross and I’m not sure I’ll ever watch it again, but it was a great film with a powerful message.

From My Creative Crypt

This is my little corner for fun extras.

One of my favorite ways to get out of my head and back into my body, or just boost my mood, is movement and music. It’s become one of my most powerful weapons against Greta, my inner gremlin. She hates it.

I usually have a handful of go-to songs that pump me up, and I’ve started calling it my self-love playlist. I’m sharing it with you this month. Take a listen, just know my taste in music is pretty eclectic. But this is what works for me.

I encourage you to create your own playlist and use it as a form of self-love when you need a mood boost, when you’re getting ready for the day, working out, about to do something hard, or just for the pure joy of it. Whatever you need it for, make it yours.

The Last Whisper

Thank you for making it all the way to the end of my haunted little newsletter. If you enjoyed it, I’d love if you replied back, shared it with a friend, or just let me know what you’re reading and watching. Your support means the world to me as I start this author journey.

Before I go, here is your reminder:

The most important relationship you will ever have is with yourself. Treat yourself with the same love and kindness you pour into others. You are worth it. Do the things that bring you joy. Prioritize your mental, emotional, and physical health. Believe in yourself wholeheartedly and go after your dreams. You know, the ones in your heart that you keep telling yourself maybe one day, or when things slow down, or after this. You get the point. There will never be a perfect time, so why not start now? Why not choose yourself? Accept all the parts of who you are. Because you, my friend, are beautiful. So the next time you walk past a mirror, instead of thinking about everything that’s wrong, extend your hand, smile, and tell yourself, “damn girl, you fine.”

Until next time,

Christina

This story is about what might happen if our pent-up emotions, like rage, took on a life of their own.

Black Tears

It was a hell of a day, and all I wanted to do was shower and sleep. I walked into my apartment to find my boyfriend sitting on the couch smoking—after I’d asked him several times not to smoke inside my apartment—and laughing as he scrolled TikTok.

“Hey, Jacob,” I said, hanging up my jacket. “I tried calling you on the drive home. I’ve had a shitty day.”

No response. He didn’t even look my way.

“HELLO?” I yelled.

“Why are you screaming? I’m right here,” he said, still looking down at his phone.

“What’s up?” He took another drag.

“Nothing. Never mind. I’m going to shower.”

As I let the water heat up, I undressed and noticed the bruises on my leg from my fall this morning. After a few minutes, the steam began to curl and thicken, swirling around me like something alive.

I stepped into the shower and immediately jolted as the scalding water pounded against my arms. I quickly adjusted the temperature and sat on the built-in bench. In the cocoon of heat and steam, I finally allowed myself to cry.

My day had started with a creep coming up behind me and grabbing me, making me fall as I tried to run to my car. I called Jacob, but he didn’t care at all. Told me I was overreacting. Said I shouldn’t report it because the chances of the police caring were next to none. Then he cut the conversation short because he was tired and wanted to go back to bed.

At work it was more of the same. Every time I tried to talk about my ideas, I was cut off or dismissed by my asshole boss. My coworkers tried to mansplain why my idea wouldn’t work.

The more I thought about my day, the harder I bawled. My whole body trembled as my shoulders and chest heaved with each sob. The hiss of the water drowned out the echoes of every gasp for air. My legs went weak as my heartbeat pounded through my chest and my vision started to blur. I wiped my eyes, blinking hard to clear them. As I tried to calm down, things came into focus, and that’s when I saw it.

Black goo clung to my hands and streaked the shower walls. It slid down the tiles, pulling toward the drain, then stopped. It quivered, pulsing like it had a heartbeat. Suddenly, the sludge bubbled, hissing where it touched the floor. It surged upward in a violent motion, slapping against the wall before pulling itself together. At first it was shapeless, then limbs started to push through, and the outline of a woman appeared through the steam.

The figure kept growing until it nearly touched the ceiling. It hunched forward, its wet hair hanging like seaweed as it loomed over me. We stared at each other in silence for a few seconds, and for a moment the world simply ceased. Then a deafening, soul-shattering shriek filled the bathroom, shattering the shower glass.

She ran out of the bathroom, and without thinking, I followed her. She began hurling my ceramic dishes, one after another. Some hit the walls and shattered, shards flying across the floor. Jacob jumped up, trying to run for the door. She launched a plate at his head, and he fell to the ground.

She was on top of him in seconds, pinning him down. She grabbed the lit joint from his hand and pressed it into his cheek, then dragged it across his lips, his nose, his forehead, his eyebrows. I saw his mouth move as if to scream, but I couldn’t hear him. All I heard was a steady, high-pitched buzzing. She opened the front door and tossed him out like a rag doll.

She slammed the door shut and smiled at me as she began to fade, her edges blurring as she slowly dissolved into a black cloud.

I looked down, my hands trembling. The tips of my fingers were red and blistered.

From the Shadows

January is a month that’s usually filled with motivation. It lurks and follows us like Michael Myers hiding in the bushes. It’s everywhere. On social media, in stores, in the air we breathe. All of it packaged and marketed as something you can buy. A product designed to profit off your eagerness to become a new version of yourself.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the new year. It feels like a fresh start. A time for dreaming and planning, which is something I absolutely love. It reminds me of the beginning of a new school year. You go out and buy all the new supplies. The new water tumbler. The gym membership. The pretty planner. You write down all your New Year’s resolutions, and suddenly everyone is filled with hope.

This is the year, you tell yourself. The year you do all the things. The year you finally become a new version of you.

I hate to burst your bubble, but that motivation we’re all riding high on tends to fade, and it fades fast. A few weeks in, when the motivation is gone, we backslide right into the arms of our inner gremlin and those familiar bad habits. What I’ve learned over the years is that motivation isn’t the key to success. Focus and discipline are.

I tend to have shiny toy syndrome. I’ll work on something for a month or two, then get distracted by a new idea, leaving the last one half finished. Last year I did this a lot. Honestly, too much. While I don’t regret trying all the things, I learned that what I really lack is focus.

So I took some time to reflect on what I wanted 2026 to be about. For the first time, I stepped into the new year not wanting to be a different version of myself, but a more focused one. For me, that meant doing less and removing anything that distracted me from my main goals. I broke my year into quarters, and Q1 is all about finishing the first draft of my novel.

The Monster Grows (Book Progress Update)

🩸 Progress so far: 54,190 words
🎃 Recent win: Finally giving myself permission to write the weird stuff
🕯️ Biggest challenge: Writing a new POV

Over the past month, I didn’t do much writing. I allowed myself to take time off to enjoy baking and the holidays.

It’s only been one full week back to writing, and honestly, it was really tough to get back into it. Not only had I been away from the story for a while, but I also jumped back in having to focus on the second POV of the book. I haven’t spent a lot of time with that character, so getting into her head was difficult. She’s also a character who is the complete opposite of my own personality, so I struggled overall. But once I pushed through the first couple of days, I started to feel better. To be honest, she still feels a bit flat, but for now my job is to keep getting the story out. I can worry about that in the second draft.

A major milestone for me has been letting my freak flag fly. Aka, writing the weird shit that lives in my head. I’ll admit that when it came to writing supernatural horror, I was doing a lot of research to make sure everything followed the “rules,” but it just wasn’t working for my story. It was restricting me. After watching IT Chapter 1 and 2 for the first time over winter break, something clicked. This is FICTION. This is my story. It’s meant to break the rules. Only I can tell this story, and I get to make my own rules.

(Side note: I am completely obsessed with IT right now. I’m currently watching Welcome to Derry and listening to the audiobook, but more on that next month.😜)

A Bloom of Terror

Every month, I’ll plant a little horror here. Sometimes it will be a short fiction story, other times a personal essay from my haunted garden.

The Haunted Shelf 📚🎬📺

This is where I’ll share book, movie, and show recommendations. I’d love to know what you’re reading and watching, so feel free to reply with your own favorites.

No theme this month. Just a few things I unexpectedly fell in love with.

📚 The Book – The Belladonna Series

There are three books and one novella (Holly) in this YA series. Belladonna and Foxglove are my favorites, but honestly the entire series is great. It’s not full-on horror, more gothic fantasy. The story is very atmospheric and set in the 19th century among Victorian estates. There’s murder, mystery, ghosts, and a romantic relationship with death. If you’re into any of those things like I am, I definitely recommend checking this series out.

🎬 The Movie – Queens of the Dead

This is a horror comedy where drag queens battle brain-hungry zombies during an outbreak, and honestly it was way more fun than I expected. I’m not usually a big zombie movie person, but enjoyed this one. If you like zombie movies and need a good laugh, this one’s for you.

📺 The Show – Chucky

This series picks up after the Child’s Play films and follows a group of teenagers whose lives are thrown into chaos thanks to Chucky. I was pleasantly surprised by how much I enjoyed all three seasons. The teen storylines were solid, Chucky was great, and even when things got pretty crazy in season three (I mean… Chucky in the White House 😂), I loved it.

But honestly, my favorite part of the entire Chucky franchise isn’t Chucky at all. It’s Tiffany Valentine, played by the incredible Jennifer Tilly, who shows up in the series and steals every scene she’s in. She’s beautiful, unhinged, and an absolute badass. Easily one of my favorite horror characters, period.

If you grew up watching Child’s Play or just want something fun, bloody, and chaotic to binge, this one’s worth it.

From My Creative Crypt

This is my little corner for fun extras.

This month’s extras are a few podcasts I’ve been loving lately. Personal development podcasts are my go to usually. I’ve also been listening to a ton of writing podcasts to learn more about the craft and the industry. Today I’m sharing my favorite personal development and my favorite writing podcasts.

🎧 Personal Development

• The Rachel Hollis Podcast

• The Mel Robbins Podcast

✍️ Writing

• Fiction Writing made east with Savannah Gilbo

• The Whole Writer with Nicole Meier

The Last Whisper

Thank you for making it all the way to the end of my haunted little newsletter. If you enjoyed it, I’d love if you replied back, shared it with a friend, or just let me know what you’re reading and watching. Your support means the world to me as I start this author journey.

Before I go, here is your reminder:

As we all step into chapter 2026 of our lives with goals and dreams on our hearts, know that it’s okay to do less and focus on one thing at a time. I know our society glamorizes hustle culture, but trying to do it all at once usually leads to burnout, half-finished projects, and self-sabotage.

That’s why I’ll be much quieter on social media this year and focusing mainly on my writing. If I’m going to put my head down and finish the first draft of my novel, I have to protect my peace and my creativity. For me, that means sticking to a writing schedule, holding boundaries to protect it, consuming less, and minimizing distractions. This is my season to focus, and I’m trusting that doing less will help me create something meaningful.

If you’re in a season of focus too, I hope you give yourself permission to choose one thing, slow down and protect what matters most to you.

One Last Thing:

There is nothing wrong with the version of yourself you are today. Don’t let the masses make you believe you need to change. We are all on our own journeys, and we will evolve over time, and that’s okay. And if you do want to work toward new goals but aren’t in the right season to do so, then rest instead. You don’t need to wait for a new year to start again. Any day can be your day one. Every day is an opportunity to begin again.

Until next time,

Christina

Same Name

I was at a book signing. My book signing. Only something wasn’t right. Someone was pulling on my arm, trying to drag me out. Like I didn’t belong. But I saw the sign. It had my name on it. This was my event.

“Lady… Lady… wake up.”

I jolted, realizing the voice was coming from the living room. Had I been dreaming? Blinking to clear my vision, I saw a little girl standing in front of me.

“Hi,” I said, scanning the apartment for her parents. Did they just get here?

“Can you play with me?” she asked, pulling a small rainbow-colored ball from her bag.

“Where are your parents?” I asked.

“My dad’s over there. But he can’t play right now. He’s having adult conversation. No kids allowed.”

I looked toward Kyle. He was deep in conversation with his work bros, not paying attention. Guilt rippled through me.

“I’d love to play with you,” I said. “I’m Ryleigh. What’s your name?”

“You have the same name as me! My name’s Riley too.”

“Well, it is a pretty cool name. So tell me Riley, what do you want to play?”

“Catch!”

“Okay, but let’s be careful and just roll the ball on the floor. Like this.”

I rolled it across the living room toward the kitchen, but it kept going, almost like it had a mind of its own. Riley’s pigtails bounced as she chased after it, giggling. I got up, following her toward the back porch where it had rolled.

The lights were off, and I lost sight of her. When I stepped into the room and flipped the switch, Riley was standing over a vent in the floor, smiling, ball in hand.

Then came the crack. A sharp, explosive sound. Before I could react, Riley fell through. I lunged, trying to grab her, but I was too late.

I ran to the back door, reaching for the knob but it shifted into a brick wall. Heart pounding, I spun around and bolted toward the front door.

“She fell! She fell! Riley!” I screamed, but no one even looked at me.

I kept running, and when I opened the door to the stairs, I was suddenly in an elevator. The apartment was on the third floor, so I should’ve been able to reach the basement fast. But when I pressed the LL button, the elevator started going up.

Sweat ran down my temples. My heart hammered against my ribs so hard I could hear it echo in the elevator. I pressed the button over and over.

“Please, please, please go down. Please let her be okay,” I whispered, the words looping until the doors finally opened.

I sprinted through the corridor, yelling, “Riley! Riley! I’m coming!”

At the end of the hall, I saw her. Riley. Perfectly fine.

She was in the arms of an older woman, maybe in her seventies. The woman’s face was eerily familiar, marked by the same labret piercing scar as mine.

The woman smiled. “You finally made it. We’ve been waiting for you, you know.”

When I think about this past year, I picture myself stepping into a new room of my haunted house. One I was finally brave enough to open. Standing there, I can feel all the versions of me bouncing off the walls and moving through me. Nothing is quiet in that room. Everything echoes.

The longer I stood in that room, I started to notice the patterns. Certain versions of me showed up louder than the rest. The one who writes but is still searching for her voice. The one who needs to move her body to feel grounded and build confidence. The one who wants to encourage others even while she is still figuring things out herself. The one who people-pleases no matter how hard she tries not to. The one who holds in her true feelings to keep the peace. The one who doubts herself. The one who needs to turn pain into something meaningful and pass it on.

Some echoes passed through me with ease. Others smashed into me again and again, until I was on my knees. She hadn’t held much power in past years, but she was always there, trailing behind me from room to room. Now she demanded to be acknowledged.

The writer.

She stood over me and extended her hand. With hesitation, I grabbed it and let her pull me to my feet. We walked hand in hand as I navigated this new passion of mine. I finally stopped circling the idea of being a writer and stepped into it. I wrote essays, short stories, reflection pieces, newsletters, mini stories, and even started a novel. I shared my writing before I felt ready. They say to act like the future you want already exists, so that’s what I did. I wrote. I created habits. I stuck to strict schedules that I designed and enforced myself. There was no one hovering over me telling me what to do, no one motivating me. Just me and my discipline. While the echo of my writer dreams finally demanded my attention, it was the echo of my past perseverance and tenacity that propelled me forward.

As I moved through the year writing and experimenting, I found myself feeling a bit lost. My writing styles and voice felt scattered, all over the place. But by continuing to write, I started to learn what I liked and what I didn’t. And in doing that, I slowly began to find my voice. That part was tricky. The fear of my most authentic self not being accepted by others was always there. I called myself a horror writer, but what I learned is that my stories aren’t loud or flashy. They live in the quiet. They are the whispers that echo in our minds. The deep emotions and subtle horrors of the human experience are what I’m drawn to writing about.

And while I learned that my writing won’t be for everyone, it has to be something I enjoy creating. When I looked back at my work, I realized my voice had been there all along. I just had to stop overthinking it and let it be.

As I listened to the echo of the writer, another one stepped in beside us and linked her arm through my other side. We stood there intertwined. This echo had been with me for years and she knew her power.

Movement.

When the echoes of writing and everyday life became too loud for me to handle, movement became my anchor. I need to move my body to survive my own mind at times. It allows me to breathe and builds my confidence in ways nothing else ever has. Movement will forever be my medicine. Medicine for my anxiety, my self-doubt, and a way to clear out the noise. As someone who lives in her head a lot, writing put me back there even more than usual. So I used movement as a way to get out of my head and back into my body. I also used movement to build confidence. When I lift weights I never imagined I could, I’m showing my brain that I can do hard things. That I am stronger than I think. And that strength spills into other areas of my life.

When movement pulled me out of my head and back into my body, I felt strong enough to look outward again. And that’s when another echo made itself known.

The helper.

When I felt strong, grounded, and clear, I wanted to pass that feeling on. I wanted to encourage others. To let them know they were stronger than they thought. That they were capable of building habits to reach any goal, big or small. I wanted people to know that they mattered. I encouraged them to choose joy, to love themselves more, and to remember that even though the world around us may feel chaotic, we can still find peace, love, and joy.

But the more I shared my daily encouraging videos, the more I felt the need to perform. I began placing my self-worth in the hands of an algorithm and strangers on the internet. Encouraging others felt good. It still does. But over time, I realized I wasn’t always practicing what I preached. Sometimes I was saying things because I thought that’s what people wanted to hear, or what might earn me an empty double tap of a digital heart.

And I didn’t realize it then, but that’s when the echo of my people-pleasing past began to seep back in. The one who doesn’t know how to say no, so others take advantage. The one who is scared to challenge people because I’m afraid it’ll cost me the relationship. Abandonment issues, am I right?

I found myself slipping back into old habits. Staying quiet. Suppressing my true feelings. Just trying to keep the peace because I couldn’t handle any more chaos. But toward the end of the year, that blew up in my face, like it always does, and I had another anxiety attack. Not fun.

And while I let the echo of the people pleaser creep back in, her best friend piggybacked right along with her and latched onto me.

Greta.
My inner gremlin.

That bitch will not leave me alone. No matter how many times I’ve killed her, she finds a way to resurrect. Self-doubt is something I’ve struggled with for as long as I can remember. It can make me feel small. Worthless. Greta has a sneaky way of taking over, usually showing up as self-sabotage. The dream of writing a book has lived in my heart for years, but every time I thought about it, Greta was there to tell me I wasn’t smart enough. And for a long time, I listened. So it makes sense that when I finally decided to be brave and step into new territory, she did everything she could to stop me.

But here’s the thing I’m only just realizing now as I type this. Greta isn’t evil. She’s trying to keep me safe.

Greta is my anxiety.

And while she has influenced my writing in many ways, I’m slowly learning how to take the mic away from her. She doesn’t like movement or dance much, so I use those as tools. Walking while I write. Letting my body move so my mind can quiet down. It’s become my secret weapon when I’m working on my book.

Greta loves alcohol and THC. They fueled her and amplified her, especially THC, in dangerous ways. It’s been about six months without both of those things, and I am incredibly proud of myself for that. All of this is to say, I’m realizing she will probably always be a part of me. I just need to stop letting her lead.

Anxiety, self-doubt, people-pleasing, the helper. Those echoes didn’t just want to be heard. They wanted somewhere to land. Writing became the place where pain could move instead of bouncing endlessly inside me. Where experience could be broken down, reshaped, and passed forward so it didn’t stay lodged in my chest. Speaking my truth out loud has never come easily to me, but writing has become my outlet. I didn’t realize how much I needed it until I started letting myself use it this way. I write to process, to make sense of things, and to give my pain somewhere to go instead of carrying it alone.

And I share it not just as a form of therapy for myself, but to remind others they aren’t alone. If you’re like me and tend to process pain quietly and internally, it can feel isolating. I want my writing to be a reminder that you’re not broken. That you matter. That your feelings are valid. That we have more in common than we think.

This year I learned that the echoes that followed me into this new room, this new version of myself, will follow me into the next chapter too. They don’t disappear. No matter how hard we try to silence or erase them, they live quietly in our subconscious. What I’ve realized is that it’s up to us how much power we give them.

From the Shadows

December is a weird month for me. It holds both joy and stress at the same time. It’s the season of bright lights, joyful music, cookies, and magic. But it’s also the time when I tend to bite off more than I can chew. At the end of every year I tell myself I’ll slow down and do less. Then the next year I convince myself I can do it all. My heart is always in the right place though. I want to keep showing up for my goals, and I also want to be the Christmas witch for everyone around me. The good kind. Obviously.

Sometimes when we’re running around with our heads cut off trying to create joy for everyone else, we miss the magic right in front of us. It isn’t about the number of gifts under the tree. To be honest, shopping has become my least favorite part of the holidays.

This month, I’m trying to let joy exist without turning it into another thing on my to-do list. I’m paying attention to the small moments instead. The quiet ones. The ones that don’t ask me to do more, just to notice what’s already here.

Like adding the final touches to mini gingerbread man cookies and watching them come to life. Or seeing my son’s face light up when he gets to eat my cookies. Or sitting on the couch watching an epic, cinematic scene in Stranger Things season five, volume one, episode four, and realizing his excitement matched mine. That one felt like a core memory.

All of this is just a reminder that joy isn’t in the stuff we buy. It’s in the small moments we almost rush past when we’re trying to make everything perfect or do it all.

The Monster Grows (Book Progress Update)

🩸 Progress so far: 49,430 words
🎃 Recent win: Finishing the Act II arc for my main protagonist.
🕯️ Biggest challenge: Showing up to write even on the days I didn’t feel like it.

This past month of writing was intense and I am incredibly proud of myself. My goal was 30,000 words and I ended the month at 26,354. That is the most I’ve ever written in a single month. I built so much momentum and I’m honestly excited to finish this book.

One thing I learned is that consistency and showing up when you planned matters way more than the actual word count. There were days I was tired, unmotivated, or just “over it,” but I still wrote. It’s like a workout. Sometimes the hardest part is starting, but once you do, you never stop at one rep. You keep going. And just like a workout, I never regretted a writing session.

These past 30 days I wrote the heart of the book. Some parts got me emotional and wrecked me a little. Even though I didn’t hit my original goal, I made major progress.

For the next couple of weeks, I’m taking a break from drafting to do all the fun holiday things… like bake a gazillion cookies. But right after Christmas, it’s back to a strict writing schedule. I’m going to keep focusing on this first draft until it is done.

This month proved to me that I can write a novel and that small, consistent action will get me to the finish line. Then comes the terrifying edits… but I’m getting ahead of myself.

A Bloom of Terror

Every month, I’ll plant a little horror here. Sometimes it will be a short fiction story, other times a personal essay from my haunted garden.

The Haunted Shelf 📚🎬📺

This is where I’ll share book, movie, and show recommendations. I’d love to know what you’re reading and watching, so feel free to reply with your own favorites.

This month accidentally turned into a little collection of stories about identity and transformation. Each one explores a different kind of becoming, from the fractured self to the created self to the witch who chooses her own power.

📚 The Book – The Bird’s Nest

A psychological horror classic by Shirley Jackson. It follows Elizabeth, a young woman whose identity begins to fracture under the weight of her trauma. Her different personalities start battling each other for control of her life. One of my favorite scenes is when she literally takes four baths in a row… well, the four versions of her do. Lol. This book was written so beautifully, and Shirley Jackson is quickly becoming one of my favorite authors. I cannot wait to read the rest of her work.

🎬 The Movie – Frankenstein

Guillermo del Toro’s take on Mary Shelley’s classic was absolutely beautiful. The acting, the storytelling, and oh my god… the visuals. I was obsessed. I love a good gothic horror story, and seeing such a stunning rendition of it on screen brought me so much joy. Definitely my favorite movie of the year.

📺 The Show – Salem

If you love witchy stories with drama, magic, and a little bit of chaos, Salem is such a fun watch. It reimagines the Salem witch trials with actual witches pulling the strings. It’s messy, dark, dramatic, and so entertaining. If you’re in the mood for something witchy and dramatic, this is a great pick.

From My Creative Crypt

This is my little corner for fun extras. Come take a peek in my crypt and you might find things like an exclusive first look at a photoshoot or book cover. Sometimes I’ll share a playlist, a mood board, or a quote from my book. Other times it might be gardening tips, fun recipes, or something totally unexpected.

And the Cookie Giveaway Winner is…..

The Last Whisper

Thank you for making it all the way to the end of my haunted little newsletter. If you enjoyed it, I’d love if you replied back, shared it with a friend, or just let me know what you’re reading and watching. Your support means the world to me as I start this author journey.

Before I go, here’s your reminder:

December always feels like standing in the doorway between endings and beginnings. It’s a time when I naturally want to reflect on the past year and think about what I want to carry with me into the next one. I don’t really believe in New Year’s resolutions because I truly think you can start over or start working toward a goal any day of the year.

As this year comes to a close, I’m trying to choose joy every single day, even if it’s just for five minutes. The quiet kind of joy. The kind that doesn’t need to be productive or turn into something bigger. The kind that feels like a small ritual. Lighting a candle. Letting music play while you move around the kitchen. Gardening, baking, coloring, doodling, dancing, writing. Creating simply because it feels good, with no pressure to turn it into anything else.

So instead of only focusing on what you want to cut away or fix next year, I invite you to think about what you want to add. What makes you feel a little lighter. A little more like yourself. Joy doesn’t have to be impressive or perfectly planned. Sometimes it’s just a moment you decide to protect. And you deserve those moments.

Until next time,

Christina

I used to think that closing my cookie business (ArmStina’s Cookies) was a failure. That I was a failure. I closed that chapter of my life and moved on. Never looked back. Tucked those memories deep in the cave of my subconscious. The place that holds all the ghosts of my past. The place that even holds some memories hostage which is why I have huge memory gaps. Sorry… that’s a tangent for another time and also a big piece of my book. 🤪

Anyways, what I’m trying to say is that I carried a lot of shame about closing the business. I lived in that shame for a couple years and absolutely dreaded when people asked, “Why did you stop doing cookies?”

But it’s been about a year now since my cookie ghost emerged from the cave. She came back to remind me that those years of my life were not a failure. She reminded me that she was the woman who taught me how to build something from nothing. She reminded me how brave I am, how to bet on myself. That I am strong, resilient, and smart AF. And even when I don’t know the answer, I put my head down, do the work, and figure it out.

Honestly, without her reminding me of all my greatness, I’m not sure I would have ever been brave enough to step into the writing world and start my first book. She even inspired one of the characters in it.

So I’ve decided to let her have a few weeks front and center every December. Last year was totally unplanned, but I see now that she forced her way through to remind me of the joy baking, decorating, and gifting cookies brings me. I’m excited to live in the cookie world for a little bit as I close out this year.

And if you have any ghosts of your past you try to keep buried, I encourage you to look at the good things they gave you. A lot of times we think failure is the end, but really it’s the beginning. As long as we’re willing to look for the lessons and bring them along on our next adventure.

Oh and one more thing…
This year I wanted to share some of my cookies with you. As a thank-you for supporting my writing, I’m giving away a baker’s dozen of classic ArmStina’s Cookies vanilla mini Christmas cookies to one subscriber of The Dark Petal.

If you’re already a subscriber, you’re automatically entered.
If you’re new here, just subscribe with your email below to join in.

The giveaway closes December 10th, and I’ll announce the winner in my December 13th newsletter.

**Shipping is available only within the continental United States.

The posts leaned like old bones, their wood riddled with tiny holes. Chicken wire sagged between them, and last year’s debris spilled over the rusted raised beds. Brittle stalks bent under damp leaves, and a pale dust clung to everything like frost. The soil was cold and heavy, still holding winter’s damp. The air carried a faint sweetness of rot, a reminder that something had lived here once and would again. The holes in the posts were empty now, but she imagined bees sleeping inside, waiting for spring. Donnie called it an eyesore, but Marina ran her hand across the weathered wood as if it were treasure. At last, a garden of her own.

Marina and Donnie moved into their new house during the tail end of winter. Boxes crowded every corner, but while unpacking Marina caught herself daydreaming about the garden. Growing up in apartments, she’d been surrounded by her grandmother’s indoor plants but never had an outdoor space of her own. Now the garden was hers.

“I was thinking about setting up the nook upstairs as a little gardening area for myself,” she said, placing plates into the kitchen shelves.

“ Oh yeah? You do realize gardening is a lot of work. My parents had a small garden every year and it was like a part time job. Are you sure you can handle that? Plus that garden enclosure is falling apart. We’d be better off tearing it down and putting in a pool.” Donnie unwrapped another dish and set it on the counter with a thud.

“I don’t want a pool. The garden stays. And besides my boring accounting job what else I got goin on? I’m going to make it gorgeous, just wait.” She grinned as if daring him to argue.

Over the next six weeks, she turned the upstairs nook into her private greenhouse. A single skylight cut through the slanted ceiling, spilling light across wire shelves, grow lights, and a potting table. She planted zinnias, dahlias, marigolds, cosmos, and sunflowers, already picturing their colors crowding the garden come summer. Outside, she cleared the raised beds, hauling away the old debris and working fresh soil into the beds and pots.

MAY

It was planting day at last. Marina had counted down the cold weeks of April, as Midwest winters always seemed to drag on, waiting for the ground to be ready for her seedlings. She carried them into the garden along with her phone and a portable speaker. With her favorite Jessie Reyez album looping in the background, she knelt by the raised bed and pressed the fragile plants into the soil as if she were tucking children into bed for the night.

And then she heard it, the loud buzzing cutting through the music and growing louder with each second. Pausing the song, Marina stood and circled the garden, searching. To her, it was the truest sign that gardening season had begun. Sunlight glared into her eyes, blurring her view until she slid her sunglasses into place. A sharp hum zipped past her head. She spun, and there it was…a carpenter bee burrowing into the post, carving new holes. Her lips curved up into a smile. In silence she watched it work, hope rising in her chest. A new season had begun.

JUNE

The garden was alive now, green foliage spilling from the raised beds, buds swelling, and some already in full bloom. Bumblebees and carpenter bees drifted from flower to flower, devouring the pollen. Every day after work, Marina walked through the garden, noting even the smallest change in each plant. But not everything had survived. A few seedlings had shriveled without explanation. She blamed bad seeds, tugged them out, and tossed them into the plastic bin she kept for debris. Life outside the garden started to feel heavy, especially at work.

“Marina, I need those checks cut and sent out as soon as possible. Also, did you send the aging reports?” her boss asked as he walked past without looking at her, disappearing into his office.

“On it now,” she said quickly.

Bing. Bing. Bing. Emails lit up her screen — invoices, a reimbursement check, more follow-ups. The other accountants whispered back and forth, gossip spreading through the office like smoke. She tried to block it out, but it was impossible not to listen. Everything blurred together until she couldn’t tell what the priority was. Her leg bounced under the desk, heart racing to the same rhythm. Tears built up as she listed everything in her head. Checks. Aging reports. Reimbursements. Invoices. Checks. Aging reports. Reimbursements. Invoices. She stared blankly at the screen, one hand steady on the mouse, fighting to keep the tears from falling.

As soon as five o’clock came, she logged off and rushed home. She hurried to the garden as if she’d been holding her breath all day. Work had filled her lungs with carbon dioxide, and only here could she breathe again. For the first time all day, a smile tugged at her face as she noticed the new zinnia blooms. She plopped down on the gravel beside the sunflowers. In the quiet, she just listened: birds chirping, bees buzzing, geese squeaking as they flew overhead. For a minute, she let herself daydream. Feeling so accomplished with the garden, she began to wonder if this could be more than a hobby. She could grow flowers and open a small floral shop. What a life that would be, one full of beauty every day. Now that was a dream.

JULY

The skies had turned restless. Storms rolled through one after another, pounding the garden with heavy rain and splitting the air with lightning, thunder rumbling under her feet. Marina stood at the window, counting the seconds between the flash and the thunder, her plants trembling under the downpour. She watched the dahlias and sunflowers sway, worried their stalks would snap. After days trapped inside, she was growing restless.

Donnie came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Looks like it’s going to storm all weekend. Should we order pizza and watch a movie? You can pick.” His voice was light, coaxing.

“Yeah, I guess. I don’t even know what’s out. You pick.” She sighed, pressing her forehead to the glass. “I need the distraction anyway. I’ve been so nervous about what the storms might do to the garden.”

“How about Bram Stoker’s Dracula?” he grinned. “You’ll love the cast and you’ll love that it’s set in the 1800s.”

Warmth filled her chest. She turned, kissed him, and nodded yes.

By Monday the storms had passed. She’d spent the whole day at work daydreaming about cutting fresh flowers to bring inside. To her surprise, none of the dahlias or sunflowers had snapped. Everything looked untouched, as if the storms had never come. She slipped on her gardening gloves, grabbed her scissors, and started cutting zinnias. As she trimmed away the leaves, a puff of dust flew into her right eye.

“Fuck,” she muttered, blinking hard. With her hands full, she kept the eye shut and tried to finish quickly. That was when she noticed the faint white specks on the leaves. She tried to fight through the pain but couldn’t take it any longer. Finally, she hurried inside, rinsed it with water, and used eye drops until the pain dulled, leaving her eye pink and raw.

After eating dinner alone, she sank onto the couch, scrolling TikTok without thinking. More innocent people being detained by ICE. A school shooting. Breaking news, breaking news, breaking news. Each swipe heavier than the last, the screen’s light flickering against her blank stare. She lost track of time until Donnie’s voice cut through the noise.

“Marina… Marina. Hun.” Louder each time.

“What?! What do you want?” she snapped, dropping the phone onto her lap.

“Everything okay? I noticed the eye drops in the bathroom. Your eye looks a little pink.”

“I’m fine. Just some dust from the garden. It’s not a big deal.”

“You seem stressed. Something happen at work? Did I do something?” His concern grew with every question.

“Oh, you know. Just the impending doom of this country. And yeah, work fuckin sucked. I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

She went upstairs without waiting for him. Sleep never came, only the sting in her eye and the crawling thought that something was waiting in the dark.

AUGUST

By August the garden should have been in its glory, colors bursting from every bloom. But the leaves had lost their shine, their green dulled to a weary matte. The air hung thick, heavy with the smell of damp soil and something sour underneath. Then came the white spots, spreading across the leaves, dulling their colors. That night, as Marina changed for bed, she caught a glimpse of her arm in the mirror as she scratched it aggressively. A pale patch stared back at her, shaped like the leaves from the garden. Her eczema must be back, she told herself. She rubbed on lotion and turned off the light.

Morning came not with a sunrise but with a heavy gray cloud that seemed to have been waiting for her. The first thought that greeted her was a smog of failure pressing against her chest. What did I do wrong in the garden? she wondered. She replayed every step in her head, searching for the mistake that could have caused the spots. Without leaving the bed, she grabbed her phone and typed: why are white spots spreading on plants. The screen filled with results, all pointing to the same thing: powdery mildew. A fungal disease that spreads quickly.

That afternoon Marina was determined to try every remedy she’d read about. Cut off infected leaves. Apply fungicide. So she went plant by plant, stripping the dahlias, then the zinnias, then the sunflowers. By the time she was done, a pile of leaves lay at her feet, pale and spotted, like scraps of diseased skin. She emptied two bottles of fungicide Donnie had picked up for her that morning, drenching what remained.

Her phone buzzed as she gathered the pile. She let it ring several times before finally answering, already annoyed.

“Hello.”

“Everything’s going to shit. Nice turn signal, asshole! Hello. Have you talked to your sister? I’ve been trying to get ahold of her for days,” her mother’s voice snapped, chaos spilling through the phone.

“Nope. Haven’t talked to her all week. She’s probably busy with work and the girls,” Marina said, already moving to defend her sister.

“Well, tell her to call me.”

Beep. Beeeeeep. “Green means go! Dumbass!” her mom yelled away from the phone. Then, without pause: “So I heard you’re thinking about quitting your job to open a flower shop. You’re not serious, right? Your sister said it as a joke, right?” She laughed, sharp and dismissive.

“I’m not doing anything right now, but yes, I was toying with the idea.”

“Don’t be an idiot. You have a steady job with decent pay. In this economy, you’re lucky to have what you have.”

“I know, it was just an id—”

“That’s your dad calling me. Let me call you back.” The line went dead.

She dropped her phone onto the garden table, harder than she meant to. The words don’t be an idiot echoed in her head. The pile of diseased leaves at her feet seemed to mock her, proof that her mom had been right all along. Useless. Hopeless. A joke. She craved alcohol like she hadn’t before, needing something, anything to take the edge off.

Leaving the mess behind, she hurried inside. “I’m running to the store. Be right back,” she called to Donnie. As she pushed open the back screen door, something in the glass caught her eye. A pale patch spread across her chest, ghostly against her skin, as big and round as a sunflower leaf. Heat rash? No. Heat rash burned red. This was something else, and it looked wrong. Her anger wouldn’t let her linger on it. She shut the door hard and headed for the store.

The Trader Joe’s parking lot pulsed with chaos. Cars circled like vultures, hunting for spots, while others idled with their turn signals clicking in impatient rhythms. Shoppers zigzagged through traffic, arms full of bags, as if they were trying to outrun the madness. Marina spotted a car backing out and accelerated into the space, cutting off the driver who had been waiting patiently. The driver leaned on the horn, but she didn’t care. Sliding on her sunglasses, she stuck up her middle finger and walked toward the store.

The store was no better. Every aisle was overcrowded with workers stocking shelves, carts blocking the way, and kids staring at their phones and iPads as they drifted aimlessly while their parents shopped. Marina didn’t bother looking around for anything but beer. She power-walked, weaved through the crowd, and headed straight to the back. At the display, a young couple stood chatting in front of the stacked cases. She didn’t want to be in the store a second longer than she had to. Just grab the beer, any beer, she told herself. Without a word, she slipped between them and snatched a four-pack, then made her way toward the registers.

The lines crawled. Tapping her foot impatiently, she scrolled TikTok. Video after video showed blooming gardens, all bright colors and perfect flowers. Each one made her more restless. Finally, she leaned to the right and snapped, “What’s the holdup here?” No one answered. Just a few mean looks tossed in her direction.

Back home, she dropped onto the couch beside Donnie and cracked open a beer, drinking it in less than two minutes.

“Woah. Are you okay? You usually don’t drink that fast. That’s probably the fastest I’ve ever seen you drink a beer our entire time together,” Donnie said, concern in his voice.

“Just needed something to take the edge off,” she muttered, already reaching for another.

She paused mid-sip. “I want you to look at something for me. Do you see the spots on my arm? And my chest?”

Donnie leaned in, squinting. “No. It just looks like a little dry skin.”

She didn’t reply. She just drank, phone back in her hand. She knew it wasn’t dry skin. She could feel it seeping into her, spreading, suffocating her from the inside out. By the time she finished the four-pack, she was doomscrolling in a haze, drifting into sleep on the couch, numb to her failures.

SEPTEMEBER

The garden was completely swallowed by powdery mildew. Every leaf wore a layer of white dust, as if a light frost had passed, though the air was still thick with eighty-degree heat. A few flowers still tried to bloom, but their petals were muted, as if a gray filter had been laid over them, draining out every trace of color. Marina stood among the ruined plants, still as a scarecrow, eyes glazed over. More pale patches had surfaced on her arms and legs, spreading like the mildew on the plants she could no longer control.

At her desk, Marina stared blankly at the screen, fingers moving across the keyboard as if she were entering invoices. She did this for ten minutes before her coworker approached.

“So, did you hear? Taylor quit. Today’s her last day,” Veronica said.

Marina kept typing nonsense, then slowly looked up without moving her head.

“Marina… did you hear me? Taylor quit. Operations is freaking out.”

“Smells like decaying flesh,” Marina whispered.

“What?” Veronica blinked. “Anyway, people are dropping like flies. Might need to start looking elsewhere before things get bad.” She went back to scrolling her phone.

“All life must end,” Marina said. “My time here is done. Tell everyone I quit.”

Then she stood, grabbed her purse, and walked out of the office.

Rushing inside to change after work, she stood in front of the mirror. More patches had appeared since the week before, spreading in uneven, leaf-shaped clusters. They dusted her skin, pale as chalk, fluffy to look at but dry to the touch. She ran her fingers across one, and a fine residue clung to her fingertips, like the powder on the leaves outside. No matter how much lotion she used, the skin cracked again, flaking in thin white lines. She stayed there for a while, brushing her hand over her skin, rubbing her fingers together, watching the powder drift to the floor. Something in her chest ached, a pull she couldn’t name. The garden needed her. Or maybe she needed it.

By the time she stepped outside, the sun was starting to dip, bleeding through the clouds in a pale amber haze. The air was thick and still. She picked up the hose and began watering what was left of the garden. The soil turned to mud around the roots, but she kept going, her blank eyes fixed on the wilted stems.

“Hey, hun. What are you doing home so early?” Donnie asked as he approached the garden.

Marina slowly turned her head toward him, still watering the plants, but said nothing.

“Marina? What’s going on?” His voice wavered with concern.

She didn’t respond. The water kept running. Donnie reached out and grabbed her arm to get her attention, panic in his touch.

“Marina, talk to me. You’re scaring me.”

“Oh… I… um… quit… my job,” she whispered.

“You what? Why? You really shouldn’t of done that without talking to me. We just bought this house.” He shook his head, frustrated.

Marina turned back to the plants and kept watering them.

“Marina, that’s enough water. The garden’s basically dead,” he said, backing away toward the deck. “Please, just come inside.”

He went inside, the screen door slamming behind him. Silence settled over the yard. Marina didn’t move. The hose slipped from her hand, snaking at her feet as water spilled into the mud. She watched it pool around her shoes, soaking through the fabric, but she didn’t step back. The air hung heavy, sweet with rot. Somewhere beneath the surface, something was still growing.

OCTOBER

The garden rustled in a papery whisper with each gust of wind. A sepia haze, coated in a thin layer of white dust, had overtaken everything, leaving no trace of green. The sunflowers, once proud and tall, bowed their heads in final surrender. The zinnias had turned parchment-like and brittle, their stems folding in on themselves. A faint scent of must lingered in the air. Everywhere she looked, the garden was dead, yet loud with all of Marina’s failures. Marina stood among the ruin, the hose in her hand again. Water trickled over the dead stems, soaking the dirt until it bled into pale streaks of mud. She couldn’t remember turning the spigot on. She just knew she had to keep watering.

She spent most of her days of unemployment sleeping, doomscrolling, and watering the garden. She lived in the same faded sweats, the fabric soft from wear, hiding the pale patches beneath. Hours passed without meaning. She was on the couch, scrolling through her phone, not even remembering what she read or watched, when Donnie came home from work. Their conversations had grown shorter, thinner, fading like background noise.

“Hey. Apply to any jobs today?” Donnie asked as he cooked dinner for the two of them.

Marina didn’t answer, just nodded no. She kept scrolling as he walked upstairs to take a call. After a moment, she paused, listening.

“Of course she doesn’t know.”

“I can’t wait any longer.”

“Meet me tonight.”

Heat rushed through Marina, a knot settling deep in her stomach. This fucker is cheating on me, she thought. He might as well have killed us both. This is the end. For us. The thoughts looped in her head as she crossed her arms, waiting for him to come back downstairs. When Donnie finally did, Marina stood up fast to meet him at the bottom of the steps.

“Who were you just talking to?” she snapped.

“Just Javi. He invited us to his place this weekend,” he said, avoiding eye contact.

“Huh…” Marina pressed her lips together and raised them toward her nose, her eyebrows lifting. She turned and walked back to the couch.

After eating dinner in silence, Donnie left the table to clean up the dishes, leaving his phone behind. Marina glanced at it, then opened his recent calls. A name flashed across the screen—one she never expected to see. Kristen. Her sister.

He’s cheating on me with my sister. He’s cheating on me with my sister. He’s cheating on me with my sister.

She repeated it over and over, as if trying to convince herself it was true, even as disbelief sank deeper into her gut.

“Hey, I’m gonna run to Jewel real quick. We’re out of milk,” Donnie said, breaking through her spiral. He grabbed his phone and keys and headed out the door.

Marina curled her fists tight and slammed them onto the table. A small cloud of powder billowed into the air. Her heart pounded faster and faster, like a jackhammer in her chest. When she looked down, her hands were covered in pale patches. Too angry to care, she stood and walked toward the back door. Just as she reached for the handle, a flash of movement caught her eye. Her reflection stared back from the accent mirror. Her entire face was engulfed in the same dry, fluffy white dry patches.

Moments later, she was in the garden again. The night was still, the air heavy and dark. The hose hissed softly in her hand as she watered the dead garden, her eyes glazed and unfocused. The water pooled around the lifeless stems, seeping into soil that could no longer take it in. She felt the patches permeate through her body every time she watered, but it didn’t stop her. Some part of her believed the garden still needed it, that without her, even the mildew might die. Footsteps approached, the crunching of dry leaves breaking the silence, but she didn’t flinch. The voices came next, low at first, then clearer with each step.

“I need your help to talk some sense into her. She hasn’t been herself lately.”

“She doesn’t always listen to me, you know, but I’ll try. Is she that bad?”

“Shhh. Do you hear that?”

“Hear what? All I hear are the damn planes flying over us.”

“It’s Marina. She’s watering the dead garden again. I swear to God, I’m going to tear this enclosure down tomorrow.”

“Let’s talk to her first, see what’s going on. I know my sister. She may just need someone to talk to, maybe a therapist or something.”

“Marina,” Donnie called out.

Heat swelled beneath her skin, thick and pulsing. The pale patches rippled faintly, rising and falling like they were breathing. When she moved, flakes drifted from her arms, soft as ash, revealing something raw and pink beneath. The air smelled faintly of rot and earth. She wasn’t sure if it was coming from the garden or from her.

Donnie and Kristen stepped into the garden, switching on the flashlights on their phones for light.

“Marina! I called for you. For fuck’s sake, why are you watering this dead gar—”

Before he could finish, she swung the hose at his head, knocking him unconscious.

“Oh my go—”

Marina grabbed the shovel and brought it down against the side of her sister’s temple. She sent her sprawling.

Marina stood over their bodies, motionless, watching as blood oozed from their heads. Then she heard it, the low familiar buzzing. A smile spread across her face as the carpenter bees drifted over the bodies.

I am finally writing the part of my book that the story was inspired by. Each day I give myself a word count goal and do whatever it takes to get it done. Some days that means writing for a half hour three different times. Other days it’s killing two birds with one stone and walking while writing. Or it’s four hours of straight writing with a few breaks sprinkled throughout.

In the past ten days I’ve written about 11,000 words, which is more than I’ve ever written in a month since starting this book. So what’s changed? Why am I able to write more now? I stopped creating detailed scene cards for each scene and started using a loose outline as a guide instead. I also stopped editing as I wrote and stopped trying to write pretty.

While that shift has helped me move forward, it has also brought me into a daily battle with my inner gremlin, Greta. Every single day after writing I feel both accomplished and discouraged. It’s as if Greta grows louder with each word I put down. Whenever I tell myself how proud I am for hitting my goal, Greta is right there saying, “Yeah, but the writing sucked. It’s too simple. It’s ugly.” When I let myself say how much I love this story and can’t wait to finish it, she responds with, “It’s not original. It’s been done before.”

There have been times when I read a little of The Bird’s Nest by Shirley Jackson and come back to my draft only for Greta to greet me with, “You’ll never be as good as her. Just give up. Why bother? The chances of getting traditionally published are next to none.”

The inside of my head is chaos. Between living in my story and my constant knife fights with Greta, it can be a lot. But each day I show up despite the noise and doubts, I am teaching myself that I do belong.

I’ve also printed out everything I’ve written so far and will keep doing that with each chapter. It’s a physical reminder of everything I’ve accomplished. My manuscript receipts, I like to call them. I keep reminding myself that I didn’t come this far to only come this far.

Bottom line…I absolutely love my story, and a huge piece of my heart is being written into it. I will finish this book and get it published. I don’t know if that means traditionally or self-publish. I don’t know what the future holds, but I do know this: all I have is now.

So I will keep showing up even though Greta will be waiting for me, knife in hand. And if I show up and fight back enough times, I know I can kill that bitch. Like I said before, I will be the final girl of my own story.

This week’s piece is a little longer than my usual mini story, but I had so much fun writing it I couldn’t bring myself to shorten it. It was inspired by the photo shoot my husband and I did on Halloween.

P.S. The encounter with the deer 100% happened. Enjoy!

The Photo Shoot

As Becca walked through the woods to meet Agnes for the photo shoot, a gust of wind greeted her with a sharp bite. It was early November in Chicago, which meant the leaves were putting on their final show. Vibrant oranges, reds, and yellows cascaded through the trees, while layers of muted brown leaves crunched beneath her boots. As the sun began to dip, its rays filtered through the branches, creating a mosaic of light and shadow that stretched across the forest floor.

The further in Becca went, the heavier the pit in her stomach became. She still couldn’t believe she’d been chosen for this shoot. Agnes was a well-known photographer in the Midwest and was usually very particular about the models she chose for her campaigns.

“Over here!” Agnes called out.

Becca quickened her pace, careful not to trip over the chaos of fallen branches.

“I just need to finish setting up, then we can start,” Agnes said as she unfolded the tripod.

“Sounds good,” Becca said, setting her things down on the ground.

“Alright let’s start with some practice shots. Stand right in front of the tree. Without the jacket for now. Once the sun goes down we can take some with the jacket.” Agnes said as she started snapping away.

Becca stood in front of the tree, trying to quiet the nervous rhythm in her chest while she waited for Agnes to speak. As Agnes kept taking pictures and adjusting her settings, Becca’s gaze began to drift, taking in the scenery. Her eyes stopped when they met another fixed gaze staring back at her. Goosebumps rippled along her arms as she realized a deer was watching her. Its head moved slowly between Agnes and Becca, but it stayed where it was…graceful and unphased.

“Alright, all set. You ready?” Agnes said, breaking Becca’s gaze.

“I’m a bit nervous, to be honest. Please just let me know what you need from me. I’m not afraid of feedback and direction,” Becca said.

“Oh stop. You’re gorgeous and perfect for today. This will be over quickly,” Agnes said as she started taking pictures.

The next half hour was poses and the sound of the camera shutter. They moved through different areas of the woods, chasing the light. Becca, still new to modeling, didn’t ask any questions. She just did what she was told. She didn’t want to seem difficult to work with because Agnes’s reference could open doors for her.

“Okay, I think I got everything I need here. Now we just need a few more shots with the jacket,” Agnes said as she adjusted the settings and turned on the flash of her camera.

“Lemme grab it real quick. Be right back,” Becca said, scanning the woods to find where she’d set her things.

As she walked the short distance toward her bag, the last trace of sunlight vanished, and the moon took its place. The forest fell silent. Even the wind seemed to stop. A heavy stillness pressed against her ears, and her heartbeat grew loud enough to fill the space around her. The woods stretched endlessly in every direction, swallowed by a blanket of darkness.

Becca’s hand trembled as she reached into her pocket to use her phone as a flashlight. She set it face down so the small circle of light illuminated her while she slipped on the jacket.

A sharp crack of a branch splintered the silence, and Becca froze.
“Agnes? That you?” she called out, but no one answered.
Another sound followed, a soft rustle of leaves.
“Agnes!” she called again, sweeping her light through the darkness to find where the noise was coming from.

Becca couldn’t make sense of what was happening. She knew she should run, but her body refused to move, her feet felt heavy and stuck as if glued to the ground. Every shadow her phone light touched seemed to twist and shift, forming shapes her mind couldn’t define.

Was it the deer? she thought.

Then came more crunching, quicker this time, like footsteps running toward her. Panic surged through her chest.

RUN. She told herself. Just one foot in front of the other. Don’t look back.

She tore through the woods, jumping over fallen trees and branches. Everything was a blur as she kept running. Her lungs burned, each breath raw and heavy in her chest. Suddenly, she thought of Agnes and hoped she was okay. The thought distracted her, and she didn’t see the branch in front of her until the toe of her boot caught beneath it.

Her world tilted. Gravity took hold, and she hit the ground hard, the impact jarring her bones and sending her phone flying a few feet away. Before she could get up, the footsteps behind her grew louder. As she reached for her phone, and the beam of light caught movement.

Agnes.

She smiled at Becca before swinging the tripod, striking her across the head. Everything went black.

****

Her vision flickered in and out, shapes bleeding together. The ground felt cold beneath her, and a dull ringing filled her ears. When she blinked again, the shadows began to take shape. Agnes and a much taller man were standing in front of her, whispering to each other.

Both wore masks. Agnes’s was a feathered, horned masquerade mask, elegant but strange in the dim light. The man’s mask made Becca squirm, wishing she could free herself from the ropes binding her to the tree trunk. It was grotesque, horned, leathery, and molded into the face of a demon. The area near his mouth was open just enough to expose yellow, jagged decaying teeth.

Agnes bent down and ran her finger through the blood dripping down Becca’s face. Becca realized she was bleeding and tried to scream, but nothing came out through the gag. Agnes used the blood on her finger to draw a pentagram on Becca’s thighs.

I’m going to die, Becca thought.

She let herself drift, taking in the scenery one last time. Her eyes met the same gaze as before. The deer was still there, lying in the same spot, watching. Unmoving. Unbothered.

The man’s voice pulled her attention back.
“Let’s begin,” he said.

From the Shadows

As I looked out the window and saw our first snowfall of the season, I was reminded of the beauty in change. I can say with confidence that the last few blooms in my garden won’t make it after today, but that’s the beauty of seasons. They remind us that, just like nature, our lives ebb and flow. Some seasons are full of sunshine and color, others are cloudy and stormy. If you’re in a hard season right now, know that it will pass. And if life feels good at the moment, be fully present in it, because that too will eventually shift.

This past year, I’ve been working on being more present and practicing gratitude. It’s easy to get caught up in what’s missing or what’s next, but when we focus only on what’s wrong, that’s all we see. So I encourage you to take a moment each day to find one small thing you’re grateful for.

Here’s mine: I’m grateful for every single person who took time out of their day to read this. Time is the most valuable thing we have, and it means the world to me that you share some of it here. I’m also grateful for my boys, Armando and Nicholas. I’m lucky to have a partner who supports me wholeheartedly and makes it possible for me to write, and a son who’s a huge nerd like his parents. It’s an honor to be your mom and watch you grow (even if I’ll never understand what 6 7 means). Don’t ever change, kid.

The Monster Grows (Book Progress Update)

🩸 Progress so far: 29,377 words
🎃 Recent win: Writing a messy chapter of the book without editing it.
🕯️ Biggest challenge: Continuing to believe in my story and writing everyday.

I’ve learned a lot about the world of writing this year, and one thing that keeps popping up is NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). It’s a challenge to write a 50,000-word manuscript in 30 days. And if you know me, I love a good challenge. So naturally, I wanted in but with some modifications to fit my life and schedule. I started a a week late but my plan is to write daily for the next month and finish Act II.

When I first decided to turn this idea into a novel, all I really knew was the middle of the book, which I now know is Act II. I had no idea how it started or ended. Now that I’ve finished Act I, all I have for Act III is a concept of a plan. I’m hoping that by the time I finish writing Act II, the characters will tell me how it’s supposed to end. Right now, I’m deep in the parts I already knew for Camila, which has been fun. Izzy’s POV, on the other hand, is an entirely different story. She’s holding the pen herself at this point.

I keep reminding myself that my only job right now is to get the story out. Even if it’s messy and ugly (and let’s be honest, it 100 percent will be). That’s the beauty of edits. Finding the gems and adding color later. For now, the story just needs to exist. These are the bones. The rest will come together in the oh so many rounds of edits. I’m doing my best to stay present and grateful for this stage because I know I’ll miss it when it’s gone.

A Bloom of Terror

Every month, I’ll plant a little horror here. Sometimes it will be a short fiction story, other times a personal essay from my haunted garden.

The Haunted Shelf 📚🎬📺

This is where I’ll share book, movie, and show recommendations. I’d love to know what you’re reading and watching, so feel free to reply with your own favorites.

This month’s theme is coming-of-age horror. I’ve always loved stories that explore what it means to grow up, especially when it’s messy, emotional, and a little bit dark. These picks all have that in common, characters on the edge of adulthood, learning who they are, and facing the monsters that come with it, both real and imagined.

📚 The Book – When Devils Sing

A YA horror debut by Xan Kaur. When Devils Sing is dark, poetic, and in my opinion, a reflection of what’s happening in the world right now. The rich and powerful stay that way by sacrificing those less fortunate. Beneath the horror, it’s really a coming-of-age story about an unlikely group of teenagers who come together to investigate a local teen’s disappearance. Each one is carrying their own trauma while trying to figure out who they are and how to move forward as they step into adulthood.

🎬 The Movie – Hellbender

If you like witchy vibes, this movie is for you. It follows a mother and her teenage daughter who live deep in the mountains. After being sheltered her entire life and only ever interacting with her mother, the daughter, Izzy, starts to get curious about the outside world and befriends another teenager. As she begins to explore life beyond their home, she learns the truth about herself and her mother. It’s a slow but beautiful burn, and the music is fantastic. Easily one of my favorite witch movies of all time.

📺 The Show – Stranger Things

I’m going to assume everyone reading this knows about Stranger Things. The final season starts dropping November 26 and will be released in segments throughout the year. Armando and I have watched the show since it first premiered and have loved it from the beginning.

What made this year special is that we rewatched the first four seasons with our 10-year-old son, Nicholas. Seeing it through his eyes and watching him fall in love with the story is something I’ll always treasure. I was so aware in the moment that we were creating a core memory, the time he became completely obsessed with Stranger Things.

His favorite character is Dustin, and he’s gotten emotional during a few scenes (no spoilers here, just in case). I can’t wait to experience the final season together as a family, even though I’m pretty sure it’s going to emotionally wreck all three of us.

From My Creative Crypt

This is my little corner for fun extras. Come take a peek in my crypt and you might find things like an exclusive first look at a photoshoot or book cover. Sometimes I’ll share a playlist, a mood board, or a quote from my book. Other times it might be gardening tips, fun recipes, or something totally unexpected.

This month’s fun extra is something sweet…literally. I’m giving away a baker’s dozen of Armstina’s Cookies holiday-decorated classic vanilla sugar cookies to one lucky subscriber. The winner will be announced in my December 13th newsletter, and I’ll reach out by email afterward to get your mailing address.

If you’re not subscribed yet, there’s still time! Subscribe to The Dark Petal by December 10th to be entered into the giveaway. Consider it my way of saying thank you for being part of this little haunted corner of the internet. 🎄🍪

The Last Whisper

Thank you for making it all the way to the end of my haunted little newsletter. If you enjoyed it, I’d love if you replied back, shared it with a friend, or just let me know what you’re reading and watching. Your support means the world to me as I start this author journey.

Before I go, here’s your reminder:

As all the stress of the holiday season begins, make sure you’re prioritizing your well-being. Move your body. Do something that brings you joy. Be present. And take a moment each day for gratitude. And I don’t mean gratitude for material things. I’m talking about the little moments we often take for granted, like a warm cup of coffee (or if you’re like me, an iced one). You get the point.

I shared some of my gratitude earlier, and now it’s your turn. What is something or someone you’re grateful for? Write it down. Tell them. Just promise me you’ll look for one good thing each day to be grateful for. There’s beauty all around us, even in the storms.

One last thing:

“But I know you’re getting older, growing, changing. And, I guess, if I’m being really honest, that’s what scares me. I don’t want things to change.

So I think maybe that’s why I came in here, to try and stop that change. To turn back the clock. To make things go back to how they were. But I know that’s naive. It’s just not how life works.

It’s moving, always moving, whether you like it or not. And yeah, sometimes it’s painful. Sometimes it’s sad. And sometimes, it’s surprising. Happy.

So you know what? Keep on growing up, kid. Don’t let me stop you. Make mistakes, learn from ‘em. And when life hurts you, because it will, remember the hurt. The hurt is good. It means you’re out of that cave.” — Jim Hopper, Stranger Things

Until next time,

Christina