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I woke up to some great news this morning. The editors over at Gavagai have selected my short story, Hands, as today's Editor's Pick.

They included a logline that I wish I had written myself: "A surgeon’s trembling hands begin as a symptom, and become a sentence."

If you haven't read it yet, it’s a quick slide into medical horror and the loss of control. You can read the full story here: https://www.gavagai.com/posts/859

Thanks to the team at Gavagai for the shout-out.

Every once in a while, a reader articulates your intent more clearly than you ever could while writing the thing.

I opened Goodreads this week to find a review of No Kings that stopped me cold, not because it was generous (though it was), but because it named the engine under the stories.

“We’re already halfway to these futures, and we signed the user agreement without reading it.”

That line could have been an epigraph.

No Kings was never meant to be predictive fiction. I wasn’t trying to guess...

Woke up with that familiar sense that the world wants to fight me. Not in a dramatic, end-of-days way, just that low, stubborn resistance you can feel before you’re even fully awake. The kind of morning where the air itself seems to mutter, “prove it.”

Writing doesn’t care if you’re ready. Drafts don’t care if you slept. The stories waiting in the wings certainly don’t. They lean in. They test your balance. They ask if you’ve got anything left worth putting on the page.

Some mornings you glide...

Just a quick note as I get ready to start a new posting rhythm next week.

Writing feels like debugging a haunted machine. You fix one thing and three more flicker in the corner of your eye. I’ve been wanting a steady place to drop those moments. The oddities. The excerpts. The dread. All the little things that don’t sit right.

Day Zero is me cracking the door open.

“The system said it was protecting me. I never asked it from what.”

More soon. The static’s warming up.

Writing a book is solitary confinement. You sit in a room. You stare at a blinking cursor. You invent problems. It's safe in there because nobody can tell you you're wrong.

Then you finish. You have to open the door.

I decided to run an ARC campaign for This Book May Kill You. I needed eyes on the text before the final release. I needed to know if the pacing worked. I needed to find the typos my brain refuses to see.

The process is simple on paper. You put out a call. You ask for volunteers. You...

Friday mornings always hit with that weird liminal energy. Like the week’s finally loosening its grip, but your brain hasn’t decided whether to rest or cause problems on purpose. Mine usually chooses “problems.”

This is the hour where the strange ideas slip in. The feral ones. The ones that knock politely, then barge in anyway.

Hey buddy, what if your smart home started giving you parenting advice?

You know. Normal writer thoughts.

And honestly? I’ve stopped fighting it. There’s something sacred...

Doctors are reporting that health insurers using AI for prior authorization are denying care at rates up to 16 times higher than human reviewers (American Medical Association). More than one in four physicians say prior authorization has led to serious adverse events in their care, including hospitalization, permanent impairment, or death (American Medical Association).

Starting January 2026, Medicare's running a pilot in six states to see "how much money an artificial intelligence algorithm...

SirusXM reached out about my short story "Mrs. Krampus" (from my collection WRONG CHANNELS).

They’re planning to have it recorded by one of their hosts and aired on Scream Radio, a special Halloween pop-up channel launching October 15th.

So, yes, a story about a mom who may or may not turn into Krampus will soon be read aloud to actual humans across the country.

Thrilled. Terrified. Wondering if this means I need to start leaving cookies out for horned demons.

Huge thanks to the SiriusXM for...

Camouflaged by the grinding noise of the everyday, a new kind of evil is thriving. It doesn’t wear a mask or carry a knife, it wears a badge, an ID card, and a headset.

Internal Use Only is a collection of these forbidden files. It contains leaked reports, frantic chat logs, and classified memos documenting the monsters of the modern age. The kind that don’t stalk you in the dark. They work in HR, they run compliance and some even write code.

The stories in this anthology were never meant to be...

My new short story Flex began with a simple question: who do we trust with our systems, and what happens when that trust is misplaced?

Joshua Christopher Hutchinson is the kind of man every company wants. Early to meetings, generous with dad jokes, always the first to reply in Slack. He’s the smiling face of cybersecurity at Dalton–Strauss . He's the guy who keeps hospitals, banks, and networks “safe.”

His coworkers call him Flex behind his back, a nickname born from his habit of always having...

The weird thing about finishing a novel is realizing the characters didn’t get the memo.

PRIMACY is done. The file is exported, the cover is live, the story has its ending. But my head still sounds like Berlin at midnight with wolves pacing, wires humming and ghosts of the people I made refusing to shut up.

You spend years in that world, and suddenly you’re supposed to move on. Write the next thing. Sell the current thing. Pretend the emotional hangover is just caffeine withdrawal. But endings...

Self-publishing means you're the writer, editor, marketer, accountant, and because the universe enjoys a joke, the graphic designer too.

And here's the kicker...I went to college for graphic design! I know the theory, the grids, the Pantone wheel. I can talk typography until your eyes glaze over. And still, I've found myself at 2 a.m. locked in a death match with two shades of red, convinced my entire career depends on choosing the "right" one.

The Hat Pile

Indie publishing is a hat pile that...

This won't be tidy.

Think of it more like a lab notebook I left open on the wrong desk. Some pages will be book news. Releases, events, covers I can legally show you. Some will be stray transmissions from the universes I'm building. And some will just be me, yelling into the void about AI, dragons, or whatever weird headline made its way into my pysche that day.

If you're here, you've probably already met the kind of story I tell. The ones where the code starts praying. Where blood remembers...