My Very First Quarantine Art

The pandemic is still ongoing, in case you hadn’t noticed. Worse now, if that’s even possible. Sometimes, I think back to when it started, and how we all locked down so quickly. We sold out of toilet paper! Everybody got to work from home.

And now… cases are sweeping through the nation. People are going to work like everything is normal. But it’s not. And it likely never will be again.

The image below is my very first piece of quarantine art. It seems so long ago, and yet, not long ago at all.

When we first went into lockdown, I spent the first month very stressed out, overwhelmed, and confused. Eventually, I decided I needed to manage my feelings, so I quit drinking, set up an exercise schedule, and began to draw. 

When I first sat down to do art, my biggest problem was that I didn't know what to draw. It had been a long time since I’d had a regular practice. So I drew a line. And then another. And then another.

The rules were: there's no such thing as a bad line. Keep going. You have to finish, no matter how you feel about it. 

It turned out, this was a very good set of rules for me. I tend to rush through art, so this forced me to slow down and take it one line at a time. I also tend to abandon art if I don't like it halfway through, so this forced me to keep pushing forward even if I didn't like it in the middle (spoiler: I almost always like a piece when it's done, even if I hate it in the middle).

Finally, forcing myself to keep going made it so that I kept having to come back to art, even when I didn't feel like it, because I needed to finish every piece and fill every page. 

This process turned out to be almost meditative to me. I'd throw on a TV show in the background, crawl in bed with my sharpies and a sketchbook, and several hours later, I'd emerge with a new piece of art and a new sense of calm.

This approach has worked wonders for me over the years (yes, I can say that because it’s been years plural since the pandemic began). Hopefully, I will continue to make art well into my 90s.

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The Bench at the End of the Universe

There has always been much speculation among scientists and philosophers about what exactly lies at the end of the universe. These speculative debates tend to be friendly, but that’s not to say no one ever wound up engaged in fisticuffs over the question. Philosophers in particular are inclined to solve the occasional disagreement with a good, old-fashioned boxing match.

Ideas vary widely. Some suggest all of everything exists in a loop, and that, in fact, the universe never ends. Instead “the end” is nothing more than right back where you started. You live, you die, you live, you die, you do it all over again.

Some say it is twenty-six dimensions and instead of reaching the end you just sort of wind up in the next dimension over, still in the same place… but different. Like a wibbly-wobbly ball of interdimensional mush folding over on itself for all eternity.

Some say the universe is expanding so quickly that no matter how fast you travel, you will never reach the end. Others say that heaven is at end of the universe, or hell. Still others say there is nothing at all at the end of the universe. It is true emptiness. A void.

One philosopher in particular believed that the end of the universe is a nothing but a utopia of pink rabbits, frolicking in a sea of white apple blossoms under a clear blue sky.

The answer is, in fact, much simpler.

There is a bench at the end of the universe.

“Perplexed” is the word which best describes the reaction of most scientists upon learning of this discovery. Astrophysicists, engineers, mathematicians, quantum physicists, astronomers, biologists—even astrologists found themselves shocked and confused. Perhaps even a little disappointed. They weren’t quite sure what to do with the bench, or what it meant. So they did what scientists do best: they catalogued it—its shape, its size, its color, its smell.

It is a solitary bench, surrounded by mist and fog, with a lush layer of dewy, green grass beneath. The wood is worn but not rotted, with a few initials scratched into the surface (after all, what is more romantic than carving your initials into the bench at the end of the universe?). It isn't cemented to the ground or secured by wooden posts, yet it cannot be moved.

It is the Bench at the End of the Universe.

Once the bench was discovered, scientists began to hypothesize. The first question they asked was, "How is there a bench at the end of the universe?" but no matter how many photos they took, how many samples they put in test tubes, how much data they gathered or numbers they crunched—the answer always remained: “We don’t know.”

So they passed it off to the philosophers.

“Why is there a bench at the end of the universe?” the philosophers asked.

“It is a message from God communicating the importance of simplicity and keeping our minds focused on the now,” religious scholars said.

“It represents ultimate futility. The answer to every question we have about the meaning of life turns out to be a bench,” nihilists suggested.

“It means nothing,” the existentialists posited, “except that we should be finding meaning in our own lives and not worrying about what’s happening at the end of the universe.”

“Everything is meaningless and so is this bench,” declared the absurdists, “but whatever.”

When the philosophers ran out of things to say about it, they turned it over to the capitalists.

The capitalists, of course, turned it into a tourist attraction.

At first, tourists showed up in droves with cameras. They wore brightly colored visors, fanny packs, and t-shirts that read “THE BENCH.” But when they arrived at the end of the universe, they said, “Is this it?” and then left, disappointed that the only thing to see was a bench—even though they knew exactly what they were getting themselves into before they arrived.

The capitalists tried decreasing the price of entry, running online advertisements, and giving significant group discounts. They tried hosting workshops, music concerts, and lectures at the bench. They built plaques sharing historical information, biographies of the team who discovered it, and philosophical ramblings from various disciplines about the true Meaning, with a capital M, of the bench. They added music, colorful flags, and strings of shiny lights. They built a gift shop.

But the tourists could get those things anywhere. Even poets and artists who came to be inspired, left with little to show from their visit.

Soon, only a few transport buses arrived each week. They stayed for an hour and let the tourists mill about the grassy area to look at the foggy nothingness surrounding the bench. Stanchions, red velvet rope, and a large sign reading “DO NOT TOUCH,” prevented anyone from sitting on the bench or venturing too near. Visitors quickly became bored and left.

Popularity for the new tourist attraction dwindled rapidly, and eventually, the GalactiGroup Corporation decided to cancel the few remaining bus tours. They were taking a loss, and if people wanted to visit, they could find their own transportation.

As the very last bus opened its doors to welcome the very last customer for the very last time, it rattled and shook, in desperate need of maintenance GalactiGroup had opted not to provide. It carried only one passenger: a young woman wearing a loose t-shirt with her hair pulled back in a bun.

The most obvious thing about the young woman was that she was tired. Her eyes drooped and she sat numbly in the front seat, existing in that agitated state of wakefulness in which you both need to sleep and cannot sleep simultaneously. Yes, she was tired. Of everything. Every day was an endless revolving door of work and struggle, pain and longing. Her problems never went away; they just took turns harassing her.

The only good thing that had happened to her recently was that she won the Team Thank You Lottery at work. The prize: a ticket. Last month her coworker had won a ticket to attend a concert by the Weirdly Wonderful Winging Sisters, one of the most popular musical groups in the galaxy. The month before that, a different coworker won a ticket to the Galactic Milieu Fundraising Gala, where the richest, most famous, and most well-respected individuals in the galaxy gathered to support those less fortunate than they.

Of course, she had only won a ticket to the Bench, which was considered one of the least interesting tourist attractions in existence. But at least it was a change from the daily monotony. A break from rolling the rock up the hill every day, day after day, with nothing to show for it.

She boarded the transport bus. There was no bus driver to greet her, just a friendly robot that stamped her ticket and then revved up the bus engine. She was the only passenger.

She sat next to a window and stared out at the stars and the planets as the bus passed through the galaxy. She liked it when she could see a galaxy that was kind of far off—swirls of beautifully colored stars and galactic dust making unbelievably beautiful patterns in the sky.

When they arrived, the bus door squeaked as it opened.

“The bus will return in one hour,” the robot intoned, and then buzzed away to hover out of sight.

The woman surveyed the scene before her. The bench sat on a grassy knoll, surrounded by an empty, white fog. Silver stanchions with velvet red ropes created a barrier between her and the bench. A large sign read “DO NOT TOUCH.” The gift shop was closed.

She leaned forward to take a closer look at the scientific and philosophical marvel. She saw letters scratched into the wood—“J&A” and “S&J” and “G&M.” Someone had carved a heart around “G&M,” and another person had gouged out the shape of a star in one corner.

Right in the middle, almost invisible beneath all the letters lovers left in the wood, were three other letters: S, I, and T.

SIT.

Now, the woman knew sitting was against the rules. In fact, in addition to the sign which read “DO NOT TOUCH,” there were several other signs indicating that there was to be no touching, no sitting, and no flash photography, and those who broke the rules did so upon penalty of fine and imprisonment. But it looked to her like the bench itself was suggesting she sit down. Sure, perhaps those were more initials of the ancients who had created this place—S. I. T. could stand for Stanley Isaac Tomlinson or Stacey Isabelle Thomas.

But “sit,” seemed like a logical thing to do to a bench.

And the truth was, she was tired. Tired to the very core of her bones. A sort of mid-life weariness, built up over years of sleepless nights, long days, and an ever-growing pile of burdens and responsibilities. She glanced around—there were no guards, scientists, or philosophers. Even the bus had gone.

She was alone.

She ducked under the red velvet rope. And she sat on the bench.

It sounds like a simple enough thing to do—to sit—but believe it or not, no one had ever actually sat on the bench. The anthropologists had declared it a wonder of sentient engineering that should never be disturbed, the scientists had insisted that the bench remain clean of all outside bacteria and influences, and even the parents and teachers and middle managers had said, “Well, if the professionals say don’t sit, then don’t sit!” Everyone, for the first time in human history, had followed the rules.

Perhaps the rules were wrong, she thought.

For as she stared into the emptiness before her, the white fog began to dissipate, revealing all of time on a great multi-dimensional stage. It was a spider web stretching in every direction, filled with flowers and fireworks, brainstems and bacteria, and the swirling lives of people she had never known.

All of time, all of history, all of life spread out before her; people with their individual lives and individual struggles, a simultaneous feeling of emptiness and fullness.

Exhausted, yet alive.

Somehow mortal and immortal at the same time.

The Bench at the End of the Universe.

It wasn’t just a bench, or a tourist attraction, or a philosophical puzzle, or a math problem to solve.

It was a view.

An Essay On My Chives Plant

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When I was in college, I wanted a plant in my dorm. So the next time I went home, I dug up a chunk of chives from my mom’s herb garden and potted it. Not two weeks after its safe arrival in North Carolina, I noticed it was teaming with bugs. Naturally, at nineteen years old, I panicked and called my mother.

Aphids, she told me. I doused the plant and soil in soapy water, and a couple weeks later, the bugs were dead and the plant was happy and thriving with several shoots of new growth.

When I graduated college, I took the plant with me to New Hampshire. A couple years, several apartments, and a few more aphid incidents later, I planted it in the yard of my condo, the first property I had ever owned. Then, when we dug up our lives to move to Baltimore for Josh’s new job, I decided to dig up a chunk of my chives plant from our yard in Dover too, and dragged it back down south of the Mason-Dixon line with me.

Somehow, it never occurred to me to celebrate my plant’s tenth birthday, but we breezed by it all the same. And when we once again uprooted our lives to move to Pennsylvania, I uprooted my beloved chives too, and placed the plant in a south-facing window where it could soak up as much sun as it desired.

In the last fifteen years, I have killed many, many plants. I’ve killed flowers of all varieties, dozens of basil plants, mint if you can believe it, pumpkins, peas, cucumbers, numerous other varieties of vegetables, daisies, ferns, grass, pothos, succulents… the list goes on.

But somehow, my chives survived. It has bugs again, though.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the passage of time. I’m in my mid-thirties now, smack dab in the middle of things. I’ve passed the early adulthood of my twenties, but haven’t yet made it to the “official” middle-aged-ness of my forties. I’m not old by any means. But I also don’t really feel young, either. My back hurts sometimes, and if I do too much in one day, I’m stiff the next morning. Learning things isn’t as easy as it used to be. Most of my friends have kids now, and we’re on our third house. 

Once I asked my dad what age he thought he was in his head. I’ve heard people say “My body might be old but I’ve still got the mind of a twenty-year-old!” which made me wonder if everyone feels twenty inside when they reach their sixties and seventies. But my dad told me he thought his self’s age had landed somewhere in his early forties. 

I’m not there yet, but I do feel like my “self” is slowing down a bit. I’m not racing through milestones like college, getting a grown-up job, buying a house, publishing a book, or getting married anymore. I have a lot more experience under my belt (I remember when I was first submitting resumes and desperately wishing for 10+ years of experience since that’s what all the job listings required). My feelings about myself are more consistent; I have a better idea of what I want out of life and what I’m willing to do to achieve success. 

But I have a long way to go yet. A lot more firsts and lasts. A lot more books to write. A lot more plants to not kill. 

When I was younger, I used to wish I was thirty. Partially because everyone always thought I was younger than I was, and when people (rudely) asked for my age, it felt good to see the shocked look on their face when I replied, “Thirty.” But also because I wanted the experience and knowledge that can only be gained through living through those years, and I thought thirty would get me just a little bit closer to the wise wizened old crone I’d always dreamed of being. 

It turns out, being 33 or 34 isn’t that different from being 29, but it is a lot different than being twenty. 

For starters, I care a lot more about my chives plant now. It’s not that I didn’t care at all when I was younger, but back then, I felt like I could just replace it if it died. 

Now, that’s not so true. How do you replace a plant that’s been by your side for fifteen years? The longer life goes on, the more temporary things seem, and the more value I place on things that last, whether friendships, interests, or plants. Five years isn’t so long any more. One year is even less. But a fifteen-year-old plant? That’s almost half my life. Not so easily replaceable after all. 

If the current round of bugs does my chives in, I’ll be almost fifty years old before another one outlives the first. 

The way I value things has changed a lot. What was once “just a plant,” is now a friend who has been with me since I was little more than a child. The jasmine plant I bought in Baltimore is turning six this year—it’s been around almost as long as my marriage. We didn’t even get to have Doggo that long. 

Time is a funny thing. 

But I can tell you this: I’m going to do everything in my power to keep my chives alive. Because fifteen-year relationships take fifteen years to build. And there’s no telling how many more decades I’ll get to keep.

A Tribute To Doggo

Click here if you would like to make a donation to AGPR in Doggo’s name.

His name was Stuart and he looked like he had descended from the heavens, with the white shining coat of an angel, the deep booming bork of Zeus, and the barrel-like chest of Thor. Though a strong name, “Stuart” made me think of Stewie from Family Guy, as opposed to the wingless Pegasus standing in front of me.

Doggo & Daddo on April 1, 2017, the first day.

After much deliberation and brainstorming, we settled on Gaius Octavius the Destroyer, Guardian of the Stairs, which we eventually shortened into Doggo. Other names for him included Tavi, Octo, Octo-dog, Sir, and The Extra Couch.

We met Doggo at the Appalachian Great Pyrenees Rescue in VA. He was one of roughly thirty other Great Pyrenees dogs currently being cared for by the organization. Celeste introduced us to each of the dogs individually, we walked four of them, and then we asked Vicky which dog she thought was right for us. She said, “Stuart,” without hesitation. So we walked him again, and Josh asked me, “Which dog do you think is right for us?” And I said, “Stuart, of course.”

We signed the paperwork, the lorge boy (at that time around 95 pounds) got a nice brush and a nail trim, and then we opened the trunk of our tiny Hyundai Accent hatchback. He hopped right in, like he’d been waiting for this car ride his whole life.

In the car on the way back to Baltimore from VA.

The whole way back to Baltimore, people driving past us pointed and smiled at the enormous pup in our tiny car, and when we arrived back at our house, we quickly found that his adjustment to our home would be quick. He didn’t even notice the cats for three full weeks. But he found the couch right away, hopped right up on it and curled up in the corner. This would become his preferred napping place for the next five years.

We started walking him in the neighborhood right away, keeping the walks short. But he soon proved that not only did he enjoy longer walks, he preferred them, so our one-mile jaunts became two, became three, became six or seven miles at a time. I carried a backpack with water and a bowl, some treats, and dog bags. We explored the whole of the 133-acre park near our house, wandered down to the waterfront, and even made the two-mile stroll (there and back) down to the Inner Harbor of Baltimore City a few times.

One day when we were out walking as a family, Doggo sniffed at a bush and immediately dove inside it. We dragged him out and found a chicken drumstick protruding from the side of his mouth. We promptly excavated it and relocated the entire container of take-out chicken someone had left in the bush to the nearest trash can. But from that day forward, anytime we walked by, Doggo always made sure to see if the chicken bush had borne any more fruit.

Doggo and best frendo Dexter.

After we’d been in Baltimore for a year or so, and had become friendly with our neighbors, we decided to take down a section of the fence between our houses, effectively doubling (more than doubling) the size of our yard. The neighbors had a rambunctious labradoodle named Dexter, and Dexter and Doggo quickly became best friends. They wrestled, borked, and shared treats. Doggo learned where Dexter’s food bowl was, and Dexter learned that we had cats.

The humans in the situation developed a system of alerting one another when either Doggo or Dexter was spending some time in the green space, but weren’t always perfect about it. Many times, Doggo would wander next door, and if they had left the back door open for fresh air, he would make his way straight for Dexter’s food bowl. Sometimes he would even bark at their back door, and then when they opened it to see who was there (always Doggo lol), he would have a surprise playdate with his best frendo and get some extra scrotches from Aunt Sammy and Uncle Andrew. Dexter, of course, managed to sneak into Doggo’s house many times—he didn’t care so much for Doggo’s food, but went straight to hunting Doggo’s cat siblings.

Doggo asking to be let into the neighbor’s house.

Doggo was a very smart boy. He knew all number of English words, from “sit,” “stay,” and “go lie down,” to “beg,” “wait,” “heel,” “up,” “down,” “no,” “back,” a double whistle which meant “hurry up” and which we used for crossing the road, “do you want to go,” “car ride,” “walk,” “chicken,” and “cheese.” Of course, all commands were optional in his mind (he was a Great Pyrenees after all!), but he understood them even if he ignored us.

Doggo spent most of his time sleeping. He had a specific system for determining where he preferred to nap, doing calculations based on temperature + humidity + type of floor material x where Mom was, and if Daddo was home from work, then of course Doggo was as close to him as he could possibly get at all times.

Doggo enjoying a bone

His favorite activities other than napping included borking at the post office person, borking at the evil birds, and borking at motorcycles. He also enjoyed scrotches, burying bones, and receiving treats. The first time we gave him a rawhide bone, he grabbed it and marched to the back door, demanding to be let out. We let him go, just to see what he did. He took several passes around the yard before selecting a corner in the back where he dug a hole, dropped in the bone, and promptly used his nose to cover it back up with dirt.

Another favorite past time of Doggo’s was car rides. He didn’t care where we were going if it meant he could hop into the back of the car (we did get a larger one lol). Long car rides, short car rides—they were all the best thing ever. Car rides were also great for thunderstorms and fireworks, both of which he found absolutely terrifying.

Daddo and Doggo at the Canton Waterfront park with the water taxi in the background.

Sometimes at the end of the day, we would drive (or walk) down to the Canton Waterfront Park, where Daddo would be arriving after work. When Daddo got off the boat, Doggo would make a beeline straight for him, ignoring all the friendly other people offering hands for scrotches or making comments like, “omg look at that dog” or “he’s a floofer!” or “are polar bears allowed in the city?” All he wanted was Josh, and it wasn’t until he had received sufficient pets from Daddo that he would even deign to notice anyone else in the vicinity.

Doggo also very much enjoyed the longer car rides we took to visit his grandparents. Once, we were visiting my parents in NY and took him for a long walk in the field. He found several deer hangout spots, and it was at one of these where we first saw him drop down onto one shoulder and roll in the dirt. Rolling always made him happy—in dirt, dead animal smells, grass, and snow.

Doggo relaxing in upstate NY.

Visiting Josh’s parents was an even longer journey, but he loved NH. His favorite place to hang out was under Josh’s parents back steps, a nice, cool, gravelly spot perfect for both watching and napping at the same time. He could keep an eye on his flock of humans, while also being certain he would be the first to see any evil turkeys if they wandered into view, so he could bork loudly enough to scare them off and ensure the safety of his people.

In 2021 we moved from Baltimore to rural Pennsylvania to a much larger house. No longer did he have to wiggle backwards to get out of the narrow spaces that filled our old row-house. He could sprawl out in a dozen different spots in the same room, walk in circles around the house with a bone, and actually turn around without having to back up. (Though in Baltimore he had become very good at following the command, “Back!”)

The PA house came with something else he loved: an enormous backyard filled with birds, rabbits, foxes, deer—even a bear. In Baltimore, we never worried about Doggo running off. He stuck by us no matter what. But the few times we attempted letting him hang out with us off-leash in PA, he would go trotting off down the hill to check out the tree where the rabbits lived, or pee on the same spot as all the foxes. He never went far—just checked the borders of the property and came back. But the yard was just too interesting to ignore.

The thing about Doggo was that he loved everyone. He would stand beside a complete stranger for hours if they would just pet him. In groups, he would walk from person to person, either kindly requesting or gently demanding scrotches. He would lean against you if you were standing up, and sometimes the Pyr paw would reach out and smack you if you dared to stop petting him. He made anyone who spent any time with him feel special.

Doggo in the yard in PA, probably hoping the new neighbors Jerry & Becca would come over and give him scrotches.

He didn’t even have to try to weasel his way into people’s hearts. Everyone loved him, even people who didn’t love dogs. Children could run up to him and throw their arms around his neck, and he would just stand there and accept the love. He had human friends in Baltimore (complete strangers to Josh and I) who knew him on sight, and would run over to say hi anytime we were out for a walk. He was also good with other dogs in most situations, and had a number of other pups he liked to sniff and play with. He was a gentle giant with a calm spirit and oversized charm. A cuddly teddy bear, if a drooly one.

But of course Doggo loved no one more than he loved Josh, aka Daddo. If his favorite things included napping, walks, car rides, and treats, those things weren’t quite as good if Daddo wasn’t there. Daddo scrotches were the best kind. Car rides with Daddo meant he was having the best day. Treats from Daddo tasted better than any other treat. Daddo naps (in the human bed, nonetheless) were the best naps. Couch time with Daddo in the evenings were his absolute favorite, especially when there were pizza crusts around. The only thing he liked more from Mom (me lol) was going on long rambling, treat-filled walks through Baltimore City.

Daddo checking his work email with Doggo’s “assistance”

And in 2020 when Josh started working from home, Doggo’s life went from great to the greatest. Now Daddo was around all day, 24/7. He could sleep next to Josh during the day, get scrotches at 10 AM instead of having to wait until 5 PM, got mid-day walks around the block at lunchtime, and received a steady stream of treats from the treat jar on Daddo’s desk all day long.

And when Doggo started to get old and not feel so well, it was Daddo who he laid next to on the floor, Daddo who he wanted walks around the yard with, and Daddo to give him his daily medicine.

Doggo was truly the best dog who ever lived. He filled a big hole in our hearts we didn’t even know was there. And now that hole is back, it hurts more than we ever could have imagined.

Our years with Doggo were some of the best of our lives, and he will never, ever, be forgotten.

Midnight Flight is here! + New Year Update

Midnight Flight is here!

If you prefer, you can click here to start with Book 1: Midnight Wings.

About Midnight Flight

Midnight Flight is the continuation of El's story from Midnight Wings.

It picks up two years later, as El is about to graduate from fighter pilot training--the greatest achievement of her life. Three days before it's official, Queen Amina offers El a special task: join her crew of elite pilots, assassins, and trackers for a secret mission on a nearby planet. Thrilled at the opportunity, El agrees.

When they arrive on the planet, El keeps her eyes and ears open for any information that might be relevant to the queen—about the mission, the other members of the Queen's Guard, or the local inhabitants.

But on the team's return trip, when one of the assassins cracks open El's skull and leaves her for dead, El has to wonder—was this truly the queen's plan all along?

Although the book is about El, whose character was originally based off Cinderella, the story itself is a retelling of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.

New Year Update

Happy New Year! (A little bit late lol.) I have a lot of exciting things in the works, so I figured I should give a quick update:

First of all, books 6 and 7 of the Land of Szornyek series will be published this year! Book 6 is titled Breath of Fire, and Book 7 is titled Fog and Flame.

Secondly, several more fairy tales are in the works. Midnight Flight released today; next up in the queue is Giant Killer, which is the ninth book in the series and the direct sequel to The Stalk. It will be about Jack, and is a retelling of Jack the Giant Killer. (If you like box sets, I'll be creating box sets for the series as well.)

Third, I've been talking about my super secret project for almost three years now--a fantasy trilogy with magic, androids, and murder--I'll be releasing that this year! If you'd like to learn more about that and see some potential cover designs, click here to read about it.

Fourth, a couple of weeks ago, I announced on Instagram that I am working towards an unusual business goal. I don't usually include a lot of boring business development stuff in my newsletter, but I wanted to be transparent about some changes that will be happening moving forward.

The goal is this: in the future, I'd like all of my books (in their digital format) to be available for free. I have some personal reasons for this, but it is also about accessibility—I think stories make people's lives better, and if someone wants to read my books, I want them to be able to do that regardless of their financial situation. As part of the process, I am trying to set up alternative revenue streams so that I can afford to continue to produce books (production costs money!) even while the books themselves are free.

This means I will be talking about Patreon a lot more (if you'd like to support me as a patron, click here!). In addition, I set up advertising on my website, so if you browse through my blog posts, it will generate income from the ads appearing on the pages. I also have already started to develop products (you can see my t-shirt collection here [they run fitted!]) and will be adding more options in the future.

As part of this all, I've already made the first five books in my first ever series The Sagittan Chronicles free everywhere, if you're interested in reading them. The rest of the series (Fall of the Flighters and the two short stories) will be dropping to free in a couple of months.

Fifth, I'll be working on building out my A. J. Sieling brand with works of non-fiction, including more personal essays, essays on topics I like to think about, as well as books for writers. If you're interested in getting my newsletter for writers, you can click here.

Finally, I have a new super secret project in the works! Just kidding; it's not super secret. And no doubt I'll be talking about it a lot. It's a cozy, paranormal ghost mystery series with a beekeeper as the main character. The series will be titled Cecily Winters, and the first book is tentatively titled, Cecily Winters and the Mystery of the Missing Bees. Stay tuned for more information on that.

Aside from that, I'll be doing several writing workshops at various writers associations and conferences around the world this year, both on Zoom and in person, and I'll hopefully be at Baltimore Comic Con in the fall.