Lately, life has felt full in a way that is hard to explain unless you’ve lived it.

A lot of my days have been spent trying to help set up care for my aging parents, which carries its own weight. There are phone calls, appointments, decisions, logistics, emotions. Even when I’m not actively working on it, some part of me is still carrying it around.

At the same time, I’ve been writing Wheels every day.

I’m a little over 14,000 words in now, and the book is finally starting to come alive. That’s a good feeling. A needed feeling. But it also took some time. After spending so long inside the world of The In-Between, stepping into a new one felt strange at first. Different air. Different rhythm. Different emotional weather. I had to stay with it long enough for the new world to stop feeling borrowed and start feeling real.

Now it’s starting to breathe on its own.

What I didn’t expect was how much the book has started mirroring my actual life. I came up with the idea for Wheels before my parents’ situation became what it is now. A story about an elderly couple, dementia, old age, the slow erosion of someone you love. I thought I was writing fiction. I didn’t realize I was also writing toward something I was about to live.

There’s a detail at the center of the book: James and Maggie are transformed into twelve-year-olds. Given back young bodies. A second chance at the beginning. Maybe I understood that as plot when I started. Now it feels like something deeper. Maybe hope. Maybe fear. Maybe both. I’m still figuring out what my own imagination was trying to tell me.

I’m still submitting to agents, too. Still trying to be patient, which has never come naturally to me. So much of this season seems to be asking that of me: patience, endurance, presence.

That last one might be the hardest.

I’ve noticed how often I live one step ahead of my own life. I’m thinking about the next task, the next problem, the next stage, the next answer. I’m so wired toward what’s next that I don’t always stop to notice where I actually am.

And where I actually am matters.

Not just the future version of life where everything gets settled. Not the version where the book is finished, the agents respond, the family worries calm down, and everything finally feels resolved.

This part counts too.

The uncertain middle counts. The slow progress counts. The part where things are still becoming counts.

Maybe that’s what this season is really teaching me — not just to move forward, but to stand still long enough to recognize your own life while it’s happening.

In what may be the most random detail of this entire week, I bought a Jaws Lego set.

Maybe it’s a small attempt to slow down for an hour and focus on something that doesn’t need to become anything larger than what it is. Just a pile of little pieces. A set of instructions. Something in front of me instead of ten miles ahead of me.

Maybe I’m trying, in my own clumsy way, to learn how to be in the room I’m actually in.

— T.C.

It’s been a while.

Life has a way of moving whether you’re ready or not. Lately, it’s been moving fast.

I’ve sent The In-Between out into the world. It’s sitting in inboxes now, waiting to be opened, judged, maybe ignored, maybe loved. And the truth is, I’m not great at this part.

The waiting has a texture to it. A low-grade hum that lives just under everything else. You check your email too many times. You catch yourself calculating odds. You remind yourself that none of that helps, and then you do it again.

Still, I have to believe the right agent is out there. Not just any agent. The right one. The one who sees it the way I do.

So I wait. And while I wait, I keep moving.

I’ve started the next book: Wheels on the Bus.

An elderly man and his wife, transformed into children by something that feeds on pain and memory. He remembers everything. She doesn’t. And the clock is running.

It’s been an adjustment.

I lived in the world of The In-Between for a long time. That tone, that pace, those characters — they get into your bones. This new story feels different. Faster. More immediate. Like it’s breathing on its own.

Writing it in present tense helps. There’s an energy to it I can feel already.

But early chapters are dangerous.

That’s where doubt lives. It’s too soon for the book to carry itself. It hasn’t found its full momentum yet. So it’s just me pushing it forward, wondering if it’s working, if it’s any good, if I’m wasting my time.

I’ve been here before. I know this phase.

Still doesn’t make it easier.

And outside of the writing… life hasn’t exactly been quiet.

My parents’ health has been declining. My family and I have stepped in, and just like that, everything shifts. The roles reverse. You go from being the one who needed them to the one they depend on.

It’s constant.

Worry. Responsibility. Decisions. Guilt. Sadness.

All of it layered together.

It’s strange how quickly life can become heavy. How you can start to see the horizon in a way you never did before. Time stops feeling endless. It starts feeling counted.

And if you’re not careful, that weight can pull you under.

That’s the real fight, I think. Not the writing. Not the waiting. Staying out of the darkness when everything around you drifts that way.

So I keep my face turned toward the light.

Even when I can’t see it clearly.

Even when it’s far.

— T.C.

Four Days Until I Hit Send

Tuesday is query day. This weekend is the last pass.

I’ve been absent for a while.

Not because I disappeared. Because I went head down.

Editing has taken everything I’ve got, and I haven’t had much energy left for anything else. So, okay. Here I am.

This story has been in my life for six years. In and out of it. Living in it. Leaving it. Coming back again. Not always sure I could finish it. Not always sure I even knew what “finish” meant.

I’ve been writing in the dark the whole time.

There were stretches where I wasn’t sure I was capable of writing a book, never mind editing it into something worthwhile. But something kept running in the background—faith in the unknown, faith that the work would amount to something, faith that if I stayed with it long enough, it would eventually become a real thing.

Now it is.

I’ve finished editing three drafts. I evaluated beta feedback. I made changes. I polished. I tightened. I lived inside the sentences until I got sick of my own words.

And this weekend, I’m reading the entire book again.

One final pass.

Even though I’m tired of living in this story, I owe it that last look—the kind where you stop trying to perfect and start trying to make sure nothing is loose. The kind where you stop chasing “better” and start protecting what’s already working.

At the same time, I’m making final edits to my query letter. Finalizing my top 20 agent prospect list.

Monday is my buffer day for anything last minute.

And Tuesday is the day.

The day the book officially leaves my hands. Leaves the small circle of friends and family and tries to enter the real world of publishing.

I’m nervous to let this book go.

But more than that, I’m afraid of the silence. Afraid of sending this thing out and hearing nothing back.

And still, I’m proud.

Because at the end of the day, I wrote a book.

That’s the truth I’m trying to hold onto when my mind starts sprinting ahead into worst-case scenarios.

So Tuesday will be a day of mixed emotions.

Excitement. Fear. Excitement again. Anxiety. Impatience. The urge to check my inbox every hour and having to talk myself out of it.

Then the longer wait.

Days. Weeks. Maybe longer.

Waiting for the first query response. If that comes, waiting for the next. If pages are requested, waiting again. If a full manuscript is requested, waiting again.

It’s a strange thing to work this hard and then be asked to do the one thing you can’t do: control what happens next.

So I’ve decided on my next move.

While I wait, I’m going to keep doing what I do.

I’m going to start the next book.

Because that’s the only part I can control. The work. The page. The next sentence. The next story.

If you’ve ever been on the edge of something you want badly—something you’ve built in private for a long time—you probably know this feeling. The moment right before you let it go.

If you do, I’d love to hear it.

What are you releasing this year—letting go of, or sending out into the world?

— T.C.

At the edge of the year, midnight on New Year’s Eve is like standing in the ultimate in-between—one foot lingering in the past year, one stepping into the unknown future. It’s a time when the world feels thin, a little haunted, and full of hope.

I like that feeling. I write in that space. Most of us do, even if we don’t have words for it.

Because a year isn’t just a calendar. It’s a set of rooms you lived in. Some you still carry. Some you locked behind you. Some you didn’t know you’d survive until you did.

2025, in real terms

Looking back on 2025, it’s been a year of milestones.

I finished the first draft of The In-Between after four years of work.

Four years is a long time to stay with one story. Long enough to doubt yourself. Long enough to rewrite the same chapter until it finally tells the truth. Long enough to wonder if you’re wasting your time—right up until the day you realize you aren’t.

I also moved twice. The kind of upheaval that drains you in ways you don’t notice until you’re standing in a new room, surrounded by boxes, and your body finally admits what it’s been carrying.

And I sold a business. Closing that chapter felt like relief and fear at the same time—relief that it was done, fear of the unknown future. A clean ending that still has fingerprints on it.

Through all of that, I kept coming back to the page.

Now I’m about 70% through the second draft, and I can feel the story taking on its true shape. Draft 2 is quieter than Draft 1, but it’s sharper. Less adrenaline, more clarity. Less “can I do this?” and more “what does this really mean?”

What I’m writing toward

The In-Between is my supernatural thriller about a sixteen-year-old boy haunted by the ghost of his murdered girlfriend while a broken detective hunts the killer hiding in their small New England town.

It’s a story about grief and trauma—about how we keep trying to make things better, and sometimes only make them worse. About the choices people make when they’re desperate, afraid, lonely, or trying to outrun the past.

And underneath it, it’s still a story about light showing up in the darkness.

I’m grateful to be this far in. I’m also tired in a good way—the tired that comes from doing work you actually care about.

2026: the next step

As we step into 2026, I’m looking forward not only to submitting this novel to agents and hoping to land representation, but also to starting the next book waiting in the wings, Wheels on the Bus.

That’s the strange thing about writing. You fight to finish one story and the next one is already tapping you on the shoulder.

This year I’m aiming to take the next step. Not just writing in the dark, but bringing the work into the world.

Thanks for keeping watch

So tonight, as we all stand at this midnight threshold, I just want to say thank you for being here. For reading. For replying. For being the kind of person who still makes time for stories.

Here’s to the light that follows the long night.

And here’s to all the stories waiting just beyond the midnight hour.

— T.C.

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It’s been a while since my last newsletter.

Part of that was intentional. I needed to let the first draft sit. I needed to step away from the story and deal with regular life. A long vacation. A move to a new house. The kind of everyday disruption that forces you to put the pages down, whether you want to or not.

The time away ended up being good for the book. When I came back to it, I was able to read the draft more like a reader than a writer. You forget what you wrote. Whole scenes. Entire moments. Lines that surprise you because you don’t remember putting them there. That distance mattered.

This has been an exhausting journey, but lately something has shifted. I’m starting to feel real excitement again. Gratitude too. That this thing I carried around in my head for so long actually exists now.

I’m about six weeks out from being ready to submit to agents.

That comes with fear, of course. The fear that it’s not good enough. That nobody will want it. And then there’s a quieter, more protective fear. The kind you feel when something has been yours for a long time and you’re getting close to letting it out into the world. Up until now, this book has lived mostly with me and with my wife, who deserves credit for surviving the version of me that’s been buried in this process.

I didn’t realize how all consuming the editing phase would be. It feels like being locked in a lab, trying to bring something to life. Pulling it apart. Stitching it back together. Adjusting what doesn’t work. Some days I feel like the mad scientist. Other days I feel like the experiment.

The first draft lived in my mind. Editing has pushed it somewhere else entirely. Now the story feels like it’s in my bones.

But the work is paying off. The voice is sharper. The story is clearer. The supernatural threads are tightening. For the first time, I can actually see this book as something real. Something that could live beyond my desk.

That’s where I am right now. Close to the finish line. Close to the leap. A little terrified. A little thrilled. Watching for the moment when the thing finally opens its eyes.

Thanks for sticking around. The candle’s lit again.

- T.C.

If you want to follow along as this book leaves the lab and heads into the world, you’re welcome to subscribe.

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When Your Parents Become the Children

I didn’t send out a Beacon last week.
Life got loud. Heavier than I expected.
Sometimes the shadows outside the page demand attention.

Sorry for the delay—my head has also been buried deep in Act III territory. I started drafting the final climax chapter today, and if I can keep the pace, the first draft should be finished in about a week. The end is close now, and it feels like the story is burning hotter with every page.

The last few weeks hit harder.

My parents are slipping. And now I’m the one stepping in, taking the role I never wanted—parent instead of son. Watching them age feels like standing on the shore while they’re pulled under, and knowing I can’t reach them in time.

Then, in the middle of that, a close friend’s spouse died. My age. Just gone. Death pulled up a chair at the table and made itself at home.

So I’ve been carrying questions I can’t shake.
About their lives. About mine.
About the end.
About faith and fear, and what any of it means when time won’t slow down.

And still—
I keep writing horror.

Maybe that’s how I manage. Horror is a place where death and suffering have shape. The monster has rules. The ghost wants something. The curse can be broken. In those stories, somebody usually survives long enough to light one last candle.

Real life doesn’t work that way.
But maybe that’s why horror matters.

It’s a place to practice staring into the dark.
To ask impossible questions—Why them? Why now? What comes after?—in a world where I can bear to hear the answers.

Horror is rehearsal for what we can’t stop.

And maybe that’s why we love it. We think we’re watching shadows crawl across the wall, but we’re really trying to make peace with the dark. Deep down, we want to believe the survivor wins. That light holds out.

That’s why I keep writing horror.
Not because I love the dark.
But because I need to believe in what survives it.

🕯️ Your turn
When fear feels closer than faith, what helps you hold on?

📖 The In-Between Progress

• Current word count: ~105,033

• Act III status: First climax chapter underway

• First draft finish line: about 1 week out

• Target length: ~110,000 words

The story’s in its final sprint. The end is close enough to see the glow.

- T.C.

Not for me — for my aging parents. It's something they've been putting off for years, and I don't blame them. But this time, they asked my sister and me to get it done. My father was supposed to come with us, but bowed out at the last minute. I think it was less about his own mortality and more about the possibility that he might have to bury my mother there someday.

I didn't think much about it until the day came. Then the anxiety hit. I even thought about canceling. But the funny thing is — once we arrived, the anxiety disappeared. It felt… right.

It was a warm, sunny day. A gentle breeze moved across the headstones and stirred the forest around us. There's a certain peace in the quiet of the dead.

Making a Deal with the Grave

We buttered up the cemetery guy to find us the best spot — in Rhode Island fashion, it always feels like you're making a deal, even for a place to bury your parents. We even asked for a break if my sister bought the plot next door.

He gave us twenty minutes about the brain bleed he'd survived four months earlier, and the long road of recovery since. Only then did he hand over the price list: the cement vault, the opening and closing fees, every cost neatly tallied.

We told him we wanted something near a tree, maybe by an old stone wall. We followed his truck down the narrow lanes, nerves creeping back. Then we stopped. He pointed it out: a rise on a slope, overlooking the trees.

Like it will matter.

Sadness hits you in a place like that. You stand there thinking about all the years, all the history with your parents. And then reality returns: this was something that had to be checked off the list. It's inevitable. And yes, they take credit cards.

The Space Between Now and Then

But walking back to the car, something shifted. Maybe it was the finality of it all, or the way the afternoon light fell across those headstones, but I found myself thinking beyond the practical details of death to the bigger questions I usually only explore in my writing.

And yet, the space between now and that inevitable end is where everything happens. That stretch of time we have left — what are we going to do with it?

I write about ghosts and the supernatural every day. But standing there, in the presence of death in the real world, I had to ask myself: do I really believe it? Do we just die and end up in the ground our families paid for — or do we move on to that realm we all wonder about?

I think we do.

I've been close to people who’ve passed. The body left behind felt like a shell, emptied of something essential. Their spirit had gone. And in that cemetery, it hit me: whatever time I have left, I want to make the most of it before heading into that supernatural world.

It was sad. It was sobering. But it also made me grateful — grateful for what we have here and now instead of wasting it all on the petty worries and annoyances that seem so important.

Because I’ve had that thought too — looking at loved ones after they’re gone and realizing every struggle, every fear, ended here. All the worry in the world couldn’t stop it. Was the anxiety worth it?

Someday, we'll all finally know the truth.

Until then, I have to believe there’s light in the darkness of the grave.

– T.C.

What’s Next

Next Thursday’s issue will bring a book progress update — where the draft stands and how much ground is left to cover — along with more from the opening lines of The In-Between.

Six weeks ago, I stopped waiting for the perfect mood to write. I stopped treating this book like a dream I might finish someday. Instead, I treated it like a job — one I had to show up for six days a week, feel like it or not. That single shift changed everything.

Since then, I’ve been living inside another world—small-town New England, 1988—and the deeper I go, the harder it is to leave when I close the laptop for the day.

My mornings start in the library. Same table. Same seat. The one where the sunlight cuts across the desk at about 9:15, warming one arm even as the nearby AC vent freezes the rest of me.

I hadn’t been in a library in years, and there’s something both comforting and ironic about being surrounded by thousands of books while trying to finish one of my own.

I sit with my coffee going lukewarm, my notebook half-filled with scrawls I’ll probably never read again, and my screen blinking back at me like it knows the ending and refuses to tell me. But showing up every day makes the story spill out, even on the days it feels like chiseling words from solid rock.

Six Weeks In — What I’ve Learned

I’m around 90,000 words now and proud to say I’ve hit my weekly word count goals for six weeks straight.

It’s exhausting most days. Exhilarating on others. Some mornings it feels like something else is moving my fingers while I just watch. Other mornings, it’s like pushing through the last painful reps of an exercise. But most days? It’s just work. Work I love, but still work. Not the candlelit romance we imagine when we picture “the writing life.”

I’m still finding my balance—enough to hit my word count, but still have something left in the tank for the rest of my day and my life. Writing at full focus for hours is its own kind of drain.

The glove fits, though. I’m grateful to be here, to have the time and space to do this. The most exciting moments are when the story takes on a life of its own—when characters say things I didn’t see coming, or the plot veers somewhere unexpected. That’s the high that keeps me showing up, even knowing there’s no guarantee this book will sell or that anyone will ever read it.

The photo in this post is me writing in the car on the way home from vacation a few weeks ago. Not only did my poor wife have to drive, she also had to wait for me to hit my word count each morning before we made it to the breakfast buffet before it closed. Her patience is the quiet backbone of this whole project, and I couldn’t do any of this without her.

Excerpt – Page One

The teenage years lie somewhere between childhood and sanity, and Mark Russo could hardly hold onto his as he scribbled a note on the back of a summer reading list. The purple ink bled across the white ditto paper, and he fought the urge to inhale, chasing the tease of a mimeograph high.

It was 1986, the last day of school at Roger Williams Junior High. The air in the classroom was thick, rank with the stink of seafood trash left to bake in the sun. The teacher cracked open the windows and killed the blinding fluorescent lights, as if that would make it any cooler.

About the Book

Mark Russo is haunted—literally. The ghost of his murdered girlfriend won’t leave him alone, desperate to lead him to her killer. But in the small New England town of Wellington, the truth is buried deep, and some secrets are guarded by the living as fiercely as the dead.

Detective John Murphy has seen his share of darkness, but nothing like this. Still reeling from his own failures and drowning in guilt, Murphy is drawn into a case that will test his sanity and force him to confront the possibility that evil doesn’t always wear a human face.

As Mark and Murphy’s paths collide, a predator moves unseen through their town. Every clue leads to another dead end, every shadow hides a threat, and the line between the natural and the supernatural blurs until neither of them can tell where one ends and the other begins.

Because in Wellington, the most dangerous thing in the dark might not be the ghost.
It might be the person standing right behind you.

I’ll be sharing more in the coming weeks. For now, I hope this first glimpse sparks your curiosity and maybe leaves you with that quiet, unsettled feeling I’m always chasing when I read a great opening.

Thank you for being part of this journey with me.

It's 3 AM. Do you know where your children are?

-T.C.

What’s Next

Next Thursday’s issue will explore “The Visible and the Invisible” — a dive into what we notice, what we miss, and the strange spaces in between.

Two weeks from today, you’ll get more of the first chapter of The In-Between—just enough to leave you hanging at the moment everything shifts. You’ll see the town, meet a few key players, and maybe catch the first faint shadow of what’s haunting Mark Russo.

Truth is, I'm fucking scared of demons.

I'm writing this at 2:09 AM. I just hit delete on the polished draft I was supposed to send you.

It was pretty good too, but dry as a communion wafer. Neat. Tidy. Went through all the world's religions and their beliefs about demons. Mentioned that they appear over eighty times in the Bible, and a lot of other trivia that would've put you to sleep.

If you're reading this, thank you for being here. I want to make you a promise: the college research paper filter is gone. I've held myself back during my first few weeks online, trying to create a caricature that would fit into this social media world. But no more. I'm going to be myself, nose hairs and all.

So, let’s talk about why I’m really up at this hour.

Why I Believe in Demons

I’m not sure why exactly. Maybe I’m afraid of not believing in them. Perhaps it's Pascal's wager—if we don't know whether God exists, we should play it safe rather than risk being sorry when it’s too late. But it’s more than that for me.

Why We Can't Look Away

Why do we love demon movies, ghost stories, haunted houses, Halloween, and Count Chocula? It seems like we’re obsessed with horror. Another Exorcist 12 or Conjuring 9 tries to terrorize us every weekend.

Is it all just in our heads? I'd like to believe that, but I can't. And maybe that's why I'm spending thousands of hours writing a book about ghosts and demons. The ones in the wild and the ones in our heads.

You’ll never make it. Your work sucks. This book sucks. This is all a pipedream that will never work. You should be looking for a real job before you go broke. What kind of idiot thinks anyone will read this crap? You're no Stephen King.

Speaking of Stephen King

Oh yeah, I met him once. My wife and I sat behind him at a Red Sox game. I was mere feet away from my childhood idol. The guy who awakened my love for horror and made me realize I wanted to be a writer. At nine, those were big revelations.

First inning, there was this single flake of dandruff on his black sweatshirt—like a tiny ghost clinging to his shoulder.

By the third inning, that lone flake had found friends. They congregated on his shoulders and seemed to expand like cancer cells multiplying under a microscope. I watched them spread—couldn't help myself—the way you can't look away from roadkill or a house fire.

Seventh-inning stretch. The flakes had colonized both shoulders now, like a brigade of dead corpses lost on the battlefield. When I finally worked up the balls to tap him on the shoulder, my voice came out like I was thirteen again, asking a girl to the junior high dance.

"Mr. King? Could I get a picture?"

He turned, and I swear that those flakes shifted like metal bits being dragged by a magic magnetic pen, resettling into new patterns that spelled out NO before he even opened his mouth.

(Mr. King, if you're reading this—I’d still love to take that photo someday.)

Back to the Demons

Maybe I sound like a scared kid, and maybe I am. But I know one thing for certain: there is some evil shit in this world. Just look at what humans do to each other.

Something is out there pulling us toward evil, and we fight the urge to listen to that little red devil sitting on our shoulder. And when you cross paths with real evil, it makes you wonder: Is it just that person being a sick fuck, or did they listen to one of those pitchforked cocksuckers whispering in their ear?

There has to be something more than "intrusive thoughts" or some other psychobabble reason driving people to sexually abuse children, murder millions in gas chambers, starve out whole populations, or even beat their wives after one too many. On and on.

Maybe I'm naive. Maybe I'm still a kid at heart, believing in fairy tales. But I know that there’s good and evil, and light always pierces the darkness.

And I know something is crawling around in our heads, like roaches behind the baseboards. As I finish typing these words, it’s telling me to get the safe, boring draft out of the recycle bin.

Until Next Week

I'd love to tell you what to expect, but the truth is, I have no idea. I can promise it will be unfiltered and honest.

It's 3 AM. Do you know where your children are?

—T.C.

Four weeks ago, I decided to write full-time. After six years of on and off writing, The In-Between was just 60,000 words. Today, I'm sitting at 80,413 words, and I need to tell you something:

This book is changing me.

The Numbers (Because Writers Love/Hate Them)

• Current word count: 80,413

• Chapters complete: 32

• Times I've rewritten the opening: 7 (at least!)

• 3 AM wake-ups with plot solutions: Too many

• Moments of pure terror: Daily

• Moments of "this might actually work": Weekly

What The In-Between Is Teaching Me

When you write about the spaces between worlds, you start noticing them everywhere. The pause between sleep and waking. The moment between deciding to write full-time and actually doing it. The breath between hitting the daily wordcount and wondering if it's any good.

My protagonist lives trapped between the living and the dead. I live trapped between confidence and doubt. We're both trying to find our way home.

A Taste from Chapter 1

The opening lines to The In-Between

The teenage years lie somewhere between childhood and sanity, and Mark Russo could hardly hold onto his as he scribbled a note on the back of a summer reading list. The purple ink was still fresh on the white ditto paper, and he fought the urge to inhale, chasing the tease of a mimeograph high.

It was 1986…

What's Haunting Me Right Now

There's a scene in Chapter 31 where Mark has to choose between two terrible options. I've written it twelve times. Each version reveals something different about who the characters really are. This is the beautiful torture of writing—you think you're creating them, but they're the ones teaching you about choice, consequence, and what we do when no one's watching.

The Supernatural Mirror

Here's what nobody tells you about writing supernatural fiction: the ghosts aren't the scary part. The scary part is how much truth you can tell when you wrap it in the impossible.

Every demon in this book is a real fear wearing a fictional face. Every haunting is a question I'm afraid to ask in daylight. Every time my protagonist faces the darkness, I'm right there with him, laptop glowing at 3 AM (or usually 9 AM, or in the passenger seat of a car).

What Comes Next

The first draft will be done by mid-September. Then comes the real haunting: revision. But for now, I'm still in the beautiful, end of Act II—where anything can happen and usually does.

If you're reading this at 3 AM, wondering if that strange sound was just the house settling, know that somewhere, I'm awake too. Writing the fear so we can face it together.

Because that's what The 3 AM Beacon is really about. Not the darkness, but the light we carry through it.

Even if that light is just a laptop screen and too much coffee.

What ghosts are you facing in your work? What lives in your in-between spaces?

P.S. Thank you for being here on this journey. Every time someone tells me they're "drawn in already," it's another light in the darkness. You're the reason the beacon stays lit.

Sometimes the hardest part is just admitting what you were made to do.

I've wanted to be a writer ever since I can remember. I read my first Stephen King book at nine and knew immediately: this is what I want to do. This is what I want to be.

But life got in the way. Work, kids, responsibilities. All the practical things that made me tuck that dream away and do what I was supposed to do.

I write because I have to. When I don't, the world feels off. I'm restless, irritable, half-alive. But when I write—when I really give myself over to it—everything flows. The day makes sense. I'm more present. More patient. I see things clearly.

After years of ignoring that pull—six years of stealing moments to work on a novel that's now 75% complete—I finally decided to give this a real shot.

Three weeks ago, I started writing full-time. No agent. No book deal. No following. Just me, a blank page every morning, and the quiet belief that this is what I was made for.

It feels like putting on shoes that finally fit. Like I've stopped running from who I'm supposed to be.

I believe we're all created for something. Until we name it and live it, we walk through life feeling a little lost. A little hollow. I lived that way long enough to know the difference.

Now I'm here. Not because I'm ready, but because I'm tired of waiting.

This is me—writing in the dark, following something I think might be my calling. I don't know where it leads, but I know I'm supposed to follow.

If you're also trying to figure out what you were made to do, I hope this helps. I hope it gives you the courage to start, even when you can't see the end.

What's calling to you that you haven't named yet?

Even in the dark, there's a light worth chasing.

— T.C.

P.S. Next week, I'll share what these first three weeks have actually looked like—including how it feels to be 75% through a novel that took me six years to take seriously. The messy, unglamorous reality of betting everything on words.

It’s 3 a.m.

The house is quiet, but your mind isn’t.
A sound in the hallway. A memory you can’t shake. A question that won’t leave you alone.

That’s where this newsletter lives.

I’m Thaddeus Cain, and The 3 AM Beacon is for readers who are drawn to supernatural fiction, haunted mysteries, eerie beauty, and the kind of stories that stay with you after the lights go out.

Here you’ll find:

• reflections on horror, fear, faith, and the unseen

• glimpses into my fiction and the world behind it

• notes from the writing life without the usual noise

• stories, images, and questions that linger

At the center of it all is my novel The In-Between — a supernatural thriller set in 1980s Rhode Island, where grief, evil, and the hope of something beyond this world collide.

If you love ghost stories, moral darkness, small-town dread, and fiction that searches for light without looking away from what’s broken, you’re in the right place.

This is a place for people who feel something when the floor creaks, when the air changes, when a story seems to know more about them than it should.

So welcome.

Subscribe, settle in, and keep watch with me awhile.

— T.C.