A Midnight Threshold

Reflections and New Beginnings

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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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