The Waiting Has a Texture

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.

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