Abigail Carlysle's Blog, page 2

Navigating the Publishing World: Self-Publishing vs. Traditional Publishing

“You finish the book. You sit in the hush. And then, like a ghost in the doorway, the question appears: Now what?”

Writing a novel is a feat of heart, grit, and haunted little miracles. But once you’ve hit The End, a new beginning creeps in: the publishing path. It’s less about plot twists now, and more about choices.

For most authors, there are two main roads ahead:
Traditional publishing—with its polished gateways, agents, and book deals.
Self-publishing—where you’re both the writer and the architect of your own empire.

Neither is inherently better. And no, there’s no divine signpost pointing to The One Right Way. It all depends on you. Your goals, your resources, your soul’s compass. Let’s explore both routes, their shadows and spotlights, so you can choose the one that whispers, this is your way.

The Traditional Path: The Gatekeepers’ Realm How It WorksYou write the book (Cue sigh of exhaustion).You query agents with a pitch, synopsis, and sample pages.If an agent offers representation, they’ll shop your manuscript to publishers.If accepted, you sign a contract (advance, royalties, rights).The publisher provides editing, cover design, distribution, and some marketing.Eventually—months or years later—your book hits shelves. The PerksPrestige & Validation: There’s still a sparkle in the words, “I landed a book deal.”Advance Payment: Cold hard cash upfront (though it’s often modest and recouped through sales).Wider Reach: Better chances of getting into bookstores and libraries.Professional Team: Editors, designers, publicists—you’re not alone.Lower Financial Risk: You don’t pay production costs. The PitfallsIt’s Slow. Publishing can take years.Loss of Creative Control. Covers, edits, even titles may change without your input.Lower Royalties. You might earn 10% per book…if that.High Competition. Agents get hundreds of queries a week.Marketing Falls on You. Even with a publisher, you’re often expected to do most of your own promotion.

Traditional publishing feels like joining a sacred circle…but only after surviving the labyrinth.

The Self-Publishing Path: The Writer as Oracle and CEO How It WorksYou write. You edit (or hire editors). You design (or hire designers).You choose your platform: Amazon KDP, IngramSpark, Kobo, etc.You format, upload, and publish your book.You market it yourself, from spooky teaser reels to launch emails. The PerksCreative Freedom: Every decision is yours, from font to final chapter.Higher Royalties: Keep 35–70% of every sale.Speed: Publish in weeks instead of waiting years.Direct Connection: You build your readership yourself.Flexibility: Run discounts, update covers, pivot directions—all on your terms. The PitfallsAll Costs Are Yours: Editing, cover design, formatting—it adds up. Believe me, I know.You’re the Marketer. If you don’t promote, no one will.Stigma Lingers: Though it’s fading, some circles still side-eye indie authors.Learning Curve: You wear every hat—editor, designer, marketer, accountant.Quality Is On You: Readers expect professionalism. You’ve got to rise to meet it.

Self-publishing is like building your own haunted house: thrilling, intimate, and entirely yours—but make sure the foundation is strong.

Key Questions for Choosing Your Path

Ask yourself:

Control or Collaboration? Do you want full authority, or are you okay sharing the reins? Timeline? Are you in a hurry to launch, or willing to wait for a gatekeeper’s green light? Finances? Can you invest in quality upfront, or would an advance help? Marketing? Are you okay being the face of your book? Goals? Do you dream of seeing your book in Barnes & Noble…or being your own boss with full creative say? Genre Matters. Some genres—like romance, fantasy, or mystery—thrive in self-publishing spaces.What About Both? The Hybrid Path

Some authors are crafting their own crossroads:
They publish certain books traditionally and others independently.

This hybrid model lets you enjoy the credibility of trad publishing and the freedom of self-pub—depending on the project, the season, or the soul-calling.

Think of it as a foot in both worlds. A haunted manor and a crooked cabin in the woods.

Final Thoughts: The Path Is Yours

Personally, I enjoy being a self-published author, but I’ve had long, lingering thoughts about this—especially as I work on From the Ashes and continue writing Midnight Chase. Being self-published gives me the freedom I love, though other days, I dream of walking into a bookstore and seeing my title glint under fluorescent lights. It’s okay to not have all the answers yet.

Here’s what I do know:

You’re not behind. You’re not lost. You’re just standing at the fork, deciding where your feet feel steadier.

Whichever road you choose—traditional, self, or somewhere in between—do it with eyes open and heart aligned. And remember: you are your own best compass.

Your Turn, Dear Reader:

What are your thoughts on publishing? Have you chosen a path? Are you still wondering which to take?

Drop a comment below—I’d love to hear your ghost stories, dreams, and decisions.

Setting Boundaries as an Empath: Protecting Your Deepest Gift

The world often praises those who feel deeply, who can intuit the unspoken needs of others, and who absorb emotions like a sponge. This is the unique beauty of being an empath: a profound capacity for connection and compassion. Yet, this very gift, without proper protection, can quickly become a heavy burden, leading to emotional exhaustion, resentment, and a feeling of being constantly drained.

For empaths, setting boundaries isn’t a selfish act; it’s an essential strategy for self-preservation. It allows us to thrive, to connect authentically, and to share our gifts without being depleted. Through personal experience, I’ve learned that understanding and implementing these vital limits is not just advisable, but absolutely necessary.

Understanding the Empathic Heart

At its core, an empath is someone with a heightened ability to sense and absorb the emotions, energy, and experiences of those around them. We don’t just sympathize; we often feel what others are feeling, sometimes to an overwhelming degree.

This deep resonance, while beautiful, makes boundary-setting uniquely challenging:

The Innate Desire to Help: Our first instinct is often to alleviate suffering, to fix, to heal. Saying “no” can feel like we’re abandoning someone in need.Fear of Hurting Feelings: We’re acutely aware of others’ emotional states, making us hesitant to do anything that might cause discomfort or disappointment.Difficulty Saying “No”: When we sense a need, our internal wiring often compels us to meet it, even at our own expense.Prioritizing Others’ Comfort: We often put the emotional well-being of others above our own, leading to self-neglect.The “Unfinished Blueprint” Dynamic: A Case Study in Unreciprocated Connection

Empaths are often drawn to, or become magnets for, certain types of individuals. These might be charming, seemingly vulnerable, or appear to be in genuine need of deep connection. Let’s call this archetype “The Unfinished Blueprint,” a person with the potential for a complete relational structure, but whose crucial components like reciprocity, emotional awareness, and consistent follow-through haven’t been fully built or connected. They might also feel like an “Echo Chamber,” where your input primarily reflects their own needs back to you.

This dynamic often leads to what I call “The Favorite Recliner” trap. As empaths, we can inadvertently become a one-way emotional resource. We listen intently, offer unwavering support, and are consistently available, but rarely receive the same level of genuine interest or emotional investment in return. We become the comfortable, low-effort space where they can unload without fear of judgment or demand.

The pain of this inconsistency is profound. We hear them express desires for “deep connection” or “long-term” relationships, yet their actions are consistently contradictory. They might be inconsistent in communication, self-focused in conversations, or quick to disengage when genuine effort is required. This leaves us with a lingering question: why is it so hard to “just let go?” It’s because of the unfulfilled potential we saw, our deep compassion, and their subtle, intermittent efforts to maintain the connection, which keep us tethered.

Why Boundaries Are Non-Negotiable for Empaths

Understanding this dynamic makes it clear: boundaries are not optional; they are vital for an empath’s well-being and ability to truly thrive.

Energy Preservation: Empaths are like sponges. Without boundaries, we absorb too much, leading to burnout, emotional exhaustion, and even physical illness. Boundaries act as a filter, protecting our vital energy.Protecting Your Authenticity: When we constantly override our own needs to accommodate others, we compromise our true selves. Boundaries allow us to live in alignment with our values and prevent resentment from building.Teaching Others How to Treat You: Boundaries are clear communications. They teach others what is acceptable and what is not, signaling your worth and what you will (and won’t) tolerate in a relationship.Fostering Genuine Connection: True connection is a two-way street. By setting boundaries, you create space for healthy, reciprocal relationships to flourish, rather than being stuck in one-sided dynamics.Self-Love, Not Selfishness: This is perhaps the most crucial reframe. Setting boundaries is a profound act of self-care. You cannot pour from an empty cup. Protecting your energy allows you to give from a place of abundance, not depletion.Practical Steps for the Empath to Set and Maintain Boundaries

Implementing boundaries requires practice and courage, but it’s entirely achievable.

A. Self-Awareness is Key:

Recognize Your “Bread Bombs”: These are those moments when your kindness is being exploited, or you realize you’re giving far more than is being reciprocated. Pay attention to the subtle cues that tell you your generosity is being taken for granted.Identify Your “Non-Negotiables”: What are your absolute limits? What drains you instantly? What behaviors are unacceptable? Knowing these helps you draw clear lines.

B. Communicate with Quiet Resolve:

Empaths often prefer subtlety (like myself), and this can be a powerful tool for boundary-setting.

Use “I” Statements: Frame your boundaries around your needs and feelings, not accusations. “I feel comfortable with…” or “I need space to recharge…” are far more effective than “You always…”Actions Over Words: Sometimes, a quiet shift in your behavior is more powerful than a verbal declaration. Limiting your availability, responding less readily, or declining invitations without lengthy explanations can communicate a boundary effectively.The Power of “You Do What Works Best For You”: This seemingly accommodating phrase can subtly shift power back to you. When someone says they’ll “call or text later,” responding with this releases them from an obligation they might not fulfill anyway, and subtly signals that you’re not waiting on their every move. You’re giving them freedom, but you’re also reclaiming yours.

C. Manage Expectations (Yours and Theirs):

Their Reaction is Their Responsibility: Understand that not everyone will like your boundaries. Some may push back, express disappointment, or even try to guilt-trip you. This is their reaction, not a reflection of your worth or the validity of your boundary.Be Prepared for Old Patterns: People often revert to familiar behaviors. Be consistent in upholding your boundaries, even if it feels uncomfortable initially.Accept Natural Fading: Some relationships may naturally fade or change when healthy boundaries are introduced. This is not a failure; it’s a natural consequence of creating space for healthier connections.

D. Practice Self-Compassion:

It’s a Process: Setting boundaries is a journey, not a destination. There will be times you falter, times you feel guilty, and times you need to adjust. Be patient and kind with yourself.Acknowledge the Emotional Labor: It takes immense courage and emotional energy to set and maintain boundaries, especially for an empath. Celebrate every small victory.Embracing Your Empowered Empath Self

Boundaries are not walls that block connection; they are filters that allow only healthy, reciprocal energy to flow. They are a profound gift you give yourself, allowing your incredible empathic gifts to shine brightly without dimming your own light.

You have the inherent power to define your connections, protect your energy, and cultivate relationships that truly nourish your soul. Start small, be consistent, and trust your intuition. By doing so, you will unlock a more fulfilling, authentic, and empowered life as the deeply feeling, deeply connected empath you are meant to be

Conquering the Blank Page: A Gentle Guide to Overcoming Writer’s Block

“Some days, the page feels like a void. And all I can do is whisper into it, hoping the words remember how to return.”

Hello, my fellow wanderers of words. If you’ve ever stared at your screen until the cursor felt like it was mocking you…if your mind’s been louder with doubt than with dialogue…if you’ve ever thought, Maybe I’m not a writer anymore—first, take a deep breath.

You’re not alone.

Writer’s block is not a death sentence.
It’s not even an enemy.
Sometimes, it’s a message. A pause. A sacred kind of stillness asking you to listen.

Let’s explore what causes it, how to soften its edges, and—most importantly—how to write through it, one imperfect word at a time.

The Writer’s Nemesis: That Ghost Called Block

Writer’s block isn’t always a dramatic slam of the brakes. Sometimes, it’s a slow fade. A day turns into three. A week into silence. You want to write, but the words? They just…won’t.

At its core, writer’s block is a temporary freeze in creativity, a fog between you and your story. But here’s the secret:

Writer’s block is NOT failure. It’s friction.
And friction means you’re still trying to move forward.

Whether you’re knee-deep in your manuscript (hi, From the Ashes ) or staring down a blinking cursor with a cup of cold coffee, know this: there are ways through. Let’s begin with why this block shows up in the first place.

Where the Block Begins: Why It Happens

Perfectionism. You want it to be good, or maybe even brilliant, right out of the gate. And when it isn’t? That pressure can freeze you.

Burnout. Especially for writers juggling other lives—caregiving, working, simply surviving (all three of which have wrapped themselves around me)—creative energy can drain fast.

Uncertainty. When you’re unsure where your story’s going, it’s like trying to drive without headlights. It’s easy to freeze.

Distractions. Between the noise of the world and your own thoughts, the page often loses the battle for your attention.

Comparison. Scrolling past other writers’ “5000 words today!” posts? Yeah. Been there. And it stings.

Mindset Shifts: Rewriting the Inner Dialogue

1. Embrace the “Terrible First Draft.”
Let it be a mess. Let it be weird. Let it bleed. The first draft isn’t for the world—it’s for you. And it doesn’t have to be beautiful. It just has to be done.

2. Lower the Stakes.
This isn’t the final form. This is the chrysalis. Let it be goo.

3. Celebrate Tiny Wins.
One sentence is still a victory. One idea is still movement. Honor the smallest flickers. They’re still fire.

Practical Tools for Reigniting the Flame

Freewrite.
Set a timer for 5 minutes. No stopping. No backspacing. Let it be stream-of-consciousness. You may surprise yourself.

Mind Map or Outline.
Doodle. Scribble. Connect. Sometimes the visual chaos brings hidden order.

Change Your Setting.
Write at a coffee shop, in your car, on the porch in the witching hour. Even rearranging your desk can breathe new air into your process.

Step Away.
Rest isn’t laziness—it’s composting. Watch a horror movie. Take a walk. Let your subconscious stitch things together while you breathe.

Input Is Sacred.
Read a book. Listen to music. Look at unsettling art. Creativity needs fuel, not just output.

Set Micro-Goals.
Not “write a chapter.” Try “write one line of dialogue.” No pressure. Just presence.

Find Accountability.
Even just texting a writing friend, “I wrote 100 words today,” can shift your whole energy.

Writer-to-Writer: Tips That’ve Saved Me

When I was knee-deep in From the Ashes—lost in rewrites, haunted by burnout, distracted by everything from social media to people to self-doubt—I leaned into these exact tools:

I wrote out of order. Some of my best scenes came from just writing what I wanted to write first.I reread my old notes and character blurbs and remembered why I loved my story.I journaled in my characters’ voices. Gave them the pen. Let them talk back.I read other Gothic stories, not to mimic, but to reignite. I let the aesthetic wash over me.I gave myself space. Space is often underestimated and I cannot stress how important space is. No punishment. Just patience.

And when I returned to the page, it felt like coming home.

Final Thoughts: The Flow Is Always There

Writer’s block is frustrating, yes. But it’s also human. It’s a sign you care. That you’re reaching for something that matters.

So be kind to yourself. Be soft. Be curious.

You are not a machine. You’re a living, feeling storyteller.

And the stories?
They always come back.
Even if they take the long road home.

What about you, dear reader?

What helps you break through the fog? Have you found any rituals, tricks, or strange little habits that guide you back to your words?

Leave a comment—I’d love to hear your thoughts. And if you’re blocked right now? Try one strategy from this post. Just one

The Echo Chamber

I spoke a truth, a thought, a care,

Into the space where you were there.

A question posed, a feeling shared,

A vulnerable moment, bravely bared.

I waited for resonance, a hum, a sound,

A bridge of understanding, to be found.

But all that bounced back, a hollow thought,

Was the faint echo of the words I brought.

Your own concerns, your needs, your plight,

Reflected back in fading light.

A mirror held, not to my soul,

But to the self that sought control.

My voice, a whisper, then a shout,

Lost in the chamber, no way out.

No give and take, a line you drew,

Just what you needed, and what you knew.

A favorite seat, a listening ear,

Absorbing all, dispelling fear.

But the air inside, it held no space,

For my own heart, or my own pace.

The puzzle pieces, scattered wide,

Refused to fit, or truly hide

The truth that rang, though soft and low:

An echo chamber, where only you can grow.

Haruka (遥)

The old attic, once my hideaway of forgotten heirlooms and yellowed paperbacks, had become a prison. The grimy window offered no light now. Only a warped reflection, distorted by age and something unseen. Dust floated in the stale air, but it no longer danced. It hovered. Watching.

I huddled in the farthest corner, knees drawn tight to my chest, my breath held shallow. I hadn’t slept in days. I couldn’t. She’d never let me.

Haruka.

Her laughter sliced through the silence—a high, lilting chime, like wind through cracked porcelain. It wasn’t the laughter of a child. It was too deliberate. Too knowing.

“I don’t want to play anymore,” I whispered, the words sticking to my tongue like glue.

But Haruka had never been a girl. Not really.

We found the doll first—her doll. An old ichimatsu doll in the attic trunk, wrapped in silk and tucked inside a lacquered wooden box. Eyes painted so carefully, too real. Too sad. A tag hung around its neck in faded brushstroke hiragana: シャーロット, Shaarotto. The handwriting wasn’t Grandma’s.

Mom said she brought it back from Japan in the seventies, while stationed overseas. A souvenir, she’d said with a strange look. “I always felt like it watched me.”

The attic had grown colder since we found it. And louder.

Haruka appeared that night. Pale. Filmy. Her hair long and stringy, damp as seaweed. She wore a faded kimono, the hem torn and stained, her feet bare and bloodless. Her face—half-hidden behind strands—was not a child’s, though her size suggested it.

She didn’t blink.

“Let’s play,” she’d said in perfect, accentless English, her voice a whisper from inside my skull.

Since then, she never left.

Yūrei. I remembered the word from a book I read once. Spirits tethered by trauma—by rage or sorrow or duty. They could linger forever, anchored to objects, people, wrongs.

Haruka had crossed oceans to be here. But this attic was now hers.

I tried to ignore her. Tried rituals from half-remembered forums: salt circles, charms drawn in chalk. I even burned sage stolen from a neighbor’s pantry.

Nothing worked.

She liked to move things. Keys, toys, teeth. She liked to whisper in languages I didn’t understand, then laugh when I flinched. She hated mirrors. She shattered three.

I didn’t tell anyone. Not after Mom stopped coming upstairs.

Not after I saw her eyes, empty and wide, just outside the attic door. She never blinked either.

Now, Haruka hunted me between the eaves and rafters, her touch like frostbite, her footsteps soft as moth wings.

A floorboard creaked behind me. Slow. Intentional.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

The temperature dropped—like stepping into a crypt. A familiar scent wafted in, thick and sweet. Chrysanthemums.

Cold fingers curled around my wrist. They didn’t grip. They clung.

A hush, like breath on a temple bell, spilled across my ear.

“You forgot the rules,” she whispered. “I never stop playing.”

The shadows shifted. The dust rose.

And behind the old trunk, something bowed.

We Are All Afraid of Something

Why Do We Scream?

You’re home alone. The lights flicker. The wind howls like a voice trying to speak your name through the cracks in the walls. You laugh it off, maybe. Or maybe, just maybe…you lock the door again, even though you already know it’s locked.

That feeling—of dread curling its fingers up your spine—is universal. It lingers long after the credits roll or the last page is turned. But why? Why do we love horror, and why do certain tropes sink into our marrow no matter how many times we’ve seen them?

Horror tropes—those recurring themes, twisted motifs, and well-worn archetypes—aren’t just lazy storytelling devices. When used skillfully, they are finely tuned instruments that strike the exact psychological chords our minds were wired to respond to. They tap into primal instincts, collective anxieties, and existential dread.

So, grab your flashlight and follow me into the dark. I promise not to leave you behind. Let’s explore why some of the most common horror tropes terrify us so effectively…and why we keep coming back for more.

The Power of the Unknown: What We Can’t See or Explain

There’s something lurking in the shadows. We can’t name it. We can’t prove it’s there. And yet, our breath shortens all the same.

This trope is all about ambiguity: ghosts, cosmic entities, eerie whispers from just beyond the veil. Think The Blair Witch Project or the mind-warping horrors of Lovecraft. These stories leave the monster mostly unseen…and that’s what makes it terrifying.

Why it works:

Our brains are addicted to patterns and meaning. When faced with something unexplainable, we short-circuit.The unknown strips away our sense of control.We feel powerless in the face of something we can’t define or fight.

And sometimes, what we imagine is far worse than what’s actually there.

The Jolt to the System: The Jump Scare

You’re leaning in. Everything is quiet. Too quiet. And then—BANG! Heart in your throat. Breath stolen. Pulse racing.

Jump scares are often criticized for being cheap, but when used sparingly, they’re an effective primal tool. They hijack your nervous system and remind you that you are, in fact, very much alive.

Why it works:

It triggers the startle reflex—an ancient survival response.The resulting adrenaline makes us feel exhilarated.That jolt of fear, followed by relief, creates a kind of addictive loop.

We scream, then we laugh. Then we lean in again.

The Perversion of Humanity: Monstrous Humanoids and Possessions

A person who looks mostly normal…but not quite. A mother whose eyes are just a bit too empty. A body contorted in impossible ways. These tropes blur the line between human and inhuman.

Whether it’s The Exorcist, a horde of zombies, or Hannibal Lecter’s polished menace, these stories twist what we think we know about people, and about ourselves.

Why it works:

The uncanny valley triggers unease when something is almost human.Losing control of your body or mind taps into deep internal fears.When humanity becomes the predator, we’re no longer safe anywhere—even with each other.

Horror reminds us that the monster may already live inside us.

The Breakdown of Safety: Home Invasion and Sanctuary Violated

It’s your bed. Your kitchen. Your front door. Your home should be your haven. When horror breaches that boundary, the terror hits close to the heart.

Films like The Strangers and Panic Room masterfully unnerve by turning domestic spaces into traps.

Why it works:

We rely on our homes for security and peace.Violation of that space makes us feel vulnerable and exposed.Paranoia grows. What if nowhere is safe?

Because the scariest horror is the one that could happen…tonight.

The Visceral Shock: Body Horror and Gore

This is not for the faint of heart. The skin peels. The bone snaps. The transformation begins, and it’s not pretty. Terrifier, Saw, or even a well-timed infected bite in a zombie flick leave us squirming for a reason.

Why it works:

Disgust is a built-in survival response to avoid disease.Our bodies are our last sanctuary. When they’re violated, all bets are off.It confronts us with our fragility and inevitable decay.

It’s not just gore. It’s a mirror held up to our mortality.

The Ultimate Helplessness: The Loss of Control

Whether it’s a character trapped in a maze (Cube), hobbled in a bed (Misery), or held against their will (Hostel), this trope is all about stripping agency.

And that’s what makes it horrifying.

Why it works:

We need to believe we have control over our lives.These stories expose how quickly that illusion can be shattered.We’re forced to sit with the awful truth: sometimes, we can’t escape.

And sometimes, even when we survive…we’re not whole anymore.

The Enduring Appeal of Fear

Why do we keep watching? Why do we seek out the dark corners and let the monsters under the bed speak to us?

Because horror is cathartic. It lets us feel chaos in a controlled setting. It gives our adrenaline a playground. It helps us process trauma, grief, even global uncertainty—all wrapped in metaphor and shadow.

Fear, when filtered through story, becomes a kind of ritual. A cleansing. A thrill. A scream in the dark that echoes, then fades, leaving us oddly comforted.

So next time you jump, squirm, or sleep with the lights on, remember: these tropes aren’t just clichés. They’re carefully carved keys. Keys that unlock the places in our minds we rarely let ourselves visit.

But in horror, we must.

And that’s what makes it beautiful.

When the Universe Says Not Yet: A Door Half-Open

It was a cloudy morning on June 14th. That kind of overcast where the sky doesn’t look angry, just tired. There were moments the sun tried to peek through, like it wasn’t quite sure if it was welcome or not. My luggage was zipped and ready, resting at my front door like a loyal companion, packed with more than outfits and toiletries. It carried my hope, my escape, my need to breathe somewhere new.

I was supposed to be on a plane to France.

Instead, I found myself grounded.

At first, I kept telling myself, “It’s okay, it’s just delayed.” But after a domino effect of postponements, cancellations, rebookings, and a few customer service runarounds that tested every fiber of my restraint, I found myself at home again—exhausted, disoriented, and still very much not in France.

And yes, I cried. I dropped an F-bomb (which I rarely do, so trust that it was spiritually significant). I wasn’t angry at the world, but I was deeply, bone-weary disappointed. Not in the dramatic, table-flipping way, but in the kind of way where your soul sinks a little, like it was trying to board the flight without you.

I didn’t ask, “Why me?” so much as I asked, “Why now?”

This trip had been on my heart for months. I’d saved, planned, and prepared for it. Spiritually, emotionally, financially. I was ready to stretch my wings, to get out of my comfort zone, to spend time with my beautiful friend, to walk through cobbled streets and remember who I was outside the roles I often inhabit.

But the universe, something older and wiser, whispered back, “Not yet.”

Maybe there’s a kind of protection in redirection. Maybe the delay wasn’t a punishment, but a pause. A breath. A message I couldn’t quite hear yet because I was too busy looking toward departure gates instead of signs hidden in stillness.

I was grounded in reality, in grief. Grounded in that quiet kind of pain that doesn’t wail, but hums beneath your ribs like a sad violin string.

I know some people might say, “It’s just a trip,” or “You can always go later.” And they’re right. I can go later. France isn’t going anywhere. But I also want to hold space for the version of me who was crushed in that airport terminal—who’d been so excited, so ready, only to be told, “Not yet.”

That version of me mattered, too.

But here’s where the story shifts—because it always does, doesn’t it? Despite my crushed spirit and frayed nerves, my loved ones drove to Charlotte to bring me back home. Like something out of a bittersweet road trip movie, they showed up when I needed them. And while it wasn’t the plane to Paris, it was a kind of arrival all its own: rescued, road-weary, and reminded that I’m deeply loved.

My Mom, a week and a half after the fact, stumbled on articles about the hundreds of flights canceled around the world—due to plane malfunctions, weather, cosmic chaos, who knows? And I started to wonder: what if I was spared from something I’ll never fully know? What if this was less of a setback and more of a sidestep into safety, or alignment, or simply another path?

Sometimes life whispers “not yet,” not to deny you, but to protect you. To reroute you. To give you something else first—like clarity. Or comfort. Or love showing up with an overnight bag and a tired smile.

Not all doors slam shut. Some remain half-open.

And in that crack of light, there is mystery. There is waiting. There is the soft ache of “almost.”

I’m still grieving the lost trip. I won’t pretend otherwise. But I also know France hasn’t vanished. It’s still there, waiting, and so is my friend. Maybe when I go, I’ll be someone even more ready to receive them. Maybe what I need to find in France is still finding its way to me.

So for now, I’ll honor the door that didn’t open.

Not with bitterness, but with a strange sort of reverence. Because even in disappointment, there are whispers of grace.

And maybe the next time I pack my luggage, I’ll carry a little less urgency and a little more trust.

The story isn’t over. The ticket is just tucked inside another chapter.

If you’ve been following along with my writing and posts—thank you for waiting. I took a brief pause to breathe through the unexpected. But the stories are ready to return, and so am I.

I’ll be back to my regular posting schedule from here, with new stories, reflections, and maybe even a ghost or two. As always, thank you for walking beside me

A Little Pause for Celebrations and Adventures!

Dear kindred spirits,

This month’s post comes with a small change to my usual rhythm. For most of June, I’ll be stepping away from the blog and letting it rest in quiet while I tend to some beautiful happenings in my own life.

First, I’ll be celebrating Shavuot—The Feast of Weeks—a meaningful and sacred pause that always stirs something deep in me. And shortly after, I’ll be trading one kind of soul nourishment for another, as I travel to France to visit a dear friend. It’s been far too long, and June has graciously opened a window for us to reconnect, wander cobblestone streets, and catch up over French adventure and laughter.

So after this post, things will go quiet here until July. I won’t be gone for long, so when I return, I’ll come bearing stories, ideas, and horror-tinged inspiration, as always. And of course, my European travel.

Thank you for your ongoing presence and for walking this shadowy, moonlit path with me. I’ll see you soon.

With ghostly gratitude and candlelit fondness,

Abigail

May’s Last Light: What I’ve Learned in the Shadows

“Some truths only bloom in the dark.”

I didn’t set out to write a confessional. I didn’t plan to walk into May carrying old echoes and soft bruises beneath my skin. I thought I was curating—aesthetic posts, moody poems, writing updates.

But something deeper happened.

May didn’t just become a month of sharing. It became a month of shedding.

Each piece I posted felt like a candle lit in a quiet room, revealing not only what I create, but why I create. The Lantern I Carry was never just about stories. It was about staying. Surviving. Speaking from the fog.

And in that fog…something spoke back.

The Month the Fog Spoke Back

There were days when my words felt like bone—fragile, aching, ancient. And yet, I wrote them anyway. The Hollowed One. The Bone Garden. The Ghost Who Watches Me Write. Even Adonai in the Gray.

Those were more than blog posts. They were soul-notes. Whispers from beneath the surface, written in ink made of memory and marrow.

To explore grief, spiritual stillness, longing, and wounds not quite healed. It wasn’t tidy. It wasn’t scheduled content. It was confession in disguise.

And confession is rarely loud. It comes in sighs. In shadows. In the click of a keyboard at midnight, when your heart knows something your mind hasn’t yet named.

I didn’t find answers this month. I found echoes.
And somehow, they sounded like me.

Lessons from the Shadows

This isn’t a list. It’s a murmur. A collection of soul-thoughts May left on my doorstep.

Clarity doesn’t always arrive like thunder.
Sometimes, it slips in through a half-open window and settles on the page like dust.
Ghosts and heartbreaks? They’re not just hauntings. They’re teachers—persistent, poetic ones.
You can hold sacred things and shattered things in the same hands. And you don’t have to choose.
The voice I was trying to find wasn’t missing. It was just quieter than the noise.
Turns out, it was mine all along.

I came looking for signs.
But sometimes, the sign is simply:
you’re still here.

The Light That Remains

I won’t pretend May tied every thread in a pretty, pastel bow. That’s not the kind of month it was.

But it gave me something better: it illuminated. Corners of my heart I hadn’t swept. Old mirrors I hadn’t dared to look into. It showed me that healing doesn’t always feel like triumph. It often feels like telling the truth out loud.

To those of you walking through your own shadows: may you feel a little less alone. May you know that the lantern you carry doesn’t have to blaze. It just has to stay lit.

I’m grateful for May—not because it fixed me, but because it didn’t ask me to be fixed.

It asked me to listen.
To write.
To feel.

The shadows didn’t steal my light.
They shaped it.
And now I carry it forward—
flickering, yes,
but still burning.

I thank you for walking along this journey with me. Your support, your presence, all of it means so much more than you know.

What did you learn in the hush of this month?
What has the darkness whispered to you lately?

The Ghost Who Watches Me Write

There is a ghost who watches me write,
its breath soft against the windowpanes of my heart.
It does not rattle chains or moan—
no, it sighs,
a hush against the hollow places.

It sits where sorrow once bled bright,
where longing still sews itself into my bones
with thread too fine to see,
too strong to snap.

It watches my pen scratch its slow way across the paper,
tugging memories from the places I have buried them
under folded prayers and broken sleep.

I do not fear it.
I know this ghost.
I have worn its shadow like a second skin.
I have called it by name on nights when the silence
sounded too much like goodbye.

Now, it only watches—
a watchman at the edge of my becoming,
a mourner for all the versions of me
I had to lay down
so this one could rise.

It smiles, maybe, or maybe it’s just the flicker of the lamp.
Either way, I write.
Either way, I live.

And the ghost—
the ghost stays awhile longer,
cradling the space between the words.