The Challenge of Writing Chapter 4: When a Writer’s Grief Finds Its Way into a Novel

On September 10th, I posted a brief note on Instagram about a difficult scene in Midnight Chase:

“This was a tough one to write. Chapter 4 of Midnight Chase delves into some deeply personal territory, and the unfiltered grief hit a little too close to home. But I truly believe that the most terrifying monsters are born from our most profound heartbreaks. Sometimes, the hardest scenes to write are the ones that burrow deepest into your own heart. It was a journey through shadows and sorrow, but I’m proud of where this story is headed. On to chapter 5.”

That post was only a glimpse. Today, I want to go deeper. I want to talk about what it means when grief—your own grief—slips its hands around your writing desk and forces you to look at it head-on. I’ve always thought of myself as someone who seeks out the things that scare me. But this time, the monster wasn’t in the shadows. It was in my memories.

The Personal Connection

Chapter 4 revolves around Daniella Torres, my protagonist, losing her loyal dog of ten years to cancer. For her, it’s the moment the world cracks open. For me, it was a mirror.

The inspiration was drawn from my own family’s loss—our first dog, Myla. We’d brought her home when I was just starting middle school and my younger sister was starting elementary. I can still see it: two Boxer puppies left from a Craigslist ad. One mellow, the other a wild fireball chasing shoelaces. We knew instantly the fireball was ours. At first we named her Bella, but later changed it to Myla (Bella stayed as her middle name, naturally).

Myla grew up with us, became our anchor through moves, vacations, heartbreaks, transitions. For twelve years she was family. In 2021, she was diagnosed with cancer. We cared for her through the sickness until, in 2022, she couldn’t move without pain. Letting her go was the most brutal, loving choice we could make.

When I wrote Daniella’s scene at the vet—the unbearable moment of choosing release for her beloved companion—I had to stop multiple times. Sometimes I walked away from my desk. Sometimes I drowned in music until I could breathe again. More than once, I cried. My memories of Myla—bright with joy, tinged with sorrow—flooded the page. There was the genuine laughter of her puppy antics, tangled now with the darkness of her absence.

The Blend of Grief and Horror

But this wasn’t just memoir, it was horror. The challenge was twisting my grief into Daniella’s story, allowing her pain to take shape as something both personal and monstrous.

In Chapter 4, her loss leaves her raw and vulnerable. It is precisely this fracture that one of the creatures, her monster, exploits. Its accusations echo her guilt: “You let me die.” “You were too busy.” These lines are horror, yes, but they are also the whispers of any grieving heart. The monster is grief itself, sharpened into claws.

It was in this moment that I felt the truth of what I’d written in my post: the most terrifying monsters are born from our most profound heartbreaks.

The Takeaway: Finding Strength in Writing

Writing Chapter 4 was excruciating. But it was also an act of love. For Daniella, it was a final, heartbreaking gesture toward her companion. For me, it was a way of honoring Myla—keeping her memory alive in the fabric of a story where love and horror intertwine.

Even after finishing, the dull ache of loss remains. It always will. But in crafting that scene, I confronted a shadow that had been clinging to my soul since 2022. Writing didn’t erase the grief, but it shaped it, gave it form, and in doing so, gave me a little strength back.

Grief is a ghost we all carry. Sometimes, the only way to face it is to write it into the story, to let the monster speak, and then—to let the words become a light in the dark.