I didn’t set out to write a book.
I set out to finish.
Echoes of Despair wasn’t born from inspiration—it was born from insomnia. From the kind of nights where sleep doesn’t come, but the doubts do. From the ache in your chest that never fully goes away. From the quiet hours when your mind won’t shut up and you start wondering if maybe… you’re the problem.
I didn’t write this book to tell a story.
I wrote it because I needed to bleed on the page.
And the truth is?
It saved me.
Xander Angel was never meant to be perfect. He’s not the chosen one. He’s not some epic hero. He’s a father. A husband. A man clawing through grief and guilt, dragging himself forward because if he stops… he might not start again. He’s a reflection of what it feels like to love fiercely and lose painfully.
And yeah—there are monsters. There are whispers. There’s cosmic dread and shadowy figures in fedoras and twisted books that might know you better than you know yourself. But underneath all of it?
It’s about holding on when you don’t know why anymore.
Writing this was late-night caffeine binges, whispers into my phone while my daughter slept on my chest, staring at the screen thinking, Who am I kidding?
But I kept going.
Because she found my old writing awards one day and said,
“Dad… why’d you stop?”
And I had no answer that didn’t taste like giving up.
So this book? It’s for her.
It’s for me.
It’s for you—the one still putting the pieces back together.
Thank you for walking this journey with me. We’re one post away from release day. One breath from the echoes becoming real.
Next post drops May 1st: “Echoes Are Here.”
It’s time.
Comment Prompt:
What’s something you thought you gave up on… and found your way back to?