I Wrote Three Books… And Now I’m Sitting Here Wondering What Comes Next

I wrote three books.

That still feels strange to say out loud.

For so long, writing a novel was just something that lived in the back of my mind—somewhere between everyday life, responsibilities, and the constant thought of “maybe someday.” And then somehow… someday happened.

Not once.

Not twice.

But three times.

And now I’m sitting here, staring at the three books I wrote in a standalone series—linked by one thing: trauma—and wondering what comes next.

Because no one really talks about this part.

The part where the writing is done, but everything still feels uncertain. Where you’re proud, but also second-guessing everything. Where you start asking yourself questions you didn’t have time to think about before.

Are they good enough?

Will anyone even read them?

What if I put them out there… and nothing happens?

It’s a strange place to be—somewhere between finishing something meaningful and not knowing what to do with it.

But I think this is where it becomes real.

Not when the idea first starts. Not even when the book is finished. But here… in the middle of the uncertainty, where you have to decide if you’re going to keep going anyway.

And I am.

Even if it’s messy. Even if I don’t have it all figured out. Even if part of me is still sitting here wondering if this is going to turn into something or not.

Because I didn’t write three books just to stop here.

So… I guess this is me figuring it out as I go.

And if you’re here reading this—you’re part of that now too.