So, I’ve been a bit like a ghost lately, haven’t I? One of those mysterious ones that leaves a cold spot in the room but forgets to actually say anything interesting. I’m sorry for the radio silence! My keyboard has been feeling pretty lonely, and honestly, so have I.
The truth is, my body decided to throw a massive tantrum. It’s not just a standard “slept on my neck wrong” situation—it’s more of a major health setback that needs some pretty aggressive treatment over the next couple of months. Imagine a very annoying, very persistent alarm clock that you can’t find the snooze button for. That’s been my physical state lately. It smells like antiseptic and tastes like those chalky vitamins your mom used to make you eat, and frankly, I’m over it.
What This Means for the Books
Because I’ll be busy fighting this particular dragon, I might not be popping up here quite as often as I’d like. And—please don’t throw your shoes at me—but the next book might be delayed just a tiny bit. I know, I know! I can hear the collective sigh from here.
But look, I’m still writing. Even when I’m feeling like a soggy piece of toast, my brain is still whirring away at the plot. Sometimes the best ideas come when you’re staring at a beige ceiling, right? My gay lead characters are still getting into trouble in my head, and I’m scribbling notes whenever I can find a pen that actually works. I’m hoping to use this blog as a bit of a tether to the real world, so I’ll try to post more often if my energy levels decide to cooperate.
Staying Positive (Mostly)
I’m trying to keep things light, even if I’m currently losing a wrestling match with a hospital gown. There’s something kind of funny about being told to “rest” when your mind is busy building entire haunted cities or figuring out who killed the guy in the library with a poisoned knitting needle.
I really appreciate you guys sticking around while I get back on my feet. Your messages mean a lot, seriously. They’re better than the weird lime gelatin they keep trying to feed me.
So I just finished Somewhere in Nowhere by Steven Gellman (published in 2026, and yes, I would like to personally thank whoever decided to put this story into the world), and I’m still carrying that weird mix of happy/sad/fearful-for-teen-boys-on-new-schedules.
This book is basically: what if senior year is already hard, you move towns, you’re figuring out your sexuality, and your anxiety… shows up as an actual alien in your stomach trying to murder you. Like, no pressure.
And somehow it’s not just a quirky gimmick—it’s so relatable that I felt my own stomach do that “ugh” drop whenever Simon’s stress ramps up.
Simon Bugg: the main character I wanted to put in my pocket
Simon Bugg starts senior year feeling like the universe is one wrong move away from humiliating him in front of everyone. He’s got anxiety that’s loud and physical, and on top of that his life is complicated in the most teenager way possible: he’s trying to stay “him” while also not letting people decide what his identity “means.”
The plot kicks off hard when his mom (Lindsey) lands a dream job and the family moves to Rockville. Simon is leaving behind the friends he actually knows how to be around. New school = new everything. New cafeteria energy. New awkward walkways. New people who don’t know your history and will absolutely judge you based on vibes alone.
And then Simon meets PJ in drama class, and—because this is a queer story and also because romance in teen brains is feral—things get intense fast.
Simon’s brain is the kind that overthinks everything: what people think, what he feels, whether he’s “allowed” to want things, whether his feelings make him too different from who he wants to be. Sometimes he’s a little sheltered in a way that made me go “buddy, you’ve never heard of anxiety before?” but honestly… that’s also real. Some people go through life without having language for what’s happening until it hits them in the face. Or in his case: 11:22 pm in the form of an alien attacker.
The alien in his stomach (aka anxiety, but make it sci-fi)
I actually loved how the book handles Simon’s anxiety as an alien. It’s funny, gross, and terrifying in that “why is my own body acting like this” way.
It also makes the stakes feel personal. This isn’t just “Simon is anxious.” It’s “Simon is being hunted from the inside, and he has to pretend he’s fine because everyone expects him to be fine.” That combination? Brutal. But it worked for me.
When the story starts revealing what’s really going on (and how the nightly attacks connect to everything), I felt like the book was taking Simon seriously—like his fear and panic weren’t random, they were information. Bad information, but still information.
PJ: sweet, supportive, and secretly dealing with a whole lot
PJ is the kind of character that makes you want to be like, “Okay, yes, I will be normal around you,” and then immediately realize that’s impossible because you’re a human who has feelings.
He’s out at school, he’s warm, he gets Simon’s nervous energy, and he shows up in a way that feels gentle instead of pushy. I also really liked that PJ isn’t just “the love interest.” He has his own real life problems, especially at home, where his queerness isn’t treated like it’s real. More like: phase until further notice.
And yes, there’s a part where Simon panics and derails a date in spectacular fashion. I felt that. Not the alien part. The other part. The “I like you and now I’m scared and I just made it weird” part. Simon’s reactions are messy but believable, and PJ’s feelings aren’t treated like they’re optional. That matters.
Honestly, if I’m being totally honest, PJ was probably my favorite character. I just wanted to scoop him up and protect him from the kind of disappointment that usually shows up in books when you’re rooting for someone.
Secondary characters: beautifully rendered, not just background noise
One of my biggest compliments for this book is that the secondary characters don’t feel like decorative NPCs. They feel like people.
Hector is an early mentor figure for Simon (and yes, that “older gay barista who sees you” energy is socomforting). He becomes a big-brother-ish presence in a way that doesn’t feel fake or performative. You can tell he’s there because he cares, not because the plot needs him.
Mags and Neel (Simon’s original friends) are memorable in different ways. Neel cracks me up because he’s got this… rocket-fueled energy whenever girls come up. Mags, though? I didn’t vibe with her as much. Her personality reads like “bossy and righteous” even when her family situation seems genuinely loving. It left me slightly side-eyeing her choices and attitudes the entire time.
Lindsey and Carole (Simon’s moms) are the emotional center of a lot of the story. You can feel how much they love him, and you can also feel the stress and strain of adult life trying to land in a household with a teen who’s falling apart in slow motion. Lindsey’s work situation and Carole’s vibe are different flavors of caring, and I liked how the book let them both be complicated instead of turning them into perfect cardboard parents.
Daniel (Simon’s dad) could’ve been a throwaway “deadbeat who magically improves” character, but the book gives him more texture. He shows up late and imperfect, but he’s also not totally absent—he’s part of what shaped Simon’s understanding of relationships and safety.
Aunt Sarah and Brian? Yeah, Brian is exactly as gross as you think he is. Like, from first mention I was already ready to throw hands. Aunt Sarah felt harder to read—there’s a vibe of someone who’s coping in a way that doesn’t include being emotionally kind. The book hints at more, and I’ll admit I wanted a clearer explanation of some choices, especially around silence and what people refuse to say out loud.
Paul and Laticia add a lot of warmth and realism. Paul especially feels like a character whose neurodivergence isn’t used as a “funny trait,” it’s part of his way of existing and connecting. Laticia is softer, shy, and still sorting herself out—which made her feel real instead of “perfect side character energy.”
And I really appreciated that the book doesn’t treat Simon like he’s the only person with a full interior life. Everybody else has history, opinions, tension, sweetness. It makes the whole world feel lived-in.
The pacing: some bits move fast, some bits slow down (and it’s noticeable)
Now, I’ll be fair: the pacing can feel a little uneven. There were sections where it felt like we were doing normal life stuff—laundry, conversations, everyday moments—and I could feel the plot chill for a second. Other times, once Simon realizes he’s into PJ, the emotions and obsession spiral so quickly it can feel like you’re getting sprinted into romance before your brain’s fully caught up.
But even with that, I didn’t stop reading. I was too invested in Simon’s emotional survival to bail.
What the book made me feel
This book really does the thing where you start out with humor and weirdness and then—surprise—you’re hit with grief and fear and the messy truth that “moving forward” is not a straight line.
It made me feel protective of Simon. It also made me angry on his behalf at the moments where people misread him or act like his identity is a convenience problem. There’s also a tenderness to the way the support system grows over time: different people, different types of help, and Simon learning how to accept it without feeling like he has to earn basic care.
Also: I loved that the book includes crisis resources not just for the USA, but for Canada and the UK too. That small detail told me the author/book team actually thought about real readers, not just imaginary “audience.”
My final take
Somewhere in Nowhere is a coming-of-age story with romance, friendship, grief, anxiety, and a genuinely creative way of making internal fear visible (the alien thing is honestly the best metaphor I’ve seen in a while). It’s funny in places, heartbreaking in others, and the secondary cast is one of its biggest strengths.
If you like queer YA that feels like it could’ve come from someone’s real life—like conversations you’d overhear in a hallway, panic you’d recognize, love that makes no sense but still matters—then I think you’ll have a good time here.
This book will be released on April 14th but you can preorder it now.
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve stopped reading a book, stared at the page, and muttered, “No one talks like this.” You know the feeling. The words are technically fine. The grammar behaves. The punctuation minds its manners. And yet… the characters sound like they’re reading cue cards under fluorescent lights.
Dialogue can do that. It can look alive on the page and still feel dead in your ear.
So today I want to talk shop. Not from a podium. From the chair across the table, coffee cooling, pen tapping. Let’s talk about how to make characters sound like actual people instead of well-behaved instruction manuals.
The First Test: Say It Out Loud (Yes, Really)
I know, I know. Reading your own dialogue aloud feels silly. I still do it. I still glance around the room like someone might catch me mid-sentence.
Do it anyway.
Your mouth knows things your eyes don’t. If a line trips your tongue, that line needs help. If you have to take a breath halfway through a sentence that a character supposedly says in one go, that’s a clue.
Stiff version:
“I do not believe this plan will succeed, and I think we should reconsider our options.”
Human version:
“I don’t think this is going to work. Maybe we should try something else.”
Shorter. Messier. Easier to say without sounding like you’re addressing a committee.
People Dodge. People Stall. People Talk Sideways.
Real conversations wobble. Folks avoid answers. They circle topics like cats around a suspicious box.
A lot of robotic dialogue comes from characters responding too cleanly.
Too neat:
“Did you steal the money?” “Yes, I did.”
That’s an interrogation transcript, not a conversation.
Looser:
“Did you steal the money?” He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the table. “Is that what this is about?”
Now we’ve got motion. Avoidance. A tiny emotional leak.
When someone asks a hard question, most people don’t sprint straight into the truth. They poke the floor first.
Let Characters Interrupt Each Other
Perfect turn-taking screams “written.” Real talk bumps elbows.
Polished:
“I was thinking about leaving town,” she said. “Why would you do that?” he asked.
Closer to life:
“I was thinking about leaving town.” “Wait—what?”
Interruptions create energy. They show comfort, tension, impatience. Silence has weight too. A character not responding can speak louder than a paragraph of explanation.
Give Each Character a Verbal Habit
Not a gimmick. A rhythm.
One character uses short bursts. Another rambles. Someone else asks questions instead of making statements. A fourth never answers the thing you asked.
Picture a dinner table. Everyone sounds different. Dialogue should reflect that.
Same information, different voices:
“You’re late.” “Traffic was a nightmare.”
versus
“You’re late.” “I know, I know—don’t start. The whole city decided to stop breathing at once.”
Same point. Different pulse.
Cut the Explaining They’d Never Say
Characters don’t narrate their own lives to people who already know them. That’s a fast way to flatten a scene.
Clunky:
“As you know, my brother and I have not spoken since our argument five years ago.”
Nobody says that. Ever.
Better:
“You really think I’m calling him after what happened last time?”
Now the history sits between the lines, right where it belongs.
If a sentence starts to sound like it’s leaning toward the reader instead of the other character, trim it.
Use Filler Words—Just Not Too Many
People say “uh,” “well,” “I mean,” and “you know.” Sprinkle them with care. Too many and the page gets sticky. Too few and the voice gets stiff.
Overcooked:
“Well, I mean, I just think, you know, that maybe—well—this isn’t great.”
Balanced:
“I mean… this isn’t great.”
One small stumble sells the moment without turning it into a traffic jam.
Let Emotion Skew the Sentence
When people feel things, their sentences warp. They trail off. They snap. They repeat themselves.
Flat:
“I am angry that you lied to me.”
Alive:
“You lied to me. You looked right at me and did it.”
Short lines can hit hard. Repetition adds heat. Clean grammar can wait outside.
Eavesdrop (In a Non-Creepy Way)
Some of the best dialogue lessons come from listening. Coffee shops. Buses. Grocery store aisles. People talk in fragments. They jump tracks mid-thought. They contradict themselves without noticing.
I keep a little notebook for phrases that feel real. Not whole conversations. Just bits. Half-sentences. Weird turns of phrase. Later, those bits sneak into characters who need them.
Final Gut Check
Before you move on from a scene, ask one question: Would I believe this if I heard it through a wall?
If the answer hesitates, tweak the lines. Let them breathe. Let them misbehave a little.
Dialogue isn’t about sounding smart. It’s about sounding true.
And yeah—when it works, it feels magic. When it doesn’t, your characters start blinking like malfunctioning appliances. None of us want that.
Dark family secrets. An uncle who knows too much. A boy who can’t ignore what he sees. Nick’s Awakening is the start of a paranormal journey where every answer comes with a new haunting. Grab your copy HERE
Let’s talk about endings. The part of the book where readers are tired, emotionally exposed, and holding a mug of cold coffee they forgot about three chapters ago. This is where things either land softly… or bounce off the wall and leave a dent.
I’ve finished books feeling quietly stunned, staring at the wall like I just lived a whole other life. I’ve also finished books and thought, Wait. That’s it? The kind of ending that makes you flip back a page to see if something’s missing. Or worse, makes you consider a light toss of the book onto the couch with just enough force to feel judgmental.
I’ve written both kinds. So let me save you some grief.
The Ending Is a Promise You’ve Been Making the Whole Time
Here’s the thing I had to learn the hard way: endings don’t start at the last chapter. They start on page one.
If your book opens by asking a question—Who did this? Will they survive? Can love survive this mess?—your ending needs to answer that question. Not every side issue. Not every loose thread tied into a neat bow. Just the core thing you asked the reader to care about.
Readers are incredibly forgiving people. They’ll go along with ghosts, time jumps, unreliable narrators, and questionable life choices. What they don’t forgive is feeling tricked.
If your story promised emotional payoff and you dodge it at the end, they’ll notice. Oh, they’ll notice.
Don’t Confuse “Surprise” With “Random”
I love a twist. I love being surprised. I also love lamps that don’t fall from the ceiling for no reason.
A good ending can surprise the reader while still making sense once they sit with it. The kind where they think, Oh… yeah. That tracks. The clues were there. The emotional groundwork was laid. You didn’t yank the rug out, you gently turned it sideways.
If the ending could be swapped with something completely different and nothing else in the book would change, that’s a warning sign.
Surprise works best when it feels earned, not when it feels like the author panicked at chapter twenty-seven.
Emotional Closure Beats Plot Perfection
This one took me a while to accept.
Readers care more about how the ending feels than whether every detail lines up like a spreadsheet. They want to know where the characters land emotionally. Who changed. Who didn’t. Who paid a price. Who finally told the truth.
I’ve forgiven messy logistics in endings that left me emotionally satisfied. I’ve also side-eyed perfectly tidy endings that felt hollow.
Ask yourself this: when the last page ends, what emotion do I want lingering in the room? Relief. Sadness. Hope. Unease. A mix of things that sit quietly together.
If you can answer that, you’re already ahead.
Let the Ending Breathe
One of the most common mistakes I see—and yes, I’ve done it—is rushing the final moments.
You just dragged the reader through a storm. Give them a moment to stand still afterward.
That doesn’t mean a long epilogue explaining everyone’s future career choices. It means space. A quiet scene. A line that lands clean. A final image that sticks.
Some of my favorite endings are small. A character sitting alone. A door closing. A hand unclenching. A sound fading out.
Big endings don’t always need fireworks. Sometimes they need silence.
Avoid the Sudden Personality Rewrite
If your character has spent 300 pages being cautious, bitter, or guarded, they can change—but they can’t turn into a completely different person overnight.
Growth should feel like growth, not possession.
When an ending asks a character to act out of character, readers feel it immediately. It’s like hearing a familiar voice suddenly sound wrong. The spell breaks.
Change works best when it feels like the next logical step, even if it’s painful or incomplete.
And yes, incomplete is allowed.
Know When to Stop Typing
This is my personal struggle. I love a final sentence. I also love adding one more thought after that final sentence.
Resist.
When you find the line that feels like the door closing, stop touching it. Don’t add an echo. Don’t explain it. Trust the reader to sit with it.
The right ending line has weight. You can feel it in your chest. It doesn’t need backup singers.
A Quick Gut Check Before You Call It Done
Before you declare victory, try this:
Read only the last chapter by itself. Does it still work?
Ask what the story was truly about. Does the ending speak to that?
Picture a reader closing the book. What expression do they have?
If the answer is “confused but not in a fun way,” keep going.
If the answer is “quiet, thoughtful, maybe a little wrecked,” you’re close.
Oh…And One Last Thing (And I Mean This With Love)
Do NOT end your book on a cliffhanger.
I’m not talking about leaving a few threads loose or hinting that life goes on. I mean don’t stop the story in the middle of a scene like the power went out. Don’t freeze-frame the action and slap a “To Be Continued” on it like that somehow counts as an ending.
People are paying for a whole story when they buy a book. Not a portion. Not a teaser. Not a narrative down payment.
If I finish a novel and realize the author just… stopped, my trust is gone. Full stop. I don’t feel curious—I feel played. And once that happens, I’m done. I won’t buy the sequel. I won’t give the author another chance. Life’s too short and my reading pile is already judging me from across the room.
Series can absolutely have ongoing arcs. They can leave room for more trouble, more questions, more mess. That’s fine. Great, even. But this story—the one I just spent hours with—needs to reach some kind of emotional and narrative landing.
Endings should feel like a door closing, not like the book slipped out of your hands.
If you want readers to come back for book two, give them satisfaction first. Let them trust you. Let them feel taken care of.
Cliffhangers don’t build loyalty. They burn it.
So yeah…
Endings are hard. They’re supposed to be. They ask you to commit. To choose meaning. To stop hedging and say, This is what it was all for.
And when it works? When a reader sits there a minute longer than they meant to?
That’s the good stuff.
What do you do when your relationship is already in trouble… and then you move into a house haunted by a young man who died there? A Touch of Cedar – grab your copy HERE
I’ve been thinking about found family again. This happens to me a lot, usually late at night, house quiet, the hum of the fridge doing its lonely little song. My brain drifts to the people who showed up when life felt thin. Not related by blood. No shared last name. Just… chosen. Kept. Held close.
Found family has followed me through my life and into my writing, like a shadow that refuses to leave. I’m glad it doesn’t.
The People Who Picked Me (And Let Me Pick Them)
I didn’t grow up with some big cinematic moment where strangers locked eyes and became inseparable. It was messier than that. Found family, at least for me, came together in pieces. A coworker who noticed I always stayed late and started waiting so we could walk out together. A friend who learned my coffee order without asking. Someone who sat on my kitchen floor with me after a bad phone call, eating cold pizza straight from the box.
None of this felt dramatic at the time. It felt normal. Comfortable. Safe.
That’s the thing about found family: it sneaks up on you. One day you’re just hanging out, trading jokes, passing time. Next thing you know, they’re the person you text first when something goes wrong. Or right.
I still remember one winter evening when everything smelled like wet wool and city slush. We’d ducked into a diner to escape the cold. Vinyl booths cracked from age. Coffee strong enough to bite back. We sat there for hours, talking about nothing and everything. Bills. Books. Old hurts. New hopes. I walked home feeling lighter, like my shoulders had finally dropped an inch.
No paperwork required. No obligations carved in stone. Just choice.
Why Found Family Hits Harder for Me
I won’t pretend blood family doesn’t matter. It does. For many people, it’s solid and loving and grounding. For others, it’s complicated. Or painful. Or distant. Sometimes all three.
Found family gave me room to breathe. Room to grow into myself without explaining every step. These were people who met me where I stood, not where I’d been told to stand.
There’s a quiet power in that. A relief you feel in your chest.
I think that’s why I keep circling back to this idea. Found family says: you are allowed to build something new. You’re allowed to decide who gets access to your softer parts. You’re allowed to stay.
On the Page, Found Family Becomes a Promise
When I write, found family shows up whether I invite it or not. It sneaks into scenes. It settles into dialogue. Characters lean on each other in ways they didn’t expect. Bonds form under pressure. People choose loyalty even when walking away would feel easier.
I love writing those moments. A character offering a spare key. Someone standing guard outside a hospital room at 3 a.m., shoes off, back against the wall. Shared meals. Shared secrets. Shared silence.
Found family in fiction feels like a promise to the reader. A quiet one. It says: you don’t have to face this alone. Not here.
Maybe that’s sentimental. I’m fine with that.
The Risk of Choosing Each Other
Choosing people carries risk. Anyone who’s been burned knows that. Trust can break. People leave. Sometimes they stay and still hurt you. Found family doesn’t come with guarantees.
Still, I choose it.
I choose the late-night conversations that smell like tea and tiredness. I choose the laughter that spills out when it shouldn’t. I choose the awkward pauses and the shared looks that say, “Yeah, I get it.”
Writing about found family lets me explore that risk in a way that feels honest. Characters mess up. They argue. They disappoint each other. Then they decide what matters more. That choice, repeated again and again, feels deeply human.
Why I’m Not Letting This Go
Found family shaped me. It taught me how to stay open. How to listen. How to show up for people who aren’t required to love me and choose to anyway.
That belief carries over to the page. Every time I write a scene where strangers become something more, I’m honoring the people who did that for me. I’m saying thank you in the only way I know how.
I still believe in found family. In real life. In fiction. In the quiet spaces where people meet and decide, “You’re mine. I’m here.”
That belief keeps me writing. It keeps me hopeful. It keeps me connected.
And yeah, I’m sticking with it.
A scrap of forbidden music. A ghost who won’t stop playing. And a detective who knows the dead don’t linger without reason.
When impossible sheet music draws Lucien Knight back into the supernatural world he tried to escape, he finds himself investigating haunted musicians, a vanished maestro, and dark secrets buried inside New York’s most prestigious opera house.
I’m sitting here with a mug of coffee that keeps going cold way too fast, the radiator clicking like it has opinions, and my weather app insisting it’s –8° outside. Negative. Eight. That’s not weather—that’s a personal attack. The upside? I have absolutely nowhere to be. Which means I’ve been holed up, fingers flying, tapping away at the keyboard like it’s my job. (It is. Convenient.)
The big thing looming right now—looming in a good way, the way a stage curtain does before it goes up—is that the clock is officially ticking toward the launch of book three in the Lucien Knight series.
The Haunted Speakeasy hits shelves on February 10th, and I’m equal parts excited and jittery in that way that makes you reorganize your desk instead of doing anything productive for five minutes. If you missed the announcement post, it’s right here: 👉 https://rogerhyttinen.com/the-haunted-speakeasy-is-available-for-preorder/
This one has been living in my head for a while now. Dark corners, bad decisions, and a ghost who does not believe in polite conversation. Lucien’s in deeper than ever, and honestly? I’m having a blast putting him there.
Beyond launch prep, I’ve been steadily chopping away at the rest of the Lucien Knight series. Some days it’s smooth, some days it’s like pulling sentences out of wet cement, but progress is progress. The cold helps. When it’s this frigid, writing starts to feel like the only reasonable life choice. The city outside goes quiet, the windows frost over, and all that’s left is the soft hum of the room and whatever trouble I’ve decided to drop Lucien into next.
And—because I apparently lack self-control—I’ve also started sketching out ideas for a brand-new series. I know. I know. I can hear you sighing from here. But this is how my brain works: one project happily marching along, another one peeking around the corner, tapping me on the shoulder like, “Hey, you awake? I’ve got thoughts.” I’m not committing to anything yet, but the notes are there, scribbled in the margins, waiting their turn.
Just read this great breakdown on building your story’s climax — clear, practical advice for turning tension up and giving your ending real punch. https://thewritepractice.com/climax-build/
Trailer alert! Pillion — the edgy queer romance starring Alexander Skarsgård and Harry Melling — has dropped its first look, teasing a leather-clad, layered story about power, desire, and unexpected connection. https://gayety.com/aleksander-skarsgard-pillion-trailer
I’ve been chewing on this older quote for days now…
“Waste of time, waste of human potential. How much time we waste. As if we were going to live forever.” — Leo Buscaglia
I keep thinking about it while standing in line. While doom-scrolling. While putting off something that actually matters to me because I’m tired or distracted or just plain avoiding it.
Time has a smell to it, I swear. Cold coffee. Warm dust from an old book. The faint hum of electronics late at night. It feels physical when you notice it slipping past.
Time Is Sneaky Like That
I don’t wake up thinking, Ah yes, today I shall waste my potential. Nobody does. It happens sideways. Ten minutes here. A couple of hours there. A day that evaporates without anything to show for it except sore eyes and that low-grade guilt buzzing under your skin.
I catch myself saying things like, “I’ll get to it later.” Later feels generous. Safe. Infinite.
It isn’t.
That’s the part of Buscaglia’s quote that lands hardest. We act like time renews itself the way phone batteries do. Plug in. Recharge. Start fresh. Real life doesn’t work like that. Time only moves one way, and it does not circle back to check on you.
Potential Is Not Loud
Human potential sounds dramatic. Big speeches. Big goals. Big gestures.
Most of the time, it’s quiet.
It’s the book you keep meaning to write, sitting half-finished on your laptop. It’s the phone call you keep putting off. It’s the class you wanted to take. It’s the language you wanted to learn. It’s the walk you didn’t go on because the couch felt easier.
Potential doesn’t kick down the door. It waits. Patiently. Sometimes too patiently.
I’ve felt that waiting. It feels like a low ache behind the ribs. Not pain exactly. More like pressure. The sense that something inside you is tapping its fingers on the table, wondering if you’ve forgotten about it.
The Lie of “Someday”
I grew up believing in “someday.” Someday when things calm down. Someday when I feel ready. Someday when I have more time. Someday when money, energy, confidence, or courage magically appear.
Here’s the part nobody loves hearing: someday is not a place you arrive at. It’s a story you tell yourself while time keeps moving.
I’ve lost entire seasons that way. Whole summers. Whole years. I can still picture the light coming through the windows of apartments I no longer live in, thinking I had plenty of time to figure things out.
I didn’t feel panicked back then. That’s the trick. Wasting time rarely feels dramatic. It feels comfortable.
Comfort Is Not the Enemy — Drift Is
I’m not anti-rest. I love rest…a lot! I love quiet afternoons and doing nothing on purpose. That’s different.
Drift is when rest turns into avoidance. When comfort becomes a holding pattern. When days blur together and you can’t quite remember what you were excited about last month.
Buscaglia isn’t yelling at us to hustle harder. He’s pointing at the tragedy of drifting through a life you actually care about.
That hits me in the chest every time.
Mortality Changes the Math
The older I get, the louder this stuff gets. Time feels heavier now. Not scary, just… real.
There’s a strange clarity that comes from accepting that the clock does not owe us anything. It makes small choices feel sharper. It makes saying yes or no feel more deliberate.
I notice how my body reacts when I choose something meaningful. There’s a warmth there. A steadiness. Even when the thing itself is hard.
I notice the opposite reaction too. That dull, dragging feeling after another evening vanished into nothing.
What I’m Trying to Do Differently
I’m not chasing perfection. I’m chasing honesty.
Asking myself: Is this how I want to spend this hour? Does this choice feed me or numb me? Am I hiding, or am I resting?
Some days I answer badly. Some days I answer well. The point is asking.
Buscaglia’s words don’t feel like a lecture to me. They feel like a hand on the shoulder. A reminder whispered close: you’re here now. Use it.
One Last Thought Before I Go
Time isn’t cruel. It’s just indifferent. That’s oddly comforting.
We don’t need to do everything. We just need to do something that feels honest before the light changes again.
If I waste time, I want it to be intentional. A long walk. A deep breath. A laugh that leaves my face sore.
Human potential doesn’t need to be grand. It just needs to be lived.
Lucien Knight came to New York to escape scandal. He found a dead singer, a beautiful liar, and a ghost that won’t let go. Murder at the Savoy — jazz-soaked noir meets the supernatural. Grab your copy HERE
