Can I Actually Ditch My Mac for an iPad? Maybe… Probably… I Don’t Know, Let’s Talk It Out

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Young man working on iPad

So I’ve been having thoughts, my friends. Dangerous thoughts. The kind of thoughts that sneak in when you’re sipping a latte and scrolling through tech blogs on your iPad, feeling a little smug because the screen is shiny and the keyboard clicks just the way you like it.

Lately, I keep bumping into all these posts from people who’ve gone full iPad. They’re out there living that sleek, cable-free, digital-nomad-at-the-café life. Meanwhile, I’m over here with my faithful MacBook, which—bless its aluminum heart—is basically glued to my monitor like it has separation anxiety.

And now I’m wondering… should I be more like those iPad people?

I mean, I love my MacBook. Love. It does everything. It handles my writing, my spreadsheets, my research rabbit holes, my attempt at organizing my life in twelve different apps because I apparently refuse to learn from past failures. But it stays on my desk like a loyal houseplant that never ventures out.

My iPad, though? That thing is a social butterfly. I take it everywhere. It’s light, it’s flexible, it’s fun. If tech had personalities, my iPad would be the friend who says “Let’s go to the library, it’ll be adorable,” while my Mac would say, “No, we are staying right here next to this monitor like grown-ups.”

The 80–90% Theory

Here’s what sparked this whole internal monologue: I realized I could probably do about 80 to 90 percent of my actual daily work on the iPad without breaking a sweat. Writing? Absolutely—Ulysses runs beautifully, and I’ve turned into one of those people who cackles while dragging snippets around with my finger. Emails? Easy. Social stuff, blog stuff, journaling, reading PDFs, making my endless to-do lists? Not a problem.

The iPad handles all of that like it’s lounging on a chaise with grapes.

But then there’s… Photoshop.

Cue dramatic piano chord.

Photoshop: The Final Boss

I design my own book covers, right? So Photoshop on the Mac is something I rely on heavily. Layers, masks, smart objects, finicky tweaks at 800% zoom—stuff that feels a little like performing tiny digital surgeries.

I’ve heard decent things about Photoshop on the iPad, but “decent” has a different meaning depending on who you ask. Some folks claim it’s fantastic for painting and drawing, which is great if you want to illustrate a dragon or sketch a mountain. My needs are a bit more “here is a ghost detective in a fedora; please make him dramatic but not too dramatic.”

From what I gather, iPad Photoshop is… fine. Like, it tries. It does a respectable job for many things, but it’s missing enough features to make cover design feel like assembling IKEA furniture with two screws and a verbal apology. The bones are there, but sometimes you just need the full muscle of desktop Photoshop to finish the job.

So that 10–20% remaining? Yeah. That’s where the Mac still wins.

But Here’s the Tug

I love working on the iPad more.

There, I said it.

There’s something energizing about being able to grab my little glass slab and head outside. Or to a coffee shop. Or to the library, where I can pretend I’m some babbling writer from the 1920s scribbling a masterpiece (except instead of a fountain pen, I’m tapping on a Magic Keyboard and hoping the Wi-Fi doesn’t hiccup).

And since I’m more mobile again—walking places, leaving my house, rediscovering the joy of not staring at the same four walls—it’s been really tempting to rethink my setup entirely. The iPad feels like the tool that fits this new chapter better. It’s portable, it’s fun, and it lets me work anywhere without feeling like I’m lugging around a small metal suitcase.

The Question: Could I Actually Move to iPad Full-Time?

I keep circling around the idea that it might be worth investigating. Really investigating. Maybe even doing a little experiment—like a weeklong “iPad-only” challenge to see what breaks first: my workflow or my spirit.

Maybe I’ll discover that Photoshop for iPad is secretly brilliant and I’ve been worrying for nothing. Maybe I’ll find myself running back to the MacBook like it’s an ex I never should have left. Or maybe—just maybe—I’ll split the difference and let each device do what it’s best at.

Honestly, that sounds the most likely: iPad for the daily roaming writer life, Mac for the deeper “let me manipulate this book cover until I’m convinced the shadows look moody enough without swallowing the poor detective whole” work.

But the idea of trimming down my tech life and actually embracing the iPad as my main machine? It keeps tugging at me.

Anyway, you know me—I’ll probably overthink this for another week and end up sitting in a café with the iPad anyway, pretending I’ve already made the switch because it just feels right.

Murder at the Savoy book cover image - man in fedora in front of the Savoy night club

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.

Can I Actually Ditch My Mac for an iPad? Maybe… Probably… I Don’t Know, Let’s Talk It Out Read Post »

Throw Off the Bowlines (Even If You Still Get Lost in Your Own Neighborhood)

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You know, every so often I’ll bump into a quote that feels like it crawled under my skin, fluffed up a pillow, and decided to stay awhile. That Mark Twain line—the one about regrets and bowlines and sailing away—hits me right behind the ribs every time I see it. Maybe it’s because I’ve made exactly too many “safe harbor” decisions in my life, the sort where you stay where it’s familiar because the familiar doesn’t bite. Or maybe it’s because I know how many times I’ve talked myself out of something I secretly wanted, usually with the weak excuse of: “Eh… maybe later.”

Spoiler: later is rarely a team player.

The Quote That Won’t Leave Me Alone

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do.”

I swear, Twain must have had a time machine, because I’ve already lived the baby version of that. I can look back ten years and clearly see the little crossroads moments—like the weekend I almost bought a one-way ticket to Dublin because I’d convinced myself my future self would magically be braver than my present one.

Yeah. Still waiting on that upgrade.

But here’s what actually sticks with me: every time I did take the risk, even the messy ones, even the ones where I ended up flustered and feeling vaguely ridiculous… I never sat around thinking, “Wow, sure wish I’d stayed home scrolling cat videos.” The regrets always come from the hesitations, the almosts, the quiet little dreams I shoved off to the side to go alphabetize something instead.

Safe Harbor Is Cozy… But Cozy Gets Boring Fast

There’s something seductive about sticking to what you know. It’s like living your life wrapped in bubble wrap—everything muffled, nothing sharp poking through. And hey, bubble wrap is fun for about twenty seconds, and then suddenly you remember that real life is waiting outside like a golden retriever begging you to throw the damn ball.

Safe harbor is great for a nap, but it’s pretty lousy for stories.

Whenever I think about the “throw off the bowlines” part, I picture myself actually trying to work a boat and instantly realize the Coast Guard would absolutely have to intervene. But symbolically? I get it. It’s about snipping the rope between you and the life you’ve outgrown.

Some ropes are tiny. Some are more like those monster ropes used in tug-of-war competitions. But either way, they’re still tied to a version of you that wasn’t meant to steer the rest of your life.

Explore. Dream. Discover. (Or, At Least Try Something That Doesn’t Feel Like a Chore)

Twain hits you with those three little verbs—explore, dream, discover—which sound charming and breezy until you realize they require effort. Like, real actual effort. The kind where you stop talking about what you want and start messing around with reality to see what happens.

I’ve learned that “explore” doesn’t have to mean circling the globe with a backpack and a questionable water bottle. Sometimes it just means saying yes when a friend invites you somewhere you’d normally squirm out of.

“Dream”? That one’s trickier. Dreaming is easy, until suddenly you’re dreaming in circles and forgetting that dreams are supposed to be invitations, not screensavers.

And “discover”—that’s the sneaky part. Half the time, what you discover isn’t the thing you thought you were aiming for. You go looking for treasure and instead realize you’ve adopted a stray cat, or you’ve found out you’re actually kind of good at something you’d been avoiding for no real reason.

Twenty Years From Now…

Here’s the part that makes my stomach do that little wobble: twenty years will show up whether or not I do anything interesting in the meantime. It’ll just knock on the door one morning like, “Hey, remember all those things you said you’d get around to?”
And then I’ll have to answer it.

I think about future-me sometimes—older, maybe a little cranky, hopefully still able to get off the couch without making that involuntary noise I’m already making now. And I wonder what he’ll wish I’d been braver about. Which chances he’ll raise an eyebrow over. What adventures he’ll still be annoyed I chickened out on.

I don’t want that guy side-eyeing me.

So What Do We Do With This?

Honestly? I think we just start small. Nudge ourselves in a direction that feels slightly uncomfortable in a good way. Ask “what if?” and actually follow it with a sentence instead of ignoring it like a telemarketer call.

Throw off one tiny bowline today.
Something bite-sized.
Something that reminds you you’re still in motion.

The big leaps always start with one weird, wobbly little step, usually while you’re muttering, “Okay, okay, I guess we’re doing this.”

And that’s enough.

That counts.

Future-you will thank you.

The Golem's Guardian book cover

When shadows with human faces begin stalking the city, a quiet librarian and his sister discover their family’s secret: a legacy of mysticism, prophecy, and a clay guardian who just might save—or doom—them all. The Golem’s Guardian – available HERE

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Define It Yourself, Darling

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Young man with rainbow colored eye-shadow
Smiling young man with dark curly hair wearing colorful rainbow eye makeup and painted nails, posing against a pink backdrop. The vibrant colors express creativity, self-expression, and confidence, highlighting a modern take on style and fashion.

There’s this quote by Harvey Fierstein popped in my head outta nowhere the other day: “Accept no one’s definition of your life. Define yourself.” It’s one of those lines that hits you in the ribs a little, like someone just tapped your sternum and went, “Hey, are you paying attention?” And honestly, I needed that nudge. I’ve been thinking so much about the ways people try—usually without even realizing it—to hand you a pre-written script for who you’re supposed to be.

I mean, I spent years believing other people’s ideas of who I was. A teacher once told me I was “too quiet to ever be a writer.” I remember blinking at her, clutching my folder of short stories like it was a tiny kitten I needed to protect. Quiet doesn’t mean silent. Quiet doesn’t mean I don’t have a voice. It just means I didn’t want to yell over the kid who treated every class like his personal comedy hour. But for a long stretch, her words stuck to me like gum on a shoe. It took me years to scrape off that nonsense.

And that’s sort of what Fierstein was getting at, I think. Everyone has opinions—family, friends, random people in line at Target who feel compelled to offer life advice because you’re holding a planner with stickers. Folks will confidently tell you what “someone like you” should do or be or want. I’ve had people decide I’m “too old” for video games, too whimsical to run a business, too introverted to teach Zumba. Meanwhile, I’m bouncing around a gym studio with a room full of sweaty strangers and having a blast. Every time someone says, “Really? You teach Zumba?” I feel like Fierstein himself is somewhere offstage going, “See? This is what I’m talking about.”

The weirdest things people try to define you by are the things they understand the least. Like the time someone told me I shouldn’t write paranormal mysteries because “the supernatural isn’t serious literature.” I remember sipping my coffee and thinking, “Buddy, ghosts have been haunting stories longer than your family tree has been sprouting cousins.” Funny how folks will declare what’s “worthy” like they’ve been handed a golden clipboard by the universe.

I’ve watched friends get boxed in, too. One of my closest pals was always called “the responsible one,” which is code for “the one we expect to clean up everyone else’s messes.” It took him ages to realize that he wasn’t obligated to carry the weight of everyone’s disorganized chaos. The day he finally said no to something, he texted me like he’d just discovered fire. Meanwhile, he’s traveling now, taking improv classes, hiking in places with actual cliffs—living a life way bigger than the label he got stuck with at sixteen.

Sometimes the definitions are subtle, like when people react with mild surprise that you enjoy something outside the little category they’ve filed you into. “Oh, you’re into French? I didn’t think you’d be a language person.” “You’re starting a tarot blog? Huh.” They don’t mean harm—most folks aren’t malicious—but the effect can still be this small, quiet pressure that nudges you back into the “expected” lane.

And then there are the definitions you hand yourself without realizing. Those are the sneaky ones. For years, I had this internal rule that I wasn’t “sporty” because I hated gym class in middle school. Turns out, I love dance workouts, long walks, and the occasional bike ride where I pretend I’m in a charming European indie movie. It took me embarrassingly long to figure out that gym class was not, in fact, the universal measure of athleticism. Who knew?

Even silly examples count. I once decided I “wasn’t a hat person.” I don’t know where that came from—maybe some random snapshot of myself in a winter beanie that made me look like a startled turnip. But then, one day on a whim, I bought this wide-brimmed hat that gives me major “mysterious stranger in a 1930s speakeasy” energy, and suddenly I’m strutting around like I own the joint. Turns out I was a hat person the whole time; I was just wearing the wrong hats (and I now own two hat racks).

Defining yourself is messy and ongoing and occasionally weird. It means trying on identities like outfits and figuring out which ones fit and which ones scratch. It means ignoring the peanut gallery—even the well-meaning peanut gallery. It means letting yourself evolve, contradict yourself, surprise yourself. And honestly, that’s the fun of it.

So yeah. Fierstein wasn’t kidding. Don’t let people decide who you are just because they happened to show up early in your story. Write your own definition, scribble it out when it changes, doodle in the margins, add footnotes, cross out the parts that never belonged to you in the first place.

Book cover image of man wearing a fedora for Murder at the Savoy

It’s here! Murder at the Savoy is out now — a jazz-soaked mystery where the ghosts never rest, and neither does Detective Lucien Knight.

🎩 1930s New York. Forbidden love. One haunting murder. Grab your copy HERE

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Me, My Eyes, and My Beloved Boox Note Air 4C

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young man in a cafe reading on an e-ink device

So, picture me squinting at my iPad mini like a grandpa reading the stock listings under a dusty lamp. That was my life for a while—thinking I’d cracked the code to digital reading nirvana with that tiny tablet—but my eyes pretty much staged a rebellion. Burning. Watering. The whole dramatic opera. I wanted to read for hours, not blink through a headache. And honestly, I felt betrayed. I bought the iPad for ebooks. That was supposed to be our thing.

But the universe nudged me in another direction.

I fell down the rabbit hole of e-ink readers, the way one falls into YouTube at 11 p.m. thinking, just one more review. Before I knew it, I was comparing refresh rates, note-taking latency, warm vs cool front lights, storage sizes, screen clarity, stylus feel, color rendering—you know, stuff I swore I’d never care about. I became that person. The research gremlin. I even caught myself stroking my chin like a philosopher while reading Reddit threads titled “Is Boox worth it??”

And then—cue soft glow and faint angel chorus—I found the one.

The Boox Note Air 4C

Sleek. Kinda classy. Understated like a writer who wears black sweaters and drinks strong tea.

The first time I powered it on, the screen looked like paper. Not “sorta-like-paper if you squint” paper—actual paper vibes. That warm matte texture makes my words feel real, and the color display (yes, color e-ink!) gives book covers just enough personality without punching me in the eyeballs with bright LED cheerfulness.

My eyes? Instantly happier.
I’m talking long reading sessions—two coffee refills deep—and zero regret. No stabbing brightness. No glare bouncing off the window. Just me sunk into a story, the device weight perfectly chill in my hands, as though it was designed for marathon reading binges and existential literary crises.

And Then I Realized This Thing Was More Than a Reader

This is where my Boox Note Air 4C surprised me. I originally bought it to read—full stop. But somewhere between chapter three of a mystery novel and my second peppermint tea, I thought:

Huh, I could edit my draft on this.

And I did.
And it was divine.

There’s this very pleasant scratch-to-stylus feel that tricks your brain into thinking you’re writing on real paper. I can scribble notes directly on PDFs, circle dialogue that feels clunky, doodle a sad stick-figure detective in the margin (for morale purposes), and highlight entire chapters like I’m a professor marking essays. It’s writable, in the most comforting sense. The digital pages take ink with little resistance.

My manuscript drafts look like someone spilled rainbow confetti on them—in the best possible way. Edits everywhere. Arrows. Stars. Angry punctuation. Tiny compliments to myself like good metaphor, past Roger.

It’s become my traveling writing companion. Coffee shops, park benches, planes—if the mood hits, I’m editing. And because the screen feels so gentle on the eyes, I can work longer without that throbbing behind-the-socket sensation that pretty much defines trying to revise on an iPad backlit at 2 a.m.

Things I Do With My Boox Without Shame

  • Read on the couch until the cat demands food
  • Annotate drafts like I’m preparing for a dissertation defense
  • Highlight entire paragraphs because they “spark joy”
  • Carry it around like a pocket-sized creative brain
  • Flip between ebooks, PDFs, handwritten notes, and doodles like some kind of literary wizard

It’s funny—tech is usually so loud. Flashy. Shiny. Begging for attention. The Boox Note Air 4C feels more like a notebook that just happens to know how to sync files and display entire novels. It encourages slowing down, focusing, thinking. My writing sessions feel less like work and more like wandering through my thoughts with a pen.

And that’s exactly what I wanted.

I still love my iPad—don’t get me wrong. It’s great for apps, shows, gaming, hopping online when boredom hits. But for reading? For editing? For deep-thought creative sessions where I’m half annoyed and half in love with my own sentences?

No contest.

The Boox wins.

I guess this is my way of saying

I didn’t expect to fall for a device. But here I am, stroking its cover like it’s a hardcover first edition. If you’re like me—eyes tired, brain craving paper but unwilling to sacrifice digital convenience—this little beauty may be your new confidant.

I read more. I write more. I think more.
And honestly? That feels like magic.

Ghost Oracle Box Set image

My Ghost Oracle Box Set (Nick Michelson) is now available from your favorite online retailer.
Here’s a link for Books 1-3: https://books2read.com/u/mBKOAv
Here’s a link for Books 4-6: https://books2read.com/u/mVxr2l

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Trying to Learn How to Draw…Because Why Not?

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Let me tell you a secret I’ve been carrying around for years: I cannot draw.
Like, at all.

If you ever saw me try to sketch a person, you’d think I was illustrating a police report from memory after losing my glasses. My stick figures? Wobbly. My circles? Egg-shaped. My attempts at shading? Let’s just say they look like suspicious bruises on whatever unfortunate object I’m trying to bring into existence.

But the other day—while procrastinating on something important, I’m sure—I tripped over this Udemy class called How to Draw Everything.
Everything. As in… everything? Bold claim, friend. Very bold.

And yet the title hooked me. It was cheap, the reviews were glowing, and suddenly I’m hovering over the “Buy Now” button, thinking, “Well, maybe this will help me graduate from tragic stick person to… I don’t know… a slightly less tragic stick person?” So I bought it. And now here I am, telling you about my grand plan to learn how to draw next year.

I already know it’s going to be messy.

Why Drawing? Why Now?

Honestly, I’ve wanted to learn for years, but every time I sat down with a pencil, I immediately regretted all my life choices. My brain would chant things like: What even IS perspective? or Why does this apple look like a potato that’s seen things? So I’d give up, put my pencils back into their little cup, and return to something I can do—like writing, or making coffee, or reorganizing my bookshelf for the seventh time.

But something about this class felt… approachable. Maybe it’s the fact that the instructor promises to start with literal scribbles. Scribbles I can do. I’m practically a scribble savant. There’s something kind of nice about the idea of starting from zero without the pressure of impressing anyone—including myself.

Plus, the truth is, I’ve been craving a new hobby that doesn’t involve a screen. I’ve spent so much time glued to my computer lately that my eyeballs have started staging quiet protests. Drawing feels like a way to sneak back into the land of the tactile—paper under fingertips, graphite smudges on the side of my hand, that soft scratchy sound pencils make when they’re trying their best.

The Fear of Being Bad (Hi, It’s Me)

Now, let’s talk about the part that freaks me out: I’m going to be terrible at this.
And not the adorable kind of terrible where friends go, “Aww, you’re actually really good!” No. I mean the kind of terrible where people tilt their head, squint, and say, “Is that supposed to be a dog?”

But maybe that’s the whole point. Maybe it’s okay—maybe even fun—to deliberately be awful at something at first. I think as adults we forget that we’re allowed to be beginners. We forget that every skill starts as a clumsy mess, and that the clumsy part is half the charm. Kids don’t care if they draw a house that’s leaning like it’s had a long night. They just draw. They enjoy it. They feel the crayon drag across the page and think, “Look what I made!”

I want some of that energy back.

And who knows? Maybe by the time December rolls around next year, I’ll have a binder full of drawings that actually resemble things. Or maybe I’ll have a binder full of blobby experiments that look like creatures from a low-budget sci-fi film. Either way, it’ll be proof that I tried. And honestly? I’m kind of looking forward to seeing just how weird my early drawings get.

Supplies Have Been Purchased (This Is Getting Real)

Of course, the second I decided to learn how to draw, my brain whispered, “You know… you should buy supplies.” And suddenly I’m browsing mechanical pencils like they’re exotic pets. I’m reading strangers’ opinions on sketchbooks, erasers, and something called a blending stump (which I originally assumed was an enchanted stick).

I have now acquired:

  • A sketchbook that’s way too nice for a beginner
  • A pencil set that makes me feel like I should be wearing a beret
  • A kneaded eraser that looks like a sentient lump of putty
  • Unjustified confidence

I suspect the eraser will become my best friend.

What I’m Hoping For

I’m not trying to become Michelangelo—honestly, I’d settle for being able to draw a cat without it looking like a melted marshmallow. What I want is to feel that spark when something you make actually resembles the thing you were aiming for. That little jolt of, “Oh hey, look at that—I made a line go where I wanted it to!”

And if nothing else, I think it’ll be good for my brain. A chance to slow down, focus on shapes and shadows, and maybe—just maybe—enjoy the meditative grunt of erasing the same line for the tenth time.

Wish Me Luck

So yeah. This is the plan: next year, I learn to draw. Or at least attempt to draw. Or at least doodle with intention. I’ll keep you posted on the progress, the disasters, the accidental creatures, and the surprising little wins.

And if you’ve ever wanted to pick up a creative hobby you’re hilariously bad at—join me. We can make lumpy apples together.

Norian's Gamble book cover image

What happens when the heir to a kingdom is bound by the curse of the wolf? For Prince Norian, the answer comes with blood, fire, and the terrifying knowledge that dark magic has singled him out. As shadows close in, he must protect his people from an enemy who will stop at nothing to seize the throne. Danger, destiny, and deadly secrets entwine in Norian’s Gamble.

Trying to Learn How to Draw…Because Why Not? Read Post »

🔐 Why Cryptomator Has Become My Little Digital Vault (And Why You Might Want One Too)**

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(A ramble about privacy, files, and the magic of encryption — minus the headache)

I promised myself I wasn’t going to turn into one of those people who goes on and on about internet security, but here we are. I blame past-me — the same past-me who wrote a blog post a while back about staying safe online. That little article planted a seed. A seed that sprouted into my ongoing obsession with guarding my files like they’re the crown jewels. Jewelry I keep in the cloud, no less.

So today I want to talk about something I use almost daily — Cryptomator. And honestly, it’s one of those apps I forget exists until the moment I need it, like a flashlight that sits quietly in a drawer until the power goes out and suddenly you’re like oh good, you again.

☁️ Life in the Cloud — Fun Until It Isn’t

Using cloud storage is kind of like throwing your belongings into an invisible attic. Super convenient… until you remember anyone else could climb up there if they try hard enough. And look — I love convenience. I have files everywhere: Dropbox, Google Drive, iCloud — the usual digital clutter. Novel drafts, tax documents, private photos that consist mostly of groceries and screenshots of weird error messages.

All that is great until I picture some faceless stranger opening my files like they’re flipping through a diary. Worse yet — judging my folder naming system. (‘FINAL FINAL FINAL REALLY THIS ONE’ — anyone?)

So that’s where Cryptomator sauntered into my life.

🗝 What Cryptomator Does (In Plain Speak)

Forget complicated encryption jargon. I’ll put this how I understand it:

Cryptomator locks your files before they travel to the cloud. Like zip-tying a suitcase shut before checking it at an airport. Yes, the airline can move it. No, they can’t snoop inside unless they guess your key.

You create a “vault.”
You put files inside.
Cryptomator scrambles them into nonsense.
Only you hold the unlocking phrase.

It’s like whispering secrets in a language only you speak.

The nice part? You don’t need a degree in cybersecurity. It’s free, it’s open-source, and it works on basically every device — Mac, Windows, Linux, iPhone, Android — you name it. I like tools that don’t boss me around about what platform I’m using.

Why I Use It Constantly

Let me paint a little picture.

I draft stories in strange places: grocery store checkout lines, coffee shops, once on the floor of an Amtrak car (don’t judge — outlets were scarce). I keep my drafts in Cloudland so they’re accessible everywhere. But then I think… what if someone gains access to my drive and reads the entire ending to a book I haven’t published yet? Horror.

So into the Cryptomator vault they go. Along with:

  • Tax returns
  • Bills
  • Passport scans
  • Website credentials scribbled into badly formatted text files
  • Novel outlines I’m too shy to show anyone yet
  • Finished novels
  • Works in Progress
  • My Digital Journal
  • Finance and Business Spreadsheets
  • Legal Documents
  • Travel-related stuff
  • etc., etc., etc.,

Basically — anything that would make me cringe if it fell into the wrong hands.

🧊 The Interface Doesn’t Fight Me

Some apps feel like fighting a fridge door that won’t close. Cryptomator is more like a window latch — pull, click, done. Once you unlock the vault, it behaves like a regular folder. Drag stuff in. Drag stuff out. No need to chant arcane commands or wear blue-light glasses for intimidation purposes.

The best part? Even if your cloud account is breached, all the hacker sees is encrypted gibberish — filenames scrambled like alphabet soup. No one is reading those files unless they’ve got your vault password, and hopefully you didn’t name that password password123 (please tell me you didn’t).

🚪 Small Habit, Big Peace of Mind

I’m not paranoid — or maybe just comfortably cautious. The world is digital whether we like it or not. We toss data into the cloud constantly: bank statements, manuscripts, legal documents, receipts for that dress we panic-returned two days later. That’s modern life.

But adding a tiny layer of protection with something like Cryptomator?
Feels smart. Feels safe. Feels like locking your front door even though you live on the second floor and nobody has a ladder.

And yes — this whole post is basically just me nudging you to protect your private stuff too. Because I care. And because I’ve grown fond of the calm that comes with knowing my cloud storage isn’t a wide-open window at street level.

If you want to keep your files private, but you don’t want the headache of figuring out difficult encryption tools or reading tech documentation that feels like a foreign language, Cryptomator is genuinely worth trying. It’s one of those quiet little apps that make your digital life just a tiny bit safer — and that tiny bit matters more than we think.

If you try Cryptomator, let me know — I love hearing how people use it, and I’ll happily geek out about file security way longer than anyone asks for.

Murder at the Savoy book cover

New York, 1937.
Ex-Scotland Yard detective Lucien Knight trades the fog of London for the neon haze of Harlem—and lands straight in the heart of a scandal. A rising jazz singer lies dead, a lover demands justice, and whispers of a secret affair threaten to ignite the city’s rumor mill.
In a world where truth and desire can both get a man killed, Lucien must choose whom to trust—and how much of himself to reveal—before the Savoy’s glittering stage becomes his own grave.

Grab your copy HERE

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Paranormal Pet Peeves: What Gets Under My Skin?

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(a friendly ramble from yours truly)

You ever read a book, all excited because there are ghosts or witches or old creaky mansions, and then — halfway through — you realize the story has suddenly left the building and wandered into the land of same old, same old? I swear I’ve closed more books in frustration than I care to admit, muttering to myself like a crotchety wizard whose potion went sour. Paranormal fiction is my comfort zone and my playground, but even I have a few things that make me sigh into my coffee like a disappointed parent.

I thought I’d jot down a little rant today. The kind you’d overhear in a bookstore aisle between two readers who smell like evergreen candles and used paperbacks. If you’re nodding along by the end, then at least I know I’m not alone.

1. The dreaded paranormal love triangle

We might as well start with the big one. My personal sore spot.
The thing that crawls across my brain like a cold finger at 2 a.m.

The love triangle.

I get why people write them — tension, swoony jealousy, a little emotional tug-of-war — but usually it just makes me want to reach into the page and bonk all three characters on the head with the nearest enchanted object. Especially when every book feels like it’s contractually obligated to include a brooding vampire and a loyal werewolf fighting over the same girl like prize cattle.

Look, I lived through the Twilight era. I wore the merch. I stood firmly in the Jacob camp, tail and all. (No shame. Wolf boys forever.) But the market got saturated pretty quick. Now when I sense a triangle brewing, I tighten up like someone just whispered brussel sprouts. I’d rather watch two characters build something real than sit through a recurring chapter of “who will she pick this week?” like I’m tuning into a supernatural dating show.

My dream? Give me a paranormal story where the romance is subtle, slow, or at least not a tug-of-war shaped like an isosceles.

2. The instant “we just met but now we’re soul-bonded forever” romance

Picture this:
Main character bumps into a mysterious stranger at the cemetery.
They exchange exactly twelve words.
Boom — cosmic destiny. Eternal connection. Mate-for-life without discussion.

My left eye twitches every time.

I want sparks, sure, but sparks usually fly after friction. Let them talk. Let them argue. Let one of them forget the other’s birthday. I love paranormal romance as much as the next reader clutching their Kindle like a security blanket, but I like to feel it grow. Not get smacked with it like a rogue broomstick swinging out of a closet.

3. Characters discovering supernatural powers and just… rolling with it

If I woke up tomorrow and found out I could move objects with my mind, there would be chaos in my kitchen. Flour everywhere. A ceiling fan bent into modern art. I wouldn’t blink calmly, accept my destiny, and immediately learn to levitate with grace like some shimmering chosen-one Olympic gymnast.

Yet in a surprising number of books, characters shrug and adapt like they just learned to ride a bike. No panic googling. No sweat. No “oh god did I just set Aunt Linda’s curtains on fire?”

I want mess. I crave mess.

Show me someone blowing up a toaster by accident. Show me a witch trying to cast a spell with a cold and accidentally summoning banjo-playing ghosts. Give me the weird.

4. The immortal who behaves like they’re 19 forever

Immortal characters who’ve lived hundreds of years yet talk like they’re fresh out of freshman orientation? That gets me. If you’ve survived plagues, wars, the invention of microwavable pizza, and you still use slang like a TikTok influencer… something ain’t adding up.

Give me an immortal who collects stamps. One who’s tired. One who reads weather almanacs for fun. One whose knees crack when they stand up even though technically they shouldn’t have knees that old. I’d follow that character for 400 pages without complaint.

5. Every ancient evil being defeated by… true love

Now don’t get me wrong — I enjoy affection, emotional healing, quality hand-holding — but sometimes the final showdown feels like it was solved with a motivational poster. You’ve got a demon older than civilization, made of shadow and hunger, and the solution is a heartfelt declaration and one perfect kiss?

I’m just saying: maybe bring salt and iron too. And an exit plan.

I say all this with affection, of course. Paranormal fiction is the genre that made teen-me stay up past midnight with a flashlight wedged between the pages. It still gives me goosebumps and that fizzy feeling in my ribs. The stuff that annoys me often shows up in books I still enjoyed. Maybe that’s the magic — loving something enough to poke fun at it like a friend who keeps misplacing their keys.

And, honestly, if someone writes a story about a ghostly love triangle with banjo-summoning spell mistakes and an exhausted immortal who just wants to take a nap… I’ll probably read it anyway.

Because I’m weak. And curious. And powered by equal parts irritation and obsession.

Touch of Cedar book cover image

It starts with a smell. Cedar. Warm, nostalgic, familiar—and impossibly strong in a house that’s been empty for decades. For Marek, the scent is just the beginning. Soon he sees the ghost: a handsome stranger in a black suit, his eyes filled with grief. As Marek’s connection to the spirit deepens, his present with Randy begins to fracture even further. Caught between the living and the dead, Marek has to decide what kind of life—and love—he truly wants. Gothic, romantic, and a little eerie, A Touch of Cedar is a story about the ties between past and present, and the secrets old houses never quite give up. Grab your copy from my Web Store or from your favorite online retailer.

Paranormal Pet Peeves: What Gets Under My Skin? Read Post »

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