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Last week, something extraordinary happened—I published my first novel, The Dark Epoch: Quest for the LightSeeker. After nearly eight years of development, dozens of drafts, and countless hours scribbling notes into my phone, the story that had lived only in my mind and scattered files became something real. Tangible. A book with weight and texture and a spine bearing my name.

The Highs came quickly and beautifully.

Holding the finished copy in my hands for the first time—a moment so simple and yet so profound—was surreal. All the editing, proofing, formatting stress... it melted away. This was no longer a project. It was a book. And not just mine—it belonged to the world now.

Friends began reaching out. Some purchased the book, others sent photos of it arriving in their homes. Some simply wrote heartfelt messages. Those small acts meant more than they probably know.

I also had the unexpected joy of being interviewed on local radio. The host and guest were incredibly warm—congratulatory, curious, and genuinely encouraging. And then came something I’d dreamt of but never fully expected: the first piece of real fan feedback. From someone I didn’t know. A reader. Their words landed differently. This wasn’t kindness from a loved one—this was a person who’d stepped into the world I built and come out moved enough to share their thoughts. That feeling was incredible.

But of course... then came the Lows.

The sobering reality hit almost immediately: now the real work begins. I got a kind message from a fellow writer and voice actor, full of genuinely helpful advice—start an Instagram account for the book (done, now sitting with zero followers), get the novel out to ARC readers (had to Google what that even meant—Advanced Reader Copies). All very valid advice... and yet, oddly deflating.

It was the moment I truly realised: in a saturated market, visibility doesn’t come easily. It’s slow. Time-consuming. And it involves something I’ve never been comfortable with—self-promotion.

I reflected, too, on the creative economy. This book, this story, has cost me thousands of hours and well over $2,000 in expenses—editorial feedback, literary reviews, website hosting, publishing costs. I've leaned on friends for favours and support. And while I know it’s unlikely I’ll earn that investment back, that’s not what stings. It’s the stark understanding of how hard it is for artists to survive doing what they love.

I found myself thinking back to high school, to a time when I considered pursuing a career in visual art. I didn’t. I studied accounting instead. And part of me is glad I did—from a financial perspective. I’m lucky not to rely on book sales to survive. Writing, for me, is something I can do purely out of passion.

That brings me to what truly matters.

I didn’t write The Dark Epoch because I expected commercial success. I wrote it because I wanted to tell a story that I would want to read. Something layered, immersive, and thought-provoking. Something imperfect, but sincere. I'm self-aware enough to know that this debut won't rival seasoned authors in polish or literary mastery—but I hope that those who choose to spend time with it won’t feel their time was misspent.

I hope they’ll walk away thinking. Feeling. Questioning. I hope the world of The Dark Epoch lingers with them—the themes, the characters, the choices they faced. I hope it connects, even just a little, to something in each reader: a part of themselves, a perspective on the world, a moment of wonder or reflection in this vast, unfathomable reality we all move through together.

This book was never about reaching a destination. It was always about the journey. The creation. The spark. And now that it’s out in the world, I’m grateful—for the highs, the lows, and everything in between.

Until we all return to the Source...