This weekend, the clocks turn back. What would you do with one borrowed hour?

This Sunday, November 1, something quietly remarkable will happen.

At two o’clock in the morning, while most of us are fast asleep, time will simply… step back. Two o’clock will become one o’clock again. An hour that has already happened will happen once more.

No machines. No mysterious portals. No ancient pocket watches humming with strange energy.

Just a small, ordinary adjustment that we’ve all grown so used to that we barely notice it.

We grumble about resetting the clock on the microwave. We wonder why the car clock is always wrong. We wake up on Sunday morning feeling oddly well rested, and then, a few days later, we’re startled when darkness falls before dinner.

But have you ever stopped to think about how extraordinary it is?

Once a year, time gives us an hour back.

Confessions of a Time-Travel Author

I must admit, as someone who has spent years writing about people who slip between centuries, I find this night rather delightful.

My characters have tumbled through time in all sorts of dramatic ways. They have stepped out of the twenty-first century and into 1909. They have searched for answers in equations, in old houses, and in the stubborn certainty of their own hearts. Their journeys come with danger, wonder, and more than a few complications.

And here we are, the rest of us, traveling back an entire hour with nothing more than a good night’s sleep.

It isn’t quite the same, of course. Nobody wakes up on Sunday morning to discover they’re wearing a corset and standing on a cobblestone street. (At least, I hope not. If you do, please write and tell me everything!)

The idea itself isn’t new, either. Benjamin Franklin once wrote a playful essay suggesting that Parisians could save a fortune in candles simply by getting out of bed earlier. Over a century later, countries began moving their clocks in earnest, and we’ve been springing forward and falling back ever since.

Still, I like to think there’s a little magic tucked inside that ordinary hour. For one night, the clock doesn’t only move forward. It pauses, turns around, and lets us live a moment twice.

If You Could Choose Your Hour

Here is the question that keeps tugging at my imagination.

What if that extra hour weren’t simply the hour between one and two in the morning? What if we could choose which hour we got back?

Some of us might choose something small and sweet. A lazy Sunday morning from childhood, with cartoons on the television and pancakes on the stove. A summer evening on the porch when the fireflies came out. The last hour of a wonderful vacation, before the suitcases had to be packed.

Others might choose an hour with someone they miss.

One more cup of coffee at a familiar kitchen table. One more phone call, with a voice we would give almost anything to hear again. One more chance to say “I love you,” “thank you,” or simply “I’m sorry.”

And some of us might choose an hour we wish we could do differently. The conversation that went wrong. The door we didn’t knock on. The moment when we were too proud, too frightened, or too busy to notice what mattered.

I suspect that if we were honest, most of us already know which hour we would ask for.

It’s a tender thought, isn’t it? We spend so much of our lives wishing for more time. Yet when we imagine having just one hour back, we rarely think about quantity at all.

We think about people. We think about moments. We think about love.

What Time-Travel Stories Are Really About

Perhaps that is why I have never grown tired of writing about time travel.

Readers sometimes assume these stories are about the mechanics. How does it work? What are the rules? What happens if you change the past?

Those questions are great fun to explore, and I certainly enjoy them. But the longer I write in this genre, the more convinced I become that time travel is rarely the true heart of the story.

The heart of the story is always the people.

When Nika Morris found herself in 1909, the real adventure wasn’t the leap across a century. It was what she discovered there: Eli, a love she never expected, and a life she would have to choose with her whole heart. When Andrew went searching for his sister, his equations could point the way, but they couldn’t tell him what it would cost to follow.

Time travel simply gives my characters what the rest of us can only dream about. A chance to reach the moment that matters most. A chance to find someone who was out of reach. A chance to do it differently.

In real life, we don’t get to choose our hour. We can’t go back to 1909, or to last spring, or even to yesterday afternoon.

But in books? Well, you know how I feel about that. In books, the clock can turn back as far as our hearts need it to go.

And as I prepare to share the final book in this series, with A Mission in Time arriving on November 17, I find myself thinking about time more than ever. How much of it I’ve spent with these characters. How quickly the years have gone. And how grateful I am that so many of you have traveled alongside them.

How Will You Spend Your Extra Hour?

We can’t choose which hour we get back this Sunday. It will arrive in the middle of the night, and most of us will sleep straight through it.

But perhaps that’s all right.

Because the most important hours were never the ones we get back. They are the ones still ahead of us.

The hour we could spend calling an old friend. The hour we could give to a child, a parent, or a neighbor who could use a little company. The hour we might finally devote to that book on the nightstand, that letter we’ve been meaning to write, or that dream we keep postponing until “someday.”

We don’t need a time machine to make an hour count. We only need to notice it while it’s here.

So this weekend, when you change your clocks (and inevitably forget one of them until Wednesday), I hope you’ll take a moment to think about what you would do with one more hour.

And then, perhaps, go and do it.

Until next time, happy reading—and may all your hours be filled with a little magic.

Stella May

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I’d love to hear from you! ⏰

If you could have one hour back from any moment in your life, which would you choose? And how will you spend your extra hour this weekend: catching up on sleep, or curling up with a good book?

Share your thoughts in the comments. I’d love to know!

There is something wonderfully mysterious about Halloween.

Perhaps it’s the flickering candlelight inside carved pumpkins, the rustling of autumn leaves beneath our feet, or the strange excitement that comes with a night when ghosts, witches, and creatures of the imagination seem to come alive.

For one evening, the ordinary world becomes just a little extraordinary.

Children transform into superheroes, princesses, vampires, and monsters. Houses glow with orange lights, skeletons appear on front porches, and even the most sensible adults occasionally surrender to the temptation of a spooky costume.

But have you ever wondered where all these traditions came from?

As it turns out, Halloween has a history far older—and more fascinating—than most of us realize.

When the Living and the Dead Shared a Night

Our story begins more than two thousand years ago, among the ancient Celtic peoples of Ireland and Britain.

They celebrated a festival called Samhain (often pronounced “SOW-in”), marking the end of the harvest season and the beginning of winter.

For communities whose lives depended on the changing seasons, this was an important turning point. The warmth and abundance of summer were giving way to the darkness and uncertainty of winter.

According to traditions recorded in later centuries, Samhain was also a time when the boundary between the world of the living and the supernatural world seemed unusually thin.

Spirits, mysterious beings, and forces beyond human understanding were believed to wander more freely.

Imagine standing beside a roaring bonfire on a cold autumn night, surrounded by darkness, listening to stories of spirits and strange happenings.

It isn’t difficult to understand how such traditions captured the imagination.

Although historians continue to debate precisely how ancient Samhain customs evolved into modern Halloween, the festival remains an important part of the holiday’s historical background.

How Halloween Got Its Name

As Christianity spread across Europe, new religious observances became associated with this time of year.

November 1 became All Saints’ Day, also known as All Hallows’ Day, a celebration honoring saints.

The evening before was called All Hallows’ Eve.

Over time, the name was shortened to Halloween.

November 2, All Souls’ Day, became a time to remember and pray for the departed.

These observances, together with older seasonal customs and local folklore, contributed to the rich mixture of traditions we recognize today.

What fascinates me is how holidays evolve.

Centuries pass. Civilizations change. Beliefs and customs take new forms.

And yet, something of the original mystery survives.

The Curious History of the Jack-o’-Lantern

What would Halloween be without pumpkins?

Those cheerful—or sometimes terrifying—orange faces glowing from porches and windows have become one of the holiday’s most recognizable symbols.

But the tradition didn’t begin with pumpkins.

In Ireland and parts of Britain, people once carved frightening faces into turnips and other root vegetables, sometimes placing lights inside them.

One of the best-known legends associated with these lanterns concerns a rather unpleasant fellow called Stingy Jack.

According to Irish folklore, Jack was a clever trickster who managed to deceive the Devil himself.

Unfortunately, his tricks eventually left him condemned to wander the darkness, carrying a small light inside a hollowed-out turnip.

Thus, the legend of Jack of the Lantern—or Jack-o’-Lantern—was born.

When Irish immigrants brought their traditions to America, they discovered something much easier to carve than a stubborn turnip.

Pumpkins!

Large, plentiful, and wonderfully suited to frightening faces, pumpkins soon became the preferred choice.

And I must admit, I’m rather grateful.

Can you imagine trying to carve an elaborate Halloween masterpiece out of a turnip?

Why Do We Dress Up?

Halloween costumes also have a fascinating history.

Disguises and masquerading were associated with various seasonal celebrations in Europe, including traditions surrounding Samhain.

In later centuries, people in Ireland and Scotland practiced guising, dressing in costumes and visiting homes, sometimes performing songs, jokes, or recitations in exchange for treats.

Other customs, such as souling, involved visiting households and receiving food in return for prayers for the dead.

These traditions helped shape the Halloween activities that eventually developed in North America.

Today, of course, the possibilities are endless.

Witches, ghosts, pirates, vampires, movie characters, and creatures from every corner of the imagination fill our streets.

And isn’t it wonderful that, for one night, we are allowed to become almost anyone we wish?

As a writer, I find that idea particularly appealing.

After all, isn’t that exactly what fiction allows us to do every day?

Trick-or-Treat: A Sweet Tradition

The familiar cry of “Trick or treat!” may seem ancient, but the custom in its modern form is relatively recent.

Although it draws on older European traditions, trick-or-treating became increasingly popular in North America during the twentieth century, especially in the years following World War II.

As suburban neighborhoods grew and

Halloween celebrations became more family-oriented, children began going from door to door collecting candy.

And what a successful tradition it became!

Today, Halloween is almost unimaginable without miniature chocolate bars, colorful candy wrappers, and excited children comparing their treasures at the end of the evening.

Of course, there’s always the great Halloween mystery:

How does the candy disappear so quickly, even when the children haven’t eaten it all?

I suspect a few parents might know the answer.

Why We Love a Good Ghost Story

Now, here is the part of Halloween that fascinates me most.

The stories.

Ghost stories, haunted houses, mysterious strangers, unexplained footsteps, and secrets buried in the past have entertained—and frightened—people for centuries.

Long before horror movies and television specials, families and friends gathered around fires to exchange tales of the supernatural.

Some stories were meant to frighten. Others warned against dangerous behavior or explored questions about death, justice, and the unknown.

But the best ones did something more.

They awakened our imagination.

Think of the enduring appeal of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, Bram Stoker’s Dracula, or Washington Irving’s The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

These stories have survived generations because they touch something deeply human: our fascination with what we cannot fully explain.

Perhaps we enjoy being frightened when we know we are safe.

Perhaps mysteries allow us to explore the unknown without actually confronting it.

Or perhaps we simply love a good story.

Personally, I vote for the last explanation!

The Magic of Halloween Today

What I love most about Halloween is how many different things it can mean to different people.

For children, it is an evening of costumes, excitement, and candy.

For families, it offers an opportunity to decorate, carve pumpkins, bake seasonal treats, and create memories.

For history enthusiasts, it is a fascinating example of ancient customs surviving in unexpected forms.

And for writers and readers?

It is a celebration of imagination.

Halloween reminds us that the world becomes infinitely more interesting when we allow a little mystery into our lives.

We don’t have to believe in ghosts to appreciate a ghost story.

We don’t need to fear witches to enjoy a wonderfully elaborate witch’s costume.

And we certainly don’t have to live in a haunted mansion to appreciate the atmosphere of a dark autumn evening, a glowing fireplace, and a book that refuses to let us sleep.

Sometimes, a little make-believe is exactly what we need.

A Little Halloween Wish

As Halloween approaches, I hope you find a little magic in the season.

Perhaps you’ll decorate your porch with pumpkins, watch an old favorite movie, enjoy a mysterious novel, or simply admire the beauty of autumn.

Whatever your traditions, may your Halloween be filled with laughter, imagination, sweet surprises, and just enough mystery to make the evening memorable.

And if you happen to hear a strange noise in the middle of the night…

Well, perhaps it’s only the wind.

Or perhaps…

No, let’s not think about that!

Happy Halloween, my friends! May your treats be plentiful, your tricks harmless, and your ghosts exceptionally friendly!

Until next time, happy reading—and keep a little magic in your life.

Stella May

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Let’s talk Halloween! 🎃

Do you enjoy spooky stories and haunted houses, or do you prefer the sweeter side of Halloween—pumpkins, costumes, and candy?

And here’s another question: What’s the scariest book you’ve ever read?

I’d love to hear your answers in the comments!

There is something irresistible about a story that offers its characters a second chance. Perhaps it is because, deep down, we all wish we could have one. A chance to say the words we never said. To make a different choice. To hold on to someone we lost. To return to a moment when everything seemed possible and take a different road. Life, unfortunately, doesn’t come with a rewind button. We cannot erase our mistakes, undo our regrets, or turn back the clock.

But in books? Oh, in books, anything is possible.

The Beautiful Possibility of Beginning Again

Think about the stories that stay with us long after we’ve turned the final page.

Very often, they are not stories about perfect people living perfect lives. They are about people who have stumbled, suffered, lost their way, or watched their carefully constructed worlds fall apart.

And then, somehow, they find the courage to begin again.

Perhaps a woman who has lost everything discovers that her heart is still capable of love. Perhaps a man burdened by years of regret finds an unexpected opportunity to make things right. Or perhaps two people, separated by circumstances beyond their control, discover that their story isn’t quite finished.

We love these stories because they remind us of something important:

An ending is not always the end. Sometimes, it is simply the beginning of a different chapter.

Why Imperfect Characters Touch Our Hearts

I have always believed that the most memorable fictional characters are not necessarily the strongest, bravest, or most admirable.

They are the ones who feel real.

They make mistakes. They say the wrong things. They allow pride, fear, or stubbornness to interfere with happiness. Sometimes they hurt the very people they love most.

And sometimes, life hurts them in ways they never deserved.

But what makes their stories extraordinary is not what happens to them. It is what they choose to do afterward.

Do they surrender to bitterness? Do they close their hearts forever? Or do they find the strength to trust, forgive, and hope again?

As a reader, I find myself rooting for that moment when a character finally realizes that the past does not have to dictate the future.

As a writer, I find that moment even more compelling.

Love Deserves Another Chance

If there is one theme I return to again and again in my writing, it is the extraordinary resilience of the human heart.

Love is rarely simple. It is complicated by circumstances, misunderstandings, distance, pride, and sometimes by forces entirely beyond our control.

In my Upon a Time series, I have explored the idea that even time itself should not necessarily have the final word when it comes to love.

In my Rostoff Family Saga, the characters must confront painful secrets, difficult choices, and the consequences of decisions made years earlier.

And in Rhapsody in Dreams, love reaches beyond the boundaries of a single lifetime.

Different stories. Different characters. Different circumstances.

Yet beneath them all lies a question that fascinates me:

What if life gives us one more opportunity to find the happiness we thought was lost forever?

Would we recognize it?

And, perhaps more importantly, would we have the courage to embrace it?

A Second Chance Doesn’t Mean Forgetting

There is something else I find particularly moving about these stories.

A second chance does not erase the first experience.

The grief remains part of us. So do the memories, the lessons, and sometimes the scars.

And perhaps that is exactly as it should be.

The woman who learns to love again is not the same woman she was before her heartbreak. The man who finally finds peace carries the wisdom of his mistakes. The person who starts a new life does not magically become someone untouched by the past.

Instead, they become someone who has survived it.

I think there is tremendous beauty in that.

We do not always get to choose what happens to us. But sometimes, when the worst has passed, we discover that we still have a choice about what happens next.

The Stories Yet to Be Written

Lately, as I’ve been thinking about new characters and new stories, I find myself returning to this theme once more.

What happens when someone who has experienced unimaginable loss is offered the possibility of a new beginning?

Not an easy beginning. Not one without complications, uncertainty, or fear.

But a beginning nonetheless.

I am fascinated by the quiet courage it takes to open a door when every instinct tells you to keep it closed.

Sometimes, the greatest adventure is not traveling across oceans, discovering a secret, or stepping into another century.

Sometimes, it is simply daring to believe that happiness might still be waiting somewhere ahead.

And perhaps that is why I will never grow tired of writing stories about second chances.

Because no matter how many times life disappoints us, how many dreams fall apart, or how many doors close, there is something wonderfully human about continuing to hope.

One More Chapter

Maybe we are drawn to stories of second chances because they give us something we desperately need in the real world.

Not the promise that everything will turn out perfectly.

Not the illusion that every mistake can be corrected or every loss restored.

But the comforting possibility that our lives are bigger than our worst moments.

That love can return in unexpected ways.

That joy can find us again.

And that even when we think our story has reached its final page, life may surprise us with one more chapter.

After all, who among us hasn’t wished for a second chance?

Until next time, happy reading—and never stop believing in new beginnings.

Stella May

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I’d love to hear from you!

Do you enjoy stories about second chances? Is there a particular book or character whose journey of healing, forgiveness, or rediscovered love has stayed with you?

Share your thoughts in the comments. I’d love to know!

Sometimes the best stories are the ones that surprise their authors.

Have you ever started something with a perfectly clear idea of where you were going, only to discover that life—or your imagination—had entirely different plans?

Welcome to the wonderful, unpredictable world of writing fiction!

People sometimes ask authors where their stories come from. It’s a perfectly reasonable question, and I wish I had a perfectly reasonable answer.

But the truth is, inspiration rarely arrives with a polite knock on the door and a neatly organized outline.

More often, it sneaks up on you when you’re doing something completely unrelated. You’re drinking your morning coffee, taking a walk, or trying to fall asleep when suddenly a thought appears.

What if…?

Two innocent little words.

And before you know it, you’re researching historical events, inventing complicated family relationships, and having imaginary conversations with people who don’t exist.

At least, that’s how it works for me.

When a Simple Idea Becomes Something Much Bigger

When I began writing my Upon a Time series, I certainly didn’t anticipate just how many lives, loves, secrets, and adventures would grow out of that first story.

What started with Nika Morris, a modern-day contractor who unexpectedly finds herself in 1909, and Elijah Coleman, a businessman from another century, gradually became an entire world.

Other characters stepped forward, demanding their own stories.

Some arrived quietly. Others practically kicked down the door.

And somewhere along the way, I discovered something fascinating about writing fiction: the author may create the characters, but the characters don’t always cooperate with the author.

They fall in love with the wrong people. They make decisions you didn’t anticipate. They reveal secrets you hadn’t realized they were keeping.

And occasionally, they refuse to do what they’re told.

It’s terribly inconvenient.

It’s also one of the reasons I love writing.

The Characters Who Refuse to Stay in the Background

Every author knows this peculiar phenomenon.

You introduce a character to serve a small purpose. Perhaps they’re supposed to appear in a chapter or two, deliver a bit of information, and quietly disappear.

Except they don’t.

Suddenly, that supposedly minor character has a personality, a history, an opinion about everything, and quite possibly enough emotional baggage to fill another novel.

And there you are, wondering how someone you invented has managed to take over your carefully constructed story.

I suspect readers sometimes imagine that authors sit at their desks like all-powerful directors, controlling every movement of their fictional creations.

Wouldn’t that be nice?

In reality, there are days when I feel more like a referee trying to keep an unruly group of imaginary people under control.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

A Lighthouse, a Woman, and an Unexpected Beginning

Recently, I’ve been thinking about writing something entirely new.

After spending years with the characters of Upon a Time, I wanted a fresh setting, a different story, and perhaps something a little less complicated.

A standalone novel, I told myself. Something simple. Famous last words.

It began with a lighthouse. An old, weather-beaten lighthouse standing on a rugged coastline, surrounded by the restless sea and the echoes of a long-forgotten past.

That was all. Just an image in my mind. But then, as so often happens, the questions began.

Who had lived there? What secrets might those crumbling walls hold? And what if someone, many years later, stumbled upon something that was never meant to be discovered?

Before long, characters began appearing in my imagination. They don’t have their entire stories yet, but they’re already becoming surprisingly persistent.

And naturally, what I originally imagined as a simple little novel is beginning to develop a mind of its own.

I’m not quite ready to share the details. After all, the story is still finding its way, and I have a feeling it may surprise even me.

But I will tell you this: there’s an old lighthouse, a mystery waiting to be uncovered, and perhaps a love story that nobody saw coming.

For now, that’s all I’m saying.

The Magic of Not Knowing Everything

One of the greatest pleasures of writing is discovering something about your own story that you didn’t know when you began.

A character reveals an unexpected vulnerability.

A conversation takes an unforeseen turn.

A seemingly insignificant detail suddenly becomes the key to everything.

Those are the moments when writing stops feeling like work and begins to feel like discovery.

Of course, not every surprise is welcome.

Sometimes a brilliant idea creates three new problems. Sometimes a character’s perfectly reasonable decision destroys an entire chapter you’ve already written.

And sometimes you stare at your computer screen and wonder why you ever thought becoming an author was a sensible occupation.

But then something clicks.

A scene comes together. A character finally makes sense. A story finds its heart.

And you remember exactly why you started writing in the first place.

Perhaps Life Works the Same Way

The more I write, the more I realize that stories and life have something important in common.

Neither always follows the outline we carefully prepare.

We make plans. We imagine how things will unfold. We convince ourselves that we know what comes next.

And then life introduces an unexpected character, opens a door we hadn’t noticed, or sends us down a road we never intended to travel.

Sometimes those detours are difficult. Sometimes they’re wonderful.

And sometimes they become the most meaningful chapters of all.

Perhaps that’s why I love stories so much.

They remind us that an unexpected beginning doesn’t have to be a mistake.

It might be the beginning of something extraordinary.

And So, a New Adventure Begins…

As I prepare to say goodbye to the Upon a Time series with the upcoming release of A Mission in Time, I find myself standing at the beginning of another adventure.

I don’t know everything that will happen to Gabriela, Lorenzo, or Joshua.

I have ideas, of course.

Quite a few, actually.

But if experience has taught me anything, it’s that my characters will undoubtedly have ideas of their own.

And somewhere between what I’ve planned and what I haven’t yet imagined, a new story will find its way onto the page.

I can hardly wait to discover it.

And now I’m curious about you, dear readers.

Have you ever started something that turned out completely differently from what you expected? Perhaps a journey, a friendship, a career, or even a love story?

Sometimes the most wonderful chapters of our lives are the ones we never planned to write.

Until next time, happy reading—and never be afraid of an unexpected beginning!

Stella May

By Stella May

There is something magical about autumn. The crispness in the air, the brilliant reds and golds of changing leaves, the comforting aroma of freshly baked pies, and the wonderful feeling of gathering with people we love.

For our neighbors to the north, this beautiful season brings a particularly meaningful celebration: Canadian Thanksgiving.

Tomorrow, October 12, Canadians across the country will gather around their tables to celebrate family, friendship, the harvest, and the many blessings life has given them.

But have you ever wondered why Canadians celebrate Thanksgiving in October, while we Americans wait until the fourth Thursday in November?

And did you know that the history of Canadian Thanksgiving may actually reach further back than the famous Pilgrims’ feast of 1621?

Let’s take a little journey into history.

A Thanksgiving That Predates the Pilgrims?

When Americans think about the origins of Thanksgiving, we usually picture the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag people gathering in Plymouth, Massachusetts, in 1621.

But the Canadian story takes us back to 1578, more than forty years earlier.

That year, English explorer Martin Frobisher was searching for the Northwest Passage, a sea route through the Arctic that might connect Europe with Asia.

His expedition faced treacherous waters, dangerous ice, and unpredictable weather. After surviving these hardships, members of his expedition held a religious service of thanksgiving in what is now Nunavut, Canada.

It wasn’t exactly the Thanksgiving feast we imagine today. There were no elaborate tables laden with turkey, cranberry sauce, or pumpkin pie. Instead, the sailors reportedly dined on such humble provisions as salted beef, biscuits, and peas.

Yet the sentiment was familiar: gratitude for survival, safe passage, and the blessings of life.

Of course, the tradition of giving thanks on this continent began long before European explorers arrived. Indigenous peoples had celebrated harvests, nature’s generosity, and the changing seasons through their own ceremonies and traditions for countless generations.

Over the centuries, these different histories and customs helped shape the Canadian Thanksgiving we know today.

Why Does Canada Celebrate Thanksgiving So Much Earlier?

The answer is partly geographical, partly historical, and actually quite logical.

Canada’s harvest season generally arrives earlier than ours.

Because much of Canada lies farther north, its growing season is shorter. By early October, farmers in many regions have already gathered their crops, and the first hints of winter may be just around the corner.

It makes perfect sense to celebrate the harvest while autumn is still in its full glory, rather than waiting until late November, when snow may already be covering the fields.

But there is another interesting reason.

For many years, Canadian Thanksgiving didn’t have a fixed date. It was celebrated at different times, sometimes even in November.

In 1879, Thanksgiving became an annual national observance in Canada. Later, its timing became closely associated with November’s Remembrance Day, a solemn occasion honoring those who served and sacrificed in war.

Eventually, the two observances were separated, allowing each to have its own significance.

Finally, in 1957, the second Monday in October was officially established as Canadian Thanksgiving.

And that is why, while Americans are still planning Halloween costumes and contemplating Thanksgiving menus, our Canadian friends are already enjoying their holiday feast!

Different Dates, the Same Beautiful Traditions

Despite the difference in dates, Canadian and American Thanksgiving celebrations have much in common.

There is turkey, of course, often accompanied by stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, roasted vegetables, and that irresistible autumn favorite—pumpkin pie.

There are family gatherings, long conversations around the dinner table, laughter, memories, and perhaps a little friendly disagreement over who makes the best stuffing.

Some families celebrate on Sunday, others on Monday, but the spirit remains the same.

And isn’t that the wonderful thing about Thanksgiving?

It isn’t really about the turkey or the pies, although I certainly wouldn’t turn down a generous slice of pumpkin pie!

It’s about pausing for a moment in our busy lives and remembering what truly matters.

The people who love us. The friendships that enrich our days. The small kindnesses we sometimes overlook. The challenges we’ve overcome and the opportunities still waiting ahead.

And perhaps most importantly, it’s about recognizing that even in difficult times, there is usually something worth being thankful for.

A Special Thanksgiving Wish to My Canadian Friends

I have quite a few wonderful Canadian friends, and this post is especially for you.

Although we may live on opposite sides of a border, friendship has never cared much about geography. A kind word, a shared laugh, a thoughtful message, or a helping hand can travel any distance.

And for that, I am truly grateful.

So, to all my dear Canadian friends and readers, I wish you a very Happy Canadian Thanksgiving!

May your homes be filled with warmth, your tables with abundance, and your hearts with love and gratitude.

May the coming year bring you good health, happiness, prosperity, and countless reasons to smile.

May your dreams continue to grow, your friendships flourish, and your blessings multiply.

And may you always have someone special beside you with whom to share life’s most precious moments.

Happy Thanksgiving, Canada! 🍁

With warmest wishes and gratitude,

Stella May

P.S. Whether you celebrate Thanksgiving in October or November, I’d love to know: What is one thing you’re especially grateful for this year? Share your thoughts in the comments. After all, gratitude is even more beautiful when we share it.

Some books end when we close the cover. Others keep us company for weeks, months, or even years.

We might forget a minor character’s name or exactly how a particular scene unfolded, yet remember how the story made us feel. A conversation comes back to us while we’re driving. A character’s difficult choice crosses our mind when we face one of our own. We look at the book on the shelf and feel the urge to open it again.

As October begins, I’ve been thinking about those stories—the ones that stay with us after we have moved on to something else.

Autumn seems to invite that kind of reflection. Even here in Florida, where the weather doesn’t always cooperate with the calendar, the season offers a lovely excuse to settle in with a book. The evenings grow darker a little earlier. Fall decorations appear. A familiar reading corner becomes especially inviting.

And sometimes, choosing what to read next leads us back to what we have already loved.

When a Character Becomes Someone We Remember

What makes a fictional person stay with us?

I don’t think it always has to do with how admirable they are. Some of the most memorable characters frustrate us. They misunderstand someone who loves them. They keep a secret too long. They make a choice we desperately wish they would reconsider.

But we understand enough of their fear or longing to keep turning the pages.

We begin to see the person beneath the mistake. We hope they will find the courage to change, and when they finally do, it matters because we have watched them struggle.

That is one of the things I love about reading. A story can bring us close to someone whose life bears very little resemblance to our own. Their circumstances may be unfamiliar, but a particular feeling is instantly recognizable: the ache of missing someone, the embarrassment of being misunderstood, or the hope that a damaged relationship can still be repaired.

A character becomes memorable when something about them feels true.

A Few Books That Have Stayed With Me

There are several books I still think about with affection.

The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell by Robert Dugoni left me with that wonderful, poignant feeling that comes from spending time with a character whose life has touched you. Even after finishing it, I wasn’t quite ready to put the experience aside.

What the Wind Knows by Amy Harmon appealed to my love of time-travel stories, but its connection between a granddaughter and her grandfather gave it an especially tender place in my heart. I love the possibilities of moving between eras. What holds me, though, is the human connection at the center of the journey.

Then there is Lisa Wingate’s Before We Were Yours. Some stories leave you thinking about the people in them long after you’ve finished, and this was one of those books for me.

More recently, I absolutely loved Charles Martin’s When Crickets Cry. Heartbreaking and uplifting, it reminded me how deeply a novel can affect us when we allow ourselves to become involved in its world.

These books are different from one another, yet I remember each as more than a plot. I remember the experience of reading them, and the feelings that remained afterward.

There are also familiar companions I’m happy to return to, such as J. D. Robb’s In Death series. Following characters across many books brings its own pleasure. We get to know their habits, recognize the way they speak, and become interested in the small changes in their relationships.

Opening another book in a beloved series can feel like arriving somewhere we already know our way around.

The Stories I Carry as a Writer

Of course, I also spend a great deal of time with people who exist only in my imagination.

By the time I finish writing a novel, its characters have occupied my thoughts through countless ordinary days. I’ve considered what they want, what they’re afraid to say, and how they might react when life refuses to follow their plans.

Finishing their story doesn’t immediately quiet all of that.

Nika and Eli, Alex and Abby, Andrew and Scarlett, Maggie, the Rostoff family, Kira and Al—each has asked something different of me as a writer. Their circumstances vary enormously, but I have had to find my way into the feelings behind their actions.

A time-travel story may begin with the question of how someone reaches another century. Soon, though, I’m thinking about what that person has left behind, whom they might learn to trust, and what coming home will mean to them.

A family story may span many years, but its emotional weight can rest in a single encounter: a mother waiting to see her son, or someone standing outside a house with no idea how they will be received.

Those are the moments I continue to carry.

I hope readers find their own moments in my books, too. Perhaps a scene they want to revisit, or a character whose happiness feels especially important to them. It is a lovely thought—that someone I first met in my imagination might become a welcome companion for another person.

Finding the Right Book for the Season

I don’t believe we need to read a certain kind of book simply because it’s October.

Some readers want mystery as the evenings grow darker. Others reach for romance, family sagas, or a familiar favorite. Sometimes we have the energy to enter a demanding new story. Sometimes we want to spend a few quiet hours with characters we already love.

There is room for all of it.

For me, the pleasure is in making a little space to read without hurrying. A comfortable chair, a cup of something warm, perhaps Mozart, Chopin, or Rachmaninov playing softly nearby—and a book I’m eager to open.

Life provides enough reasons to rush. Reading gives us a chance to stay with a moment and see what it holds.

A Place on the Shelf—and in Our Lives

When I look at the books I’ve loved, I notice how closely some of them are connected to the time when I read them.

We bring our lives to a story. Our experiences influence which character we understand, which scene moves us, and which words we remember. On a later reading, something else may catch our attention. The book is familiar, but we meet it with a little more life behind us.

That is part of the pleasure of keeping treasured books within reach.

This October, I’m looking forward to discovering new stories while keeping a place for the ones that have already given me so much enjoyment. There is always another book waiting, and occasionally an old favorite calling me back.

Which book—or which character—has stayed with you long after the last page? I’d love to hear what you’re carrying into autumn.

With love,
Stella May

October has a way of making an ordinary evening feel like an occasion.

A few pumpkins by the door. Something delicious baking in the oven. A table set for dinner, perhaps with a candle or two. Suddenly, staying home sounds like a wonderful plan.

Here in Florida, autumn doesn’t always arrive with crisp air and a landscape of red and gold. Sometimes we have to invite it inside. We bring out the fall decorations, choose something comforting to cook, and enjoy the season in our own way—even if the weather hasn’t quite received the message.

With Oktoberfest celebrations adding to the festive mood, I’ve been thinking about the pleasure of gathering around a table. There is something inviting about a celebration that makes room for hearty food, lively conversation, and another helping.

For my own toast to October, I want to share a recipe that comes with a special connection: chicken pot pie from my late friend Sharon Burke, who wrote under the pen name Sloane Taylor.

A Recipe Worth Keeping

When someone we love is no longer here, the things they left behind take on a different meaning.

A recipe becomes more than a list of ingredients. We recognize a turn of phrase in the instructions. We notice a practical little tip. We see their name at the top of the page, and for a moment, the distance feels smaller.

That is part of what makes sharing Sharon’s recipe meaningful to me. Readers knew her as Sloane Taylor. I knew her as my friend, Sharon, and I’m happy to make a place for her here.

Her recipe ends with these words:

“May you enjoy all the days of your life filled with good friends, laughter, and seated around a well-laden table!”

What a lovely wish to leave with someone.

It also seems like a wonderful invitation for October.

We can get so caught up in everything that needs doing that we postpone the small pleasures. We’ll invite someone over when the house is tidier. We’ll make a proper dinner when the week is less busy. We’ll sit down and catch up when there is more time.

But a meal doesn’t have to be elaborate to be worth sharing. A warm pie, a few plates, and people who are happy to see one another can be enough.

Comfort Beneath a Golden Crust

Chicken pot pie feels especially suited to this kind of evening.

There is the golden pastry, of course, and that first spoonful of creamy filling beneath it. There are familiar vegetables, tender chicken, and herbs that make the kitchen smell welcoming while dinner is in the oven.

Sharon’s version uses refrigerated pie crusts, which makes it easier to bring to the table. She also included a homemade substitute for heavy cream—a useful addition for those moments when you discover that the one ingredient you need is the one you don’t have.

This isn’t a traditional Oktoberfest dish, but it fits the spirit of the gathering I have in mind: comforting food and time to enjoy it together.

So today, I’m sharing it with you in Sharon’s memory.

Sharon Burke’s Chicken Pot Pie

Chicken

• Carrot chunks
• 1 pound boneless, skinless chicken breast
• Celery chunks
• Onion chunks
• Water

Place the vegetables in a medium saucepan with enough water to cover the chicken. Bring to a boil, add the chicken, and reduce the heat to a gentle simmer. Cook until the thickest part of the chicken reaches 165°F on a food thermometer.

Remove the chicken to a plate. Discard the cooking water and vegetables. When the chicken is cool enough to handle, trim any excess fat and cut the meat into bite-size pieces.

The chicken preparation above has been adapted to include a temperature check.

Filling

• ⅓ cup butter
• ½ cup sliced celery
• ½ cup chopped carrots
• ⅓ cup chopped onion
• ⅓ cup flour
• Chicken stock: confirm quantity before publishing; attachment may indicate 1⅔ cups
• ¾ teaspoon garlic powder, not garlic salt
• ¼ teaspoon ground thyme
• ½ teaspoon dried sage
• ½ teaspoon dried parsley
• ½ teaspoon salt
• Freshly ground pepper, to taste
• ⅔ cup heavy cream*
• 1 cup frozen peas; thawed is fine

Melt the butter in the saucepan. Add the celery, carrots, and onion. Sauté over medium heat until the vegetables are partly softened and the onion is translucent, about 7–9 minutes.

Stir in the flour and cook for 1 minute, stirring frequently.

Carefully pour in the chicken stock while stirring. Scrape the bottom and sides of the pan to incorporate any flour residue.

Add the garlic powder, thyme, sage, parsley, salt, and pepper. Stir in the cream. Simmer over medium-low heat until thickened, about 5–10 minutes, stirring often to prevent burning.

Add the chicken and peas. Remove from the heat and let the filling cool briefly while preparing the crust.

Assembling the Pie

• 2 premade refrigerated pie crusts
• 1 egg yolk
• 1 tablespoon milk

Preheat the oven to 425°F.

Follow the directions on the pie crust package to prepare the pan for a two-crust pie.

Spoon the filling into the bottom crust. Place the second crust over the filling. Press the crusts together around the rim to seal, and trim off any excess pastry.

Mix the egg yolk and milk in a small bowl. Brush the mixture over the top crust, including the rim.

Cut 4–6 small slits in the top crust to allow steam to escape.

Bake for 10–15 minutes. Cover the edges with aluminum foil to prevent them from burning, then continue baking for another 30–35 minutes, or until the top is golden brown and the center of the filling reaches 165°F.

Let the pie rest for 10–15 minutes before serving so the filling can set.

Sharon’s Heavy Cream Substitute

• ¾ cup milk
• ⅓ cup butter

Pour the milk into a small bowl and let it lose its refrigerator chill.

Melt the butter over medium-low heat or in the microwave. Let it cool until lukewarm while remaining liquid.

Combine the milk and butter with a hand mixer until well blended.

Use the mixture as a one-for-one substitute for heavy cream in cooked dishes. For this pie, measure out ⅔ cup of the prepared substitute.

This substitute will not work as whipping cream.

A Place at the Table

As a writer, I spend a great deal of time thinking about the moments that bring people closer. Often, those moments happen in familiar places. A kitchen. A dining room. A table where someone finally finds the courage to speak, or where laughter makes a difficult day easier.

Food belongs in those scenes because it belongs in our lives. We offer it when we want to welcome someone, celebrate with them, or give them a little comfort.

Sharing Sharon’s recipe is my way of remembering her this October. I hope someone reading this will make her chicken pot pie, enjoy it with people they care about, and pass the recipe along.

So here’s a toast to October—and to Sharon.

May there be something good in the oven, someone welcome at your table, and time enough to enjoy both.

What dish makes autumn feel like autumn to you? And do you have a treasured recipe from someone you miss? I’d love to hear about it.

With love,
Stella May

When I’m writing a book, my characters have a habit of following me everywhere. I leave my desk, but they don’t leave with the notebook. I think about them while I make coffee, do the dishes, or try to fall asleep. Sometimes a conversation I’ve been struggling to write suddenly becomes clear when I’m doing something else entirely.

I love living with a story that way. I also need the pleasure of stepping into a world I didn’t create.

That’s when I become a reader again. I can open a book without knowing what the author has planned. I can be surprised by a character’s decision, worry about what might happen next, and tell myself I’ll read one more chapter before discovering how late it has become.

I recently finished Mad Mabel by Sally Hepworth, and I am completely in love with this book. I won’t give away the story, because I enjoyed discovering it for myself and would want another reader to have that same experience. I’ll just say that it has stayed in my thoughts since I finished it. I catch myself wanting to return to it, even though I’ve already turned the last page.

As a writer, I can’t help admiring a book that does that. I spend so much time trying to create characters readers will care about. Then I pick up someone else’s novel, forget all about my own work for a while, and remember what it feels like to be carried along by a story. It’s a wonderful feeling.

I also adore J.D. Robb’s In Death series. Reading a book in a favorite series is a different kind of pleasure. Part of the joy is anticipation: I already know I want to be there, and I’m eager to find out what awaits me this time. Even after a busy writing day, I can find myself looking forward to those pages.

I don’t read only to study how other writers tell stories. In fact, the happiest reading hours are the ones when I forget to think like a writer at all. I’m simply curious. I care about the people on the page. I want to know what happens. When a book keeps me up later than I intended, I’m quite willing to forgive it.

There’s usually music in my day, too. I listen to classical music constantly, especially Mozart, Chopin, and Rachmaninov. I’m not sure whether it helps me write. I wish I could say that putting on a particular piece solves a stubborn chapter, but writing has never worked so neatly for me.

Sometimes the music fades into the background while I’m concentrating. Sometimes I notice it and pause to listen. And sometimes I realize I’ve been sitting at my desk for hours and am glad the room hasn’t been silent. Perhaps that’s enough of a reason to keep playing it.

Reading and music each give me something I value during a writing day. A book lets me follow another imagination wherever it leads. Music keeps me company while I find my way through my own. Neither asks me to produce a single word.

I think writers need that freedom as much as anyone does. We need time to enjoy a story without taking it apart, and time to listen to something beautiful without asking whether it’s useful. Then, when we return to the page, we bring all of ourselves with us: the reader, the listener, and the person still wondering what their characters will do next.

So lately, between my writing sessions, you’ll find me thinking about Mad Mabel, returning to J.D. Robb’s In Death series, or listening to Mozart, Chopin, and Rachmaninov. I’m enjoying every minute of it.

What are you reading these days? And do you like to have music playing while you read or work?

Sometimes a character enters a story so quietly that I don’t realize how much she matters until I find myself thinking about her long after I’ve closed my writing notebook.

That’s what happened with Maggie Coleman.

When I first imagined Maggie, I thought about the family around her: Nika and Eli, the people who had come before them, and the extraordinary events that had shaped all their lives. Maggie had grown up surrounded by love, but also by questions no one was quite ready to answer. She knew her family. Or at least, she believed she did.

As I spent more time with her, I began to wonder what growing up in that house would be like from her point of view. What little things would she notice? Which conversations would stop when she entered a room? Would she ever sense that the people closest to her were carrying a secret?

A character becomes especially interesting to me when I can see the moment her understanding of the world begins to change. For Maggie, one of those moments comes on her eighteenth birthday.

Nika enters her room carrying two gifts. One is an old tin can filled with Maggie’s childhood “secrets”—the small treasures a little girl once thought important enough to hide away. The other is a jewelry box containing a long string of pearls. On another birthday, those gifts might have led to laughter and happy memories. This time, Maggie has just learned that her mother is a traveler from the future.

I keep returning to the image of the two of them in that room. Nika knows that Maggie has questions. Maggie may not yet know how to ask them. The tin can holds pieces of the childhood she understands, while the pearls come with a family history she is only beginning to discover.

What draws me to Maggie is everything that happens after the revelation. Learning a secret doesn’t instantly tell you what to do with it. Maggie still has to look her mother in the eye. She has to decide which memories feel different now and which ones remain exactly as they were. She has to find her own place in a story that began long before she was born.

I’ve loved writing the people who came before her. Following Maggie lets me see them in a new light, through the eyes of someone who loves them deeply but wants answers from them, too. She has her own hopes, her own fears, and choices that no one else can make for her.

That’s how she surprised me. I thought I knew the shape of her place in the story. Then I pictured her standing before a mirror with those pearls around her neck, looking at a young woman whose future suddenly seemed much larger—and less certain—than it had the day before.

I wanted to know what she would do next.

Have you ever finished a book and wished you could follow one of its supporting characters into a story of their own?

And here is a short except from A Mission In Time Book 6 that will be released on November 17th:

Mesmerized, Maggie stared at her elegant, sophisticated mother, and tried to envision her in jeans, cap, with a toolbelt around her slender hips. Her imagination refused to obey. The picture she struggled to conjure in her mind simply defied that description. Briefly, she wondered if her mother still kept her old clothes. Maybe. Probably. And what of her toolbelt?

“What happened to it? Your toolbelt, I mean.”

“Oh, I still have it. I know it’s not wise to keep any objects from another time, but… I just couldn’t part with it. It’s one of my most treasured possessions.” Daisy curved her lips in a small, sad smile. “Your Uncle Alex gave it to me as a present when I passed my contractor exam.” She cast her eyes downward, as her face grew clouded with melancholy. Even the silence felt sad, mirroring her mother’s expression.

Uh-oh. Time to lighten the mood.

Maggie deliberately switched the subject. “I can’t believe you were a contractor, Mama!”

To her delight, her mother chuckled, then looked at her with a twinkle of humor in her eyes. Her face had lost all traces of sorrow, which pleased Maggie immensely.

“Not just a contractor, mind you, but the best historic restoration specialist in all of northern Florida. They called me the House Whisperer of Amelia Island.”

Unmistakable wistful notes crept into her mother’s voice.

“You miss it,” Maggie murmured softly.

After a moment, Daisy conceded, “Yes. Or I used to. Especially in the early days. I was bored out of my mind, didn’t know how to keep myself occupied. But then I found photography, and it became my passion. Still, once in a blue moon, I admit dreaming about getting involved in the process of restoring some old mansion…”

Her voice trailed off, then she shook her head. “Impossible, I know. But as my grandmother Verochka always said, impossible dreams are the only kind worth having.”

A bittersweet smile flickered on her mother’s lips; a faraway expression on her face hinted at memories of another time and another place.

Growing up, Maggie often heard the name Verochka. It always struck her as endearing and sweet and charming. Like poetry, or a soft melody, delicate and graceful. She wondered about her looks. Was she tall or petite? Blonde or brunette? Or maybe a redhead?

The only thing Maggie knew for a fact—Verochka had violet eyes, just like her, and her mother. She used to pester Daisy with the question: why was there not a single portrait of Verochka, or any of the members of her family? Her mother never answered, stubbornly evading the subject. Today, she finally understood why.

No, they weren’t estranged, as she’d thought for many years. They just existed in another time, in another century. In the distant future… Incomprehensible!

But no matter how much her brain struggled, her heart and her soul had already accepted what her mind refused to believe.

She gazed at her mother in breathless wonder. A time traveler. A woman who followed her heart despite the odds and dangers and fears.

A woman who leaped through centuries, defying science and reality, and tearing through the barriers of time.

A woman who dared destiny. A woman who loved so deeply and purely and selflessly, the Universe itself had to bend to her will.

My mother is a living, breathing miracle.

Maggie desperately wanted to learn about her mother’s family, the people who were related to her as well. But most of all, she wished to know more about Verochka.

“Mama, tell me about her. Tell me about your grandmother. What is she like?”

Daisy slowly lowered her gaze, but not before Maggie caught a glimmer of tears in her eyes.

“She’s wonderful. Amazing. Incredible. Classy and beautiful, adventurous and courageous, witty and spunky, with a wicked sense of humor. But her most endearing assets are her kindness, her fierce loyalty, and her immeasurable integrity.” A broken sigh later, Daisy softly finished, “There’s simply no words to describe her. She is… Verochka.”

There is a moment in the life of every book when it no longer belongs entirely to its author.

For months—sometimes years—the story exists in a private world. It lives in scattered notes, unfinished chapters, late-night thoughts, and conversations only the writer can hear. Its characters follow us through ordinary days. They sit quietly beside us while we make dinner, drive to the store, or try to fall asleep. They are never very far away. Then, slowly, the story takes shape. The empty pages begin to fill. Characters make choices we did not anticipate. Scenes we once imagined only faintly become real. A beginning finds its way toward an ending, and eventually, after countless revisions, corrections, doubts, and small victories, the book is finished. Or at least as finished as a book can ever feel to the person who wrote it.

And then comes the difficult part. We must let it go.

This week, A Timeless Equation left my hands and entered the world.

For a long time, Andrew Morris and Scarlett Fitzpatrick belonged only to me. I knew their questions, fears, frustrations, and hopes before anyone else did. I watched Andrew search for the sister who had vanished from his life. I followed him as mathematics led him toward something no reasonable man should have been able to believe. I watched Scarlett challenge him, understand him, and slowly become part of a journey neither of them could have predicted.

Now their story belongs to readers. That realization is both wonderful and a little frightening. Publishing a book is often presented as a moment of pure celebration. There is certainly joy in it—the excitement of seeing the finished cover, holding the first copy, and finally being able to say, “It is here.”

But beneath that joy lies vulnerability.

A book carries pieces of its author between the lines. Not always in the ways readers might expect. The characters are not necessarily reflections of us, and the events may be entirely imagined, but the emotions often come from somewhere real. Our understanding of love is there. Our experience of loss is there. Our questions about courage, regret, destiny, and hope are woven into the story, even when we never planned for them to appear.

Releasing a book means allowing strangers to enter that private world. They may love the characters we created. They may become angry with them. They may notice something we never intended or find meaning in a scene that once seemed small. That is the remarkable thing about stories: they change when they are read.

Every reader brings a different life to the page. A sentence that passes quietly for one person may stop another in their tracks. A character’s decision may remind someone of a road not taken, a person they once loved, or a choice they are still trying to make. Once a story leaves the author’s hands, it begins living many different lives. Perhaps that is not a loss of ownership at all. Perhaps it is the fulfillment of everything the book was meant to become.

A Timeless Equation began with an intriguing idea: What if mathematics could point toward a place where time itself had been broken? But as the story grew, I realized it was never truly about solving time. It was about the things no equation can measure. How far would we go for someone we love? What happens when logic brings us to the edge of the impossible? Can we trust an answer that the mind rejects but the heart recognizes?

Writing this book changed me, too. Every novel teaches its author something. Sometimes, the lesson arrives through research or the difficult work of improving the craft. Other times, it appears unexpectedly through a character’s struggle. Andrew reminded me that intelligence does not protect us from uncertainty. Scarlett reminded me that patience is not the same as standing still. Together, they reminded me that the most meaningful parts of life cannot always be proven before we choose to believe in them.

Andrew begins his journey searching for certainty. He wants proof. He wants explanations. Most of all, he wants to find his sister, Nika, who disappeared years ago without leaving him an answer he could accept. But some journeys do more than take us to a new destination. They change the person who began them.

This book also carries a particularly tender piece of my heart because it is dedicated to my dear friend Sharon Burke. Some people leave their presence in our lives so deeply that even after they are gone, we continue to carry them into every new season and every new chapter. Including Sharon’s name in this book was both painful and meaningful. It was my way of letting love remain where loss had created an empty space.

Perhaps that is another reason releasing this story feels so emotional. It carries imagination, memory, friendship, hope, and countless hours of quiet work. And now, all of it rests in someone else’s hands. When readers open A Timeless Equation, I will no longer be beside them to explain what I meant or tell them which scenes mattered most to me. The story must speak for itself. That is exactly as it should be. A book begins in the imagination of one person, but it is completed in the heart of another.

So today, I am letting Andrew and Scarlett go—not because their story matters less to me now, but because it is finally ready to matter to someone else. Their journey is no longer mine alone.

And I cannot wait to discover where it takes you.