The first grains of “Serpents in the Sand” began to sift through my mind back in April 2023. I had just finished my debut novel, “Demons Within,” and I was riding the creative high that comes with watching an idea blossom into a full-fledged story. It was the kind of high you wish you could bottle up and save for a rainy day. But life, with its uncanny knack for pulling the rug out from under you, had other plans.
I poured myself into “Serpents in the Sand,” writing 300 pages in a feverish burst of inspiration. The story—with its sun-scorched island, writhing sands, and a protagonist named Caleb who wakes up with nothing but questions—felt alive in a way that made every word exhilarating. The island wasn’t just a setting; it was a character, pulsing with secrets and danger, waiting to be unraveled.
And then, the storm hit. Not the one I was writing about, coiling on Caleb’s horizon, but the one in my own life. A brutal relapse with alcohol came crashing down like a tidal wave, sweeping away my focus, my discipline, and—for a time—my hope. It’s not easy to admit to a relapse. It’s like standing in the middle of a shattered room, knowing you were the one who threw the stone. But here’s the thing about storms: they pass. They leave wreckage in their wake, sure, but they also leave space for rebuilding.
That’s what I’ve learned, not just through writing but through living. Recovery isn’t a straight line; it’s a winding path that sometimes loops back on itself. But it’s a path worth walking, even when your legs feel like lead. And while I stumbled—hard—I never stopped believing that the journey was worth it. More importantly, the people around me never stopped believing in me. To the friends, family, and mentors who stood by me even when I couldn’t stand myself: thank you. You were the light cutting through the storm.
Eventually, I picked up “Serpents in the Sand” again. It wasn’t easy. The pages I’d written before the relapse felt like a message in a bottle from a past version of myself, one who was hopeful and unburdened. But as I delved back into the story, I realized something profound: Caleb’s journey was a reflection of my own. Like him, I’d woken up on a metaphorical shore, disoriented and unsure of who I was. And like him, I had to face the shadows, the storms, and the serpents to find my way forward.
In “Serpents in the Sand,” Caleb’s forgotten past holds the key to a battle of biblical proportions. For me, it wasn’t so much about battling ancient forces as it was about battling myself. Writing became my way of piecing together the fragments, of making sense of the chaos. Each chapter felt like reclaiming a part of me that had been lost.
Now, as I look at the finished novel, I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude. Not just for the story itself, which I’m incredibly proud of, but for the journey it represents. “Serpents in the Sand” is more than a book; it’s proof that even in the darkest moments, there’s a way forward. It’s a reminder that storms don’t last forever and that rebuilding is always possible.
To anyone out there struggling, whether it’s with addiction, self-doubt, or the weight of the world, let me say this: never give up. The sands may shift beneath your feet, and the horizon may seem unreachable, but keep moving. And to the people who stand by us in our storms, thank you for being our anchors.
“Serpents in the Sand” is now out in the world, available in paperback on Amazon and Barnes & Noble, and as an eBook on Kindle, Nook, and other platforms. It’s a story about mystery, danger, and the search for truth—but it’s also about resilience and the power of forging ahead when the path is anything but clear. If you decide to pick it up, I hope it stirs something in you, just as writing it stirred something in me.
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