"I came back - just like I told you I would."


"I know. I know to anyone else - this is just me talking to myself."


"But, I think you're listening to me. In fact, I think you've been listening to me the entire time."


"Maybe these words will find you one day. Or maybe they already have..."


"...I guess I just have to keep trying."


"Because the last thing I want you to see is me giving up."

. . .

What am I really doing if my writing isn't helping people? I'm just making words. I'm speaking without a pulse. Sure, I'm making something. "I'm creating." But... I may as well be screaming underwater. 

...I don't want to be just another static sound. I want to be a voice that wakes people up - a voice that inspires individualistic hopes and dreams.

...I don't want to be anything less than that.

The first night I started writing again - I have to admit - something rather peculiar happened to me. I woke up in the middle of the night (as I usually do), but for some reason... my body was already standing up...!

No, it wasn't a dream. Yes, I had to pee. And yet, as I stood there in eerie silence; there was this strange "force" gripping my legs to the ground. Almost as if they were frozen by cement. Now, I don't keep any lights or television on when I sleep, so I'm used to feeling around the darkness in between a night. Except this particular darkness? This particular darkness wasn't darkness at all...

It was an abyss. Or, perhaps, I was in an abyss.

...I kept trying to move my body, but I couldn't. It was as if I had woken up in an entirely separate dimension; isolated from all signs of familiarity. I must have stood in that paralysis-shocked state for at least three minutes... that is, until FINALLY - I started to see properly again.

My hand met the door.

Flush. Sleep. Forget it ever happened. End scene.

Why am I digging up something like this...? Well, I guess it's because I feel like things haven't been as dark ever since that (admittedly, strange) night. And most importantly, things aren't as dark ever since I started moving the pen around again.

Let me tell you something about writing: it's a DISCIPLINE. If you say, "I wanna be a writer" and think making a book, screenplay or whatever will make you that - you're wrong, pal. Because being a writer means writing every day.

No excuses. No, "but, Kyle - I hit a wall."

...Keep writing until you bust that wall open. Keep writing until you're flooded.

I look back to a year and a half ago - the moment I chose to step away from a 8-5 salary and pursue my passion full-time. And, you know what...? It's funny, I really was terrified back then. But whenever I woke up each morning feeling scared... I just went straight into writing. And somehow, from those few words - those few hours of doing something that made my life feel like it had a PURPOSE - I wasn't as scared of the decision I had made anymore.

Slowly, but surely, I started to believe in the person I was working one day at a time to become.

So, what do YOU think happened when I took a 'break' from writing after finishing Book Two of The Seven series,"Catalyst"? That light - that same light I had gradually built that was telling me, "keep going, kid - everything's gonna work out," just completely shut off.

And suddenly, the very villain I had created within my book series had leaped from the pages, leeching into my veins. Sinking his voice through my ears whenever I closed my eyes.


I'm sitting here right now, staring off at a city where I'll perhaps someday belong, wondering to myself: "Why the hell did you let yourself 'give up' for about two months? Why did you let that light burn out?"

And I think I finally know why. I think I know why things don't seem as dark anymore.

. . .

"...I think I know why I found that ember."


"So I could be that ember."


"So I could be that ember for you."