This week got under my skin in ways I can’t shake - so I’m writing it down before it devours me whole.
I don’t know what switch flipped this week, but something in me wanted to… spill.
Not the curated shit. Not the “here’s what I made” or “look at this pretty thing.”
I mean the real heartbeat - the messy, tangled, dark little knots that sit under everything I create.
Because the truth is, there’s a whole version of my week no one sees.
The late-night spirals.
The sparks that hit like a punch to the ribs.
The exhaustion that tastes like metal.
The stupid grin I get when a scene turns filthier than I meant it to.
The way I slide between gown-making and demon-writing like it’s foreplay.
I wanted a place for that version of my life.
The one I don’t edit.
The one that smells like hot glue, ink, and desire.
The one I usually bury under a thousand layers of “professional.”
So this is Sunday Beats.
Not a newsletter.
Not an update.
Just the raw pulse of my week, exactly as it felt in my body.
Some of it will be uncomfortable.
Some of it will be a confession.
Some of it will be downright indecent.
And most of it… I probably shouldn’t post. Which means I’m absolutely going to.
And yes, there’s a reason I’m calling it Sunday Beats.
A beat is a heartbeat. A pulse.
That fluttery little thrum you feel in your ribs when something excites you… or scares you… or turns you on a little more than you want to admit.
But it’s also a writer’s beat…
that tiny moment in a story where everything shifts.
A pause.
A breath.
A fracture.
A spark.
A beat is the thing that changes the scene, even if no one notices but the person writing it.
And maybe that’s what I want this to be:
the collection of all the little shifts my week leaves in me.
The bruises, the cravings, the realizations, the unfinished thoughts, the holy-shit-did-that-just-happen moments.
My beats.
If you want the polished version of my life, that’s everywhere else.
If you want the version that breathes, sweats, aches, and misbehaves…
That’s what this weekly post is all about.
This week hit like a bruise I didn’t see coming.
I kept waking up with that strange, jittery ache under my skin - like something was shifting in the dark and I was supposed to catch it before it slipped away. I don’t know if it’s the season, or the deadlines breathing down my neck, or the way Underland keeps clawing at my spine when I’m trying to sleep, but I’ve been… overstimulated. In every way.
There was a moment Wednesday night when I stood in the middle of my studio, barefoot on fabric scraps, rhinestones stuck to my thigh (don’t ask), and I just whispered,
“What the fuck am I doing?”
And the universe, being the dramatic bitch she is, responded by giving me three new ideas at once.
Of course she did.
The whole week felt like that:
Chaotic. Inevitable.
A little cruel.
Weirdly erotic.
Like being dragged by a muse with sharp teeth and cold hands - and yes, she left marks.
My studio became a battlefield again. A very sparkly one, but still.
I swear the commissions multiplied overnight. One of them fought me like it had a grudge. Another draped itself perfectly the moment I touched it, like it had been waiting to be born. I think some fabrics want to be worn, and some fabrics want to be feared.
I’ve been stitching late into the night, half delirious, humming to myself like a witch weaving spells I’m not fully conscious of casting.
There’s this one gown - this pale-starlight, sheer, sinful thing - that’s been haunting me. A gown I designed as part of my world I see in my dreams and I’m living and breathing into reality - Underland.
It’s Alicia’s, of course. Sinclaire’s touch is all over it. Every time I run the soft blue liquig knit through my fingers, I get this stupid, electric shiver down my back like he’s watching over my shoulder, judging my handwork. Or enjoying it. Hard to tell with him.
And the runway stuff?
Finalizing. Solidifying.
For the first time, things are lining up with events in 2026 to display my gowns as art pieces - one confirmed in Calgary, and two more in the works that I can’t spill the tea over just yet.. but soon!
It feels like it’s all taking shape like something summoned instead of sewn.
That’s the best part - when couture starts feeling a little dangerous.
My trash can is full of thread and half-eaten snacks.
My floor is chaos.
My heart’s beating like it’s in love with the madness.
Writing felt filthy this week.
Not because of what I wrote (okay, also because of that), but because of how the characters kept slipping into places I didn’t expect.
Alicia is sharpening.
Malrick is unraveling in that delicious, infuriating way he does.
Obryn is pure temptation wrapped in wildfire and bad decisions.
And Kaelith… sweet frostbitten boy, he’s losing control and has no idea.
There was one night - Thursday, maybe? Time’s fake - where I wrote a scene that made me embarrass myself.
Full-body flush.
Heart in my throat.
Breath caught somewhere between “stop” and “don’t you dare.”
I had to walk away from the screen and pace like a feral thing.
I can’t share the excerpt yet.
It’s too raw, too intimate, too sharp-edged.
And I want the first real taste to hurt in the best way.
I keep forgetting people see my life from the outside and think,
“Oh wow, she’s got everything handled.”
Meanwhile, I’m over here:
– juggling photo sets
– wrangling commissions
– negotiating collaborations with designers and events
- booking flights and scheduling travel
– prepping for Sins of Underland
– fixing tech issues I did not consent to
– drinking cold coffee and calling it a lifestyle
I finally got the Substack/Patreon/Gumroad/BookFunnel puzzle solved so I can drop drafts the way I want. Chapter 1 of Sins of Underland drops December 1st and I’m equal parts exhilarated and nauseous.
Also discovered how many people have opinions on fabric.
If unsolicited advice were currency, I’d be a billionaire.
But honestly?
Even with the chaos nipping at my heels, this week made me feel like I’m standing at the edge of something bigger.
Something that wants to swallow me whole.
And I kind of… want to let it.
There’s a moment I wrote where Malrick’s shadows slid around Alicia’s throat - not choking, just claiming space - while he pinned her with that look demons get when they’re two heartbeats away from ruining someone for the pure pleasure of it.
I shouldn’t admit how much fun that scene was to write.
Or how many times I rewrote one particular line because it needed to hit like a hand around the hips, a breath against the jaw, a whisper that sinks teeth into the spine.
This book is going to corrupt me.
Or liberate me.
Probably both.
– Sins of Underland, Chapter 1 + bonus notes, drops December 1
- Sins of Underland Weekly - Monthly raw chapter draft drops (the full announcement will be out momentarily)
– Photosets (yes, those ones)
– Another gown reveal if I survive the beading
– Weekly Sunday Beats - for subscribers only
– Maybe an Underland excerpt… if it stops burning my hands to hold it
– Oh, and sleep. I should probably try that again.
This first Sunday Beats?
This one I’m letting roam free.
The rest of these entries - the raw ones, the reckless ones, the ones I probably shouldn’t post but will anyway - they’ll live locked away for the people who want to go a little deeper with me.
If you felt something reading this…
if the pulse hit you just right…
if you want to keep sliding into these weekly confessions with me -
then you know where the key is.
______
(Cross-posted on my Patreon and Substack)
