Wet Ink & Wicked Things

Post I: "Welcome to the Hollow" - side effects may include emotional instability and excessive swearing.

Whether by divine miscalculation, algorithmic accident, or a spiraling Google search that started with "What book should I read if I'm emotionally masochistic, cackle maniacally along with morally grey characters, and like a good old-fashioned, toe-curling read?" You're here and we love that for you. Not everything is meant for everyone. But if this place settles something in your bones, stay awhile. If not, I still hope the world offers you what you need somewhere else.

Nyx & Hollow is not curated to appeal to the masses. It is, unapologetically, for us. For the romantics with their hearts on their sleeves (or in their panties), and the fantasy nerds who believe dragons are real somewhere. For the writers who hoard commas like gremlins and bury plot twists like a fucking undertaker. Who gleefully gaslight their readers, and for those readers, who take it like a good girl. Welcome.

This blog, Wet Ink & Wicked Things, is a place where I unpack the emotional debris left behind by the books I read, the stories I write, and the ghosts I live with.

But first, let’s rewind.

I didn’t grow up dreaming of being a writer. To be honest, I didn’t think writers were real. Not like firefighters or teachers or doctors with patients. They were just names on spines, whispers behind dust jackets. They were hermits who lived in cabins or a faceless name on a crowded street in New York. Not here. Definitely not me.

But that was the mind of a child. One eager, wild, but already shaped by a world that quietly, insistently, told her what was possible. Society doesn’t always slam doors shut. But it sure as fuck doesn't teach everyone they were there to open in the first place.

Still, I was the kid reading Greek mythology in bed at night, rushing through homework with quiet precision just to get back to whatever book had its claws in me that week. I didn’t grow up in a story. I grew up chasing one.

And now? I write because I can’t - not. This isn’t therapy. It’s chaos with better dialogue and the occasional dragon. Poor life choices? Guaranteed.

Somewhere between chaos and creativity, I figured it out: writing isn’t a daydream, It’s a declaration of defiance.

I don’t just write fantasy. I don’t just write romance. I write stories that explore the parts of us that deserve to come out of the shadows. What we crave. What we take. What we lose. And what we love along the way. If you’re here, maybe you’re the same. Maybe you’ve been told that what you love is “too much,” that the books you devour should come with shame, that writing about desire or darkness or characters who don’t play by an archaic set of rules somehow makes you less. Well, I reject that sentiment entirely. There’s no shame in loving stories that get under your skin, wreck your weekend plans, and leave you making that *one scene* your Roman Empire for three to five business days.

Let’s be real. Most blogs are shiny things. Polished. Professional. SEO-optimized and image-forward. They're filled with easily digestible content that doesn’t make anyone squirm.

That’s not this.

This blog will be messy. Intimate. More than occasionally ridiculous.

I’ll probably swear more than I should...Okay...I'll definitely swear more than I should. But to be fair, if you spend enough time with me, using fuck like the 15th punctuation mark in the traditional English language will just feel natural.

If you want to grab a seat and some popcorn to watch the unholy chaos of being a writer trying to publish while juggling adult life, mental health, and the existential dread of existing online, be my guest. There may be memes. There will definitely be mentions of coffee, insomnia, and questionable narrative choices.

But it won’t just be about me.

This blog is meant to be a conversation. A communion. A place to grieve and laugh and spiral with other people who feel too much and still show up anyway. Because books save people. Stories save people. And if you're here, then maybe you're one of those people too.

I want this to be a place where we can talk about the hard parts. About impostor syndrome. About rejection letters that hit like heartbreak. About trying to write when the world is burning. About letting yourself love something so deeply you’re willing to suck at it for years.

And if, in the middle of all that, we fall in love with some characters, scream over a plot twist, or invent a completely unhinged theory about a book boyfriend’s secret backstory? Even better.

So, what can you expect next?

I’ll be posting weekly. Sometimes longer essays, sometimes short bursts. Topics will include everything from personal reflections on why I write the kinds of stories I do, to book reviews, writing process breakdowns, worldbuilding commentary, and spicy takes on popular tropes. I might interview other creators. I might cry about a sentence I read at 2 a.m. and demand we all talk about it like it’s urgent. (Because it will be.)

And every blog post will be paired with a Spotify playlist. Because music is half the mood and all the magic.

If you're already nodding along or curling your toes in anticipation, subscribe. Follow. Stalk me lovingly online.

And if you’re still not sure? Just stick around a little longer. Something Wet and Wicked is always on the way.

— Sam