I tried to write 50,000 words in November—failed spectacularly—but kept writing anyway because apparently this is how I grieve now. Turns out when your spicy little tabby dies under the bed while you're not home, you write a fantasy novel about her afterlife.
Normal coping mechanism, right?
This is a GameLit progression fantasy about a dead cat with PTSD. It's also a grief memoir. It's weird. I'm weird. We're all just doing our best.
This is a story about how we hold each other in broken places—not perfectly, not cleanly, but with teeth and tears and trembling paws. How love teaches us to survive—and how survival teaches us to love differently.
The first eight chapters were hot garbage. I rewrote them. They're probably still garbage, but less so. You'll have to tell me—I'm too close to this thing to know anymore.
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
What you're signing up for:
- Posting on the 10th, 20th, and 30th of each month
- 2-4 chapters per drop (depends on what I've got polished, sorry)
- A cat who thinks like a cat, not a human in a fur suit
- Heavy emotional beats mixed with fantasy adventure
- Slow progression through psychological trauma and supernatural trials
- No stat screens (yet?), just consequences and bad decisions
What I need: Your honest opinion. Does this work? Is the cat voice right? Should I keep going?
Solstice was a badass. She blocked the door, so I could pet her one last time.
She deserves a story that honors that.
I'm trying.