My debut NECROGENESIS (2026) is a winter book. More specifically, it is a Christmas book. Not because it’s cheery or because it fits the holiday subgenre (it does not), but because Christmas is central to it, both on and off the page.

Let me explain: the story of my debut novel begins and ends during Christmas time. It spans four years.

2021.

It is November. I’ve signed with my literary agent about a month prior. I’m itching to work on a new project for NaNoWriMo—it’s my first November that I am not a student, which means it’s the first November I can dedicate, fully, to a novel.

I have an idea I’m thrilled about: a group of necromancy students in the 1970’s, somehow driven to madness. There are gods involved, there’s betrayal, there are queer love affairs. It’s rich and decadent and insane and I write it in a feverish haze.

By the time holiday music is playing on the radio, I have a first draft. The final sequence of the novel happens around Christmas time, perhaps inspired by me writing it at the end of the year.

I am hopeful for the future—I have plans to move to New York City, my first post-grab job lined up, a novel about to go on submission, and a new novel in my lap. What could go wrong?