The Clockwork Coroner

Even though the inspirations for my previous two books came from the same muse, the feelings behind them couldn’t be more different — and honestly, the book covers show it.

Napkin Nights was pure ignition.
I was inspired. I was writing. I was amped.
I had a hype man in my ear and a fire at my fingertips.

The Murder of Crowe was something else entirely.
I was hurt. I was mad. I was betrayed.
I wanted revenge, and I sought it in ink — the kind you scribble fast because you’re trying to outrun your own thoughts.

Yet?

Here’s the twist I didn’t expect from myself:

I’m still grateful.

Are you serious, Los?
Are you sincere?
Because that sounds sus.

But yes. I’m thankful.
Not because the pain was pretty, or the journey was smooth — it wasn’t. It was a train wreck in paperback form.
A first pancake: burnt on one side, mush on the other, but still edible enough to remind you you’re capable of cooking.

I’m grateful because it was a bookend experience:
starting a passion project (figuratively and literally),
making the mistakes,
learning the lessons,
and — most importantly — finishing it.

I made an announcement.
I chose a deadline.
I gathered everything I’d learned up to that point.
And then bOoM — I did it.
I really did.

And I had the foresight to tuck away an epilogue, a door cracked open for a future book — maybe even a series. I didn’t know where it would lead, but I knew enough to give myself the option.

The irony?
That small act of optimism was the breadcrumb that eventually led me here — to The Clockwork Coroner, to something bigger, sharper, more intentional, and (dare I say) more me.

Because gratitude doesn’t erase the wreckage.
It just reframes it as raw material.

And with every book I write, I’m realizing those raw materials were never wasted — they were foundation.