JMalrix

Evenin’ Goofies,

It’s your resident best friend, favorite writer, and your future favorite writer’s favorite writer.
First off, thank you all for continuing to tune in, read my nonsense, support my stories, and follow along with these strange little updates I keep dropping from random corners of the world.
With that said, I have a confession.
I’m traveling again.

I just left Playa del Carmen.

I know. I know. I always do this. I disappear for a while, then suddenly reappear with a blog post written somewhere far away pretending I’m a mysterious literary wanderer. This time is no different. I promise I’ll give y’all a proper update on the trip soon, including what I’ve been working on creatively.
But first, I need to tell you why I keep doing this.

While I was in Mexico, I visited the Frida Kahlo museum. Something about her life genuinely stirred something in me. Her story was wonderfully tragic, painfully human, and somehow still full of beauty. Despite everything she endured physically and emotionally, she kept creating. She kept putting herself into her work.
And the strange thing is… she never really got to experience the scale of significance she holds now.
That thought stayed with me.

Because if I’m being honest with y’all, I want to matter.

Not in the fake influencer way. Not in the “look at me” way.
I want to write stories that stay with people. I want to eventually walk away from my day job and sustain myself creatively. I want to build a life around storytelling because my mind genuinely feels overcrowded with worlds, characters, scenes, conversations, and ideas that refuse to leave me alone until I put them somewhere.

So I write.

That’s really it.
Do I want success? Absolutely.
Do I think it’s likely? Statistically? Probably not.
But somewhere deep inside me lives a level of delusion that I honestly hope never dies. I genuinely believe I’m going to be the exception.
Maybe somebody reads this years from now after stumbling across one of my books. Maybe they treat this post like some “turning point” moment in my life and start overanalyzing my mindset like historians do with artists after they become successful.
Truthfully?
Nothing profound is happening.
I’m still just me.

I still have zero Patreon subscribers.
Nobody has bought me a coffee.
My following is still relatively small.
Secret Chords may end up selling modestly or barely at all.

And weirdly enough… I’m okay.
Not fake okay. Not coping okay.
Actually okay.
Because somewhere along the way, I found something that gives me genuine joy.
And honestly? That alone already makes me richer than a lot of people.

I also think my health changed my perspective. You may not know this but I have an autoimmune disease. Thankfully it’s being treated, and I’m doing alright, but confronting your own mortality—even quietly—changes the way you think about time.
It makes you stop waiting for permission.
It makes you stop assuming there will always be “later.”
So now, when a story comes to mind, I write it.
I dump all of it onto the page.
The good ideas. The ridiculous ideas. The stories that probably won’t work. The ones that might.
I put my soul out there and let the chips fall where they may.

If any of my work has ever meant something to you, thank you. Seriously.
And if you continue supporting me as I chase this strange dream of mine, I appreciate you more than you know.
I’m going to keep writing either way.

Yours in the goofiest sense,

JMalrix