Iwan Ross | Updates

The Things That Chose Me — Part II

Iwan Ross — Sun, 10 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

To truly understand my bond with Copper, I need to take you further back.

Before Copper… there was Twinkle.

I found myself on a farm, hundreds of miles from home, spending my holidays under the care of a man I came to know only as The Cheesemaker.

He was a Dutchman, married to a German woman. They had no children together, though he had three sons of his own. My mother—working as a social worker—had arranged for me to stay there.

At the time, I didn’t question why.

Looking back, I understand more than I did then.

The farm sat quietly on the edge of a small town. There was no electricity. Mornings came cold and early, and work began before the sun had properly risen.

I gathered wood.
Fed the donkey that heated our water.
Helped turn milk into something resembling cheese.

The Cheesemaker was known for many things.

The quality of his cheese was not one of them.

The days were long. Practical. Grounded.

Afternoons brought a different kind of freedom—wandering fields, moving through land that felt vast and untamed. It was during one of those returns, pheasants hanging loosely from our hands, that everything changed.

I saw her.

A pale mare, standing quietly behind a fence.

She stepped forward as I passed, lowering her head, her eyes fixed on mine.

I didn’t understand it then.

But something passed between us.

That night, I rushed through everything.

Dinner. Chores. Prayer.

And then I ran.

She was waiting.

I climbed the fence without thinking and found myself on her back moments later—no saddle, no reins, no understanding of what I was doing.

Only trust.

Or something like it.

She moved carefully at first.

Then with purpose.

Then with freedom.

We didn’t speak, not in words.

But I talked anyway.

I told her things I didn’t tell anyone else.

And she listened.

That was enough.

The Cheesemaker called out her name one evening as I rode past.

“Twinkle.”

I asked why.

He shouted something back, but I didn’t hear it.

Later, I learned.

When she disappeared into the fields, they would call for her:

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star… tell us where the hell you are.”

I never needed to call.

She always came.

Twinkle and I became inseparable.

I learned to ride.
To care for her.
To understand her moods, her strength, her quiet patience.

The Cheesemaker taught me how to show jump. He was proud—his sons had never taken to it.

And for the first time, I found something I was good at.

I started winning.

Gymkhanas. Small competitions.

I’d take the prize money home, hide it, spend it on riding gear and small things that felt like they belonged to me.

Twinkle wasn’t just a horse.

She was everything.

Then one day, the phone rang.

“Iwan, it’s for you.”

I already knew who it was.

I picked up the receiver, excitement rushing through me.

“Hello!”

There was no hesitation on the other end.

No softness.

“Twinkle died.”

Just like that.

I don’t remember falling.

But I remember the silence that followed.

I never went back.

Everything changed after that.

The competitions.
The wins.
The room filled with ribbons and photographs.

None of it meant anything anymore.

What had once felt like purpose…

became absence.

And that was the first time I understood something I wouldn’t have words for until much later:

Some things don’t leave you.

They’re taken.

To be continued.

This piece has been shaped for clarity and flow.

If you’d like to read it exactly as it was first written—raw and unfiltered—you can download the original version below.

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A Story of Secrets, Spirit, and Shared Threads

Iwan Ross — Sat, 9 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

There are stories you read… and then there are stories that feel strangely familiar, as if they echo something deeper within you. Family Skeletons: The Secrets of Castlewood Manor is one of those.

Set against a backdrop of old-world charm, hidden histories, and the ever-present weight of legacy, this story draws you into a world where secrets are not buried—they are waiting. Waiting to be uncovered, confronted, and, in some cases, survived.

What struck me most was not only the mystery itself—cleverly layered with intrigue, tension, and moments of quiet revelation—but the spirit behind it. There is a certain rhythm here, a sense of lived experience woven between the lines, that made the story feel personal in a way I did not expect.

As someone who writes within similar spaces—old estates, lingering pasts, and the shadows of what once was—I found myself not just reading, but resonating. There is a shared love here for atmosphere, for history, and for the unseen threads that bind people, places, and time together.

The characters move through a world that is both elegant and unpredictable, where danger and discovery walk hand in hand. And yet, beneath it all, there is a sense of playfulness—an understanding that mystery can be both gripping and, at times, wonderfully entertaining.

Veronica Cline Barton has crafted a story that invites you in, keeps you guessing, and leaves you with the feeling that there is always more beneath the surface.

And perhaps that is what stayed with me most:

Not all secrets are meant to remain hidden.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Read my Goodreads review.

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The Things That Chose Me — Part I

Iwan Ross — Sat, 9 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

As I sat at my writing desk, a sudden recollection of my teenage years washed over me.

I’m not entirely sure what sparked it. A trigger, perhaps. Or something quieter—something that had been waiting.

Then it struck me, sharply.

It had something to do with the film we watched last night—Remarkably Bright Creatures. A story about a stoic woman and a Giant Pacific octopus named Marcellus. The octopus narrates its life in captivity, counting its days inside a glass tank.

Captivity, they called it.

But as I watched, I couldn’t help thinking:

rehabilitation.

And that word stayed with me.

My eyes drifted from the page, and without warning, I saw myself again—not at a desk, but on horseback. Younger. Smaller. Free in a way I didn’t understand at the time.

Her name was Twinkle.

Our first meeting was nothing extraordinary—just chance, like most important things tend to be. I had won a junior gymkhana at the age of nine, and with it came prize money and something far more valuable: a horse.

That win transformed me overnight. From nobody to something like a hero.

But looking back, I know now:

It wasn’t me.

It was her.

There are things you can’t explain, no matter how many words you have.

Marcellus said something in that film that never left me:

“Humans cannot use the millions of words they know to tell each other what they need.”

And that was it.

That was Twinkle.

She understood me in ways no one else ever did.

There were no conversations, not in the way people think of them. But there was something deeper—something quieter.

The wind in my hair.

The rhythm of her hooves against the earth.

The warmth beneath my hand.

That was language.

That was trust.

That was home.

But like many things in my life, it didn’t last.

One Friday afternoon, I came home from school to find a moving truck in the driveway. Men were already carrying our belongings out of the house.

Another move.

Another disappearance.

Another ending without warning.

My teenage years arrived without guidance. Without structure. Without anything resembling stability.

I was wild.

No—that’s not the right word.

I was feral.

I ran.

In and out of places that were never meant to hold me.

And somewhere in that chaos, I found an old man.

A war veteran. A gambler. The closest thing I ever had to a grandfather.

“Oom Bakkies,” I called him.

We spent hours playing poker. Endless hands, endless silence, broken only by small pieces of wisdom he would drop like stones into still water.

One of them stayed with me.

“Don’t search too hard. The most important things in life will find you.”

I didn’t understand it then.

But life has a way of proving such things.

Not long after, I was given a horse.

No explanation. No story. Just… a horse.

And everything that came with it.

Saddle. Reins. Equipment.

A gift from someone who chose not to be known.

His name was Copper.

Every afternoon after school, I would rush home, eat whatever I could find, gather food for him, tie it down to my bicycle, and make the 11-kilometre journey to the stables.

I didn’t go there to ride.

I went there to sit.

To watch him eat.

To speak.

I told him everything.

And I mean everything.

And I swear—he understood.

You could see it.

The way his ears moved.

The way he paused.

The way he watched me.

He knew when I said something he didn’t like, too.

He’d flatten his ears, just slightly.

A warning.

Say that again.

Copper never kicked me.

Not once.

But others?

That was a different story.

He sent my mother to the hospital.

More than once.

My brother, too.

And to be clear—my brother deserved it.

Copper didn’t tolerate cruelty.

Not toward me.

Not toward himself.

And in a world where I had very little protection…

That mattered.

He became something of a legend.

People knew.

Don’t mess with the boy with the horse.

On weekends, I would ride him home.

Children would gather along the road, offering apples, bananas, whatever they had. They’d pat him, laugh, reach out.

And for a moment—

everything felt normal.

But life has a way of circling back.

And just as quickly as it gives…

it takes.

To be continued.

This piece has been shaped for clarity and flow.

If you’d like to read it exactly as it was first written—raw and unfiltered—you can download the original version below.

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When Trust Becomes a Weapon

Iwan Ross — Wed, 29 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

There’s something quietly unsettling about a story that reminds you how easily trust can be manufactured—and how dangerous that can become.

Where There’s Doubt pulled me in far quicker than I expected. What begins as a seemingly familiar premise—online connection, emotional vulnerability, the search for companionship—quickly unravels into something far more layered and unsettling.

At the centre of it all is Nico, a character as fascinating as he is disturbing. His ability to construct identities, to read people, and to manipulate emotion is handled with a precision that makes the story feel uncomfortably real. But what struck me most is that his greatest strength—his control—is also where the cracks begin to form.

This isn’t just a story about deception. It’s about the consequences of it.

The tension builds steadily as relationships shift, loyalties blur, and the line between truth and performance becomes increasingly difficult to define. There’s a constant sense that something isn’t quite right—and when it begins to unravel, it does so with impact.

What I appreciated most is how the story explores not just the mechanics of deception, but the emotional cost of it. The characters feel human, flawed, and at times painfully vulnerable, which makes the unfolding events all the more compelling.

It’s intense, thought-provoking, and at times unsettling in the best possible way.

A gripping psychological read that lingers long after the final page.

Read the Goodreads review.

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No Podium, No Pressure What Running Taught Me About Writing, Freedom, and Mental Health

Iwan Ross — Fri, 24 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Something was nagging at the back of my mind yesterday during my run. Not an unpleasant feeling — more like an itch just out of reach, persistent and quietly insistent. This is not unusual for me. Running has always had a way of unlocking things. Once my body settles into its rhythm and takes over on autopilot, my mind begins to wander into territory it wouldn't otherwise visit. Runners will know this feeling well. I call it zoning out, though I suspect there are better words for it. If you have one, I'd genuinely love to hear it.

Yesterday was different, though. With race day approaching, I've been trying to stay present during my runs — tracking lap times, monitoring my pace, keeping myself honest. My target is six minutes per kilometre, which, at my age, is no small ask. The body has opinions of its own.

But somewhere on that run, I let go. And that's when it arrived — not a thought exactly, more like a recognition. A quiet, clarifying truth.

The scenery where we train is extraordinary. Ranches, vineyards, and wine farms stretch out in every direction. From the crest of the steep hill we climb, two neighbouring towns sit nestled in the mountains, forty minutes away by road. The mist begins to form mid-run, settling over everything like a slow, calm exhale. It is the kind of beauty that asks nothing of you. It simply is.

And standing in the middle of all of it, I realised: running, for me, is exactly like writing.

Both pursuits carry the same quiet burden of expectation. As writers, we pour ourselves into our work — the drafting, the cover design, the blurb, the publishing, the promoting, the refining, the starting again — all of it oriented, consciously or not, toward that elusive summit. The coveted number one. The bestseller. The podium. We picture it clearly: the crowd, the recognition, the arrival. And when it doesn't come — or when it comes and then slips away again — the silence that follows can be crushing.

For anyone who has lived with anxiety, perfectionism, or the particular weight of feeling like you are never quite enough, that silence is familiar territory. I know it well.

"It struck me, standing in the mist, that the most liberating thing I have ever done is stop performing — for publishers, for rankings, for an imaginary audience holding scorecards."

When I wrote Elm Brook Manor, I had no audience. My dog was waiting for his walk. My wife, who has always believed in me more steadily than I have believed in myself, encouraged me to stop hiding and start sharing. So I wrote — not for a market, not for a ranking, but because I loved it. I loved the characters I was building. Readers still mention those characters in their reviews today, which tells me something important: the work that comes from genuine joy tends to find its people.

That is the thing about letting go of the podium. It doesn't mean giving up. It means giving yourself permission to be present — in the writing, in the running, in the life happening around you. On a run, I can stop to photograph the mist settling over the valley. I can pause to tie a shoelace, strike up a conversation with a stranger, or fall back to encourage a newer runner toward the finish line. None of that is failure. All of it is freedom.

There is no pressure in what I do now, and the absence of that pressure has changed everything — not just how I write, but how I feel. Mental health, for many of us in the creative community, is quietly shaped by the stories we tell ourselves about success and worth. We measure ourselves against invisible standards, against other people's highlights, against a version of ourselves that exists only in our most anxious imagination. It is exhausting. And it is, I have come to understand, entirely optional.

My readers are not waiting for a bestseller. They are waiting for the next honest story. And I am free — truly free — to give them exactly that.

To anyone reading this who is carrying that same weight: you are allowed to put it down. The most radical thing a creative person can do, in a world obsessed with metrics and rankings and performance, is simply enjoy what they make.

I am free to write. I am free to run. And I would not trade that freedom for any podium in the world.

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An Enlightening Quiche is a Story That Lingers Long After the Last Bite

Iwan Ross — Tue, 21 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

No—despite the inviting cover and its promise of something warm, comforting, and familiar, An Enlightening Quiche is not a gentle, easy read. It is something far richer. Something layered. Something that simmers beneath the surface until, before you know it, it begins to boil.

Eva Pasco has crafted a story that feels intimate and expansive all at once—a deeply human exploration of identity, grief, privilege, and the quiet, often unspoken tensions that exist between people who believe they understand one another.

At its heart, the novel brings together two women—Augusta Bergeron and Lindsay Metcalfe—whose lives, backgrounds, and moral compasses could not be more different. And yet, as their paths intertwine, what unfolds is not simply a clash of personalities, but a slow unraveling of assumptions, histories, and deeply rooted truths.

Pasco’s writing is elegant and deliberate. She does not rush her reader. Instead, she invites you in—guiding you gently through layered narratives, allowing each revelation to settle before the next begins to stir. There is a quiet confidence in her storytelling, one that trusts the reader to lean in, to listen, and to feel.

What struck me most was the atmosphere—the sense of place, of memory, of something almost nostalgic yet unsettled. There is a warmth here, yes… but it is the kind of warmth that sits beside tension, not in place of it. Like sitting at a kitchen table where conversation flows easily on the surface, while deeper truths linger just beneath every word.

And then, slowly, almost imperceptibly at first…

Everything shifts.

The story deepens. The emotional weight gathers. And what once felt familiar begins to reveal something far more complex and, at times, quietly devastating.

This is not a novel that relies on spectacle. It relies on people—on their flaws, their histories, their choices. And in doing so, it becomes something far more powerful: a reflection of the fragile, intricate ways in which lives intersect and unravel.

By the final pages, I found myself reluctant to leave. Not because the story demanded resolution—but because it had created a space that felt lived-in, real, and emotionally resonant.

An Enlightening Quiche is not just a story you read.

It is one you settle into.

And long after the final page, it lingers—like a conversation unfinished, or a memory that refuses to fade.

A beautifully written, deeply human novel that rewards patience and reflection.

Read the Goodreads review.

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Rejected, Then #1: My Honest Journey Through Indie Publishing as a Fiction Writer

Iwan Ross — Tue, 21 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

There was never any doubt in my mind, or my heart, that I wanted to become a full-time writer. "One day, when I'm grown up," as they say. Of my few acquaintances, only one person has ever asked me why I waited so long — well into my fifties — before I truly began. The answer is simple: maturity. Had I faced rejection, critique, or outright mockery at a younger age, I would have either quit entirely or torched my own reputation by pushing back too hard, too soon. It takes a particular kind of self-control, a quiet inner steel, to survive this craft. And I was never simply waiting. I was nurturing something. Slowly, deliberately, I built a career where the work itself sharpened me. I read more than anyone I knew — far more. While friends found partners, married, had children, and watched the cycle repeat itself, I remained single, dedicated to the one thing I had always dreamed of becoming. The quiet one. The one spending his evenings alone with a book.

Now that I've finally arrived, I can only describe the journey as akin to chewing Chappies.

For those unfamiliar with this part of the world, allow me to elaborate. Chappies is a chewing gum beloved across generations here — a small, colourful, genuinely ingenious invention. When we were children, our parents would send us in little groups to the corner shop for bread and milk. In those days, half-cents were scarce. We'd gather our items, stretch onto our tiptoes to peer over the counter, and slide our coins across to the shopkeeper — almost invariably a man with a crooked nose and eyes sharp with greed. He'd slap the change down and hand over Chappies to cover whatever small amount he was short. Two pieces per cent. Our parents always knew, and we never dared shortchange them. We knew we'd be caught, and caned — perfectly legal in those days.

On the walk home, we'd unwrap our gum and guess at the flavour from the colour of the wrapper: mango, orange, apple. But the real prize was inside — the famous "Did You Know?" trivia printed on the foil. Marketers still use this trick today. The most celebrated example was the claim that the Mona Lisa has no eyebrows. We'd read them aloud as we walked, sharing facts, debating, marvelling at the world. Each trivia had a number — perhaps #5, or #147, or somewhere in the hundreds. The great mystery, the one no child ever solved, was what #1 said. We tried for years. We never found out.

Until today.

My novel, Elm Brook Manor, has reached the coveted #1 spot in four markets, across three genres, in the free category. After years of striving, it is finally there. The title has always had a strange trajectory — disappearing for months, then resurfacing as new readers discovered it, climbing before falling again. At one point it reached #4 in the United States, only to sink and rise once more. This morning, I checked the ranking and felt something I can only call immense, uncomplicated joy. Readers have found it. They've trusted it enough to give it a chance.

But this didn't come without its share of heartache. Negative reviews. Publishers and literary agents who dismissed the manuscript with barely concealed disdain. Rejection letters that would have ended most careers. In the end, I had no choice but to go rogue — to become an independent author and publisher. At the time, I dreaded the idea. Now, I understand what I've gained: flexibility, creative freedom, fairer royalty rates, and something I hold more dearly than any of it — I own my brand. I am the writer. Not just a name chosen by a marketing department and printed on a cover.

To any aspiring writer reading this: keep going. Be consistent — in your voice, in your marketing, in showing up for the work. Write every day. Three hundred and sixty-five days a year. Even when you're unwell. Even on holiday. The stories don't pause; neither should you.

And to those who leave harsh reviews: five hundred words can take an author an hour to write, and a reader five minutes to dismiss. Please carry that with you.

Finding that #1 today felt, in its own way, like finally knowing what was printed on trivia card number one. Not because the number itself matters — it doesn't, not really — but because of what it represents: that a story, offered honestly and with patience, will eventually find the readers it was always meant for. Like those little wrapped squares of gum we clutched on the walk home, the surprise was never the flavour. It was what was hidden inside, waiting to be discovered.

The work continues. It always does. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

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Bloodlines and Betrayals Review: A Gripping Mafia Romance of Love, Power, and Revenge

Iwan Ross — Mon, 13 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Bloodlines and Betrayals: A Mafia Romance is a gripping, fast-paced read that pulled me in from the very first page and didn’t let go.

Despite the absence of a formal description, the story unfolds with intensity and confidence — delivering a compelling mix of suspense, danger, and emotion. From money laundering and car bombs to betrayal, revenge, and forbidden love, the stakes are constantly rising.

At the heart of the story is Elena, whose connection with Tony — the son of a powerful mafia boss — opens the door to a tangled web of secrets, lies, and long-standing family conflicts. Their relationship is both passionate and fraught with tension, raising difficult questions about loyalty, identity, and the cost of love.

What stood out most to me was how effortlessly the story balances action with emotional depth. The pacing keeps the pages turning, while the characters feel grounded enough to make their choices matter.

Lorraine Carey has crafted a story that is engaging, dramatic, and thoroughly entertaining. I read it in just two days and would highly recommend it to anyone who enjoys mafia romance with strong suspense elements.

A well-deserved five stars.

Read the Goodreads review.

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Between Life and Death: A Thoughtful Review of Belief

Iwan Ross — Fri, 27 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

There’s something quietly compelling about Belief—the kind of story that doesn’t just lean into the supernatural, but uses it as a lens to explore identity, belonging, and the fragile line between life and death.

From its striking opening—waking in a mortuary on the brink of a post-mortem—the novel immediately establishes a tone that is both eerie and intimate. What follows is not simply a tale of the afterlife, but a layered journey through two worlds that feel equally vivid and emotionally grounded.

What stood out to me most is how the author balances the fantastical with the deeply human. Belief herself is a character caught between realities, yet her emotional experiences—confusion, longing, love—remain relatable throughout. The concept of walking between the world of the living and the “vale of Otherworld” is handled with imagination, but also with restraint, allowing the story to breathe rather than overwhelm.

There’s also an underlying warmth to the narrative. Despite its darker themes—death, fate, and hidden truths—it never feels cold. Instead, it carries a sense of curiosity and quiet resilience, particularly in how Belief navigates both her personal history and her unusual role.

The world-building is intriguing without being overly dense, and the premise itself—dreams that are more than dreams, a lineage tied to the Reaper world—offers plenty of room for expansion. It’s easy to see how this could grow into a series that deepens both its mythology and its characters.

If you enjoy supernatural fiction that blends mystery with emotional depth, Belief is well worth exploring. It’s a story that lingers not because of shock or spectacle, but because of the questions it quietly leaves behind.

A thoughtful and imaginative read that invites you to look just beyond the veil.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Read the Goodreads review.

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A Life of Service, Perseverance, and Quiet Dignity

Iwan Ross — Fri, 13 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

I recently finished Bridging Two Worlds: The Life and Legacy of George Gaspar Aducayen, Jr., and I can honestly say it was a deeply inspiring and rewarding read.

What makes this memoir stand out is the sincerity of Ambassador Aducayen’s voice. Rather than presenting a simple catalogue of achievements, he invites readers into the personal journey behind his remarkable career. From his early life in the small village of Claveria in the Philippines to representing his country across the world, the story unfolds with humility, honesty, and reflection.

The book offers fascinating glimpses into the world of diplomacy and international relations, yet it never feels distant or overly formal. Instead, it remains grounded in the experiences that shaped the man behind the titles — the challenges of wartime hardship, the discipline of legal study, and the dedication required to serve one’s country abroad.

One of the most touching elements of the memoir is the enduring love story between George and his wife, Caridad. Their remarkable 75-year partnership adds a deeply human dimension to the narrative and reminds us that even the most distinguished careers are built upon the quiet strength of family and companionship.

What I appreciated most throughout the book was its tone of gratitude and perspective. Ambassador Aducayen reflects not only on success, but also on perseverance, cultural understanding, and the importance of integrity in public service.

Bridging Two Worlds is more than a memoir of diplomacy; it is a story about values, resilience, and the bridges that connect people across cultures and generations.

For readers who enjoy thoughtful memoirs that combine personal history with global perspective, this book is well worth the time. It left me with a renewed appreciation for the dedication of those who serve their countries and for the lasting legacy that a life of purpose can create.

Read the Goodreads review.

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The Book That Watches Me Write

Iwan Ross — Fri, 13 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Readers, fellow authors, and writers often ask me the same two questions:

“What is your favourite book?” and “Who is your favourite author?”

It is a difficult question to answer, because how does one choose only a single title from a lifetime of reading? And yet, strangely enough, there is one book that answers both questions at once.

This is the story of how that came to be. Every word of it is the absolute truth.

Some time ago, I told you about meeting Lane Flint, a quadriplegic who became a writer despite being confined to a wheelchair. In a similar way, my own passion for writing once led me to cross paths with a local author named Winnie Rust.

At the time, I was running a small home-based computer business to support myself while quietly chasing my lifelong dream of becoming a writer.

Mrs. Rust and I had an arrangement. Once a week I would visit her home and help her wrestle with the formidable challenges of Microsoft Word — and with the constant little interruptions that threatened to derail her writing process.

I would sit right beside her, close enough to see exactly what she was trying to achieve on the screen. One thing I have learned over the years is that people often struggle to explain precisely what they want a computer — or even an AI — to do. Yet they almost always know what the final result should look like.

Her husband, a retired doctor, would usually sit nearby flipping through his newspaper, occasionally chuckling at something he read. Mrs. Rust would glare at him, silently signalling that he was becoming a distraction. He never seemed to notice.

Meanwhile their three dogs lay curled contentedly at his feet.

I have noticed something over the years: dogs seem naturally drawn to writers.

My role was simple enough. I would run spell checks, tidy up grammar, and break her long drafts into proper paragraphs. From there I would organise the manuscript into chapters, sections, scenes, and parts. Once everything was neat and orderly, I would preview the layout, make sure the margins were aligned, and save each chapter into its own folder.

Then I would compress everything into a ZIP file and attach it to an email.

Mrs. Rust would take over from there, typing the message herself and sending it to her editor at the publishing house.

When the email was finally sent, she would clap her hands with delight, let out a long sigh of relief, and immediately call for tea and cookies.

We would then move to the sunroom.

There we would sit for a while, drinking tea and talking about writers, poets, and the literary world as it existed back then. Our conversations flowed easily between our two languages — English, my language, and Afrikaans.

Those were good days. Wonderful days.

I was sitting in the company of a published writer who, rather surprisingly, sometimes asked me questions about being an indie author and an indie publisher.

The truth is, at that stage I had very little experience.

Sometimes I simply made things up.

Looking back now, I realise I wasn’t very far off after all.

Before I left each week, Mrs. Rust would pull a small wad of crisp notes from her purse and press them into my hand. I would drive home feeling like a wealthy man. With that money I could buy meat, a beer, and occasionally treat my wife to a rare barbecue on our modest terrace.

Those small moments felt like great victories.

One particular day — almost identical to all the others, except for the rain — we once again found ourselves in the sunroom after a long writing session.

That was when I noticed something on the coffee table.

Its dark cover stood out starkly against the white tablecloth.

Throughout our conversation my eyes kept drifting back toward it, making it almost impossible to focus on Mrs. Rust’s questions. She noticed, of course. A quiet, knowing smile appeared on her face.

Eventually I realised what I was looking at.

It was a hardcover book.

Not just any book — an original 1961 edition of The Reader’s Digest Anthology of Mystery and Suspense.

The thing was thick as a brick.

I was completely captivated. Drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

Mrs. Rust slipped a few bills into my hand, then calmly opened the book and signed two pages inside. When she finished, she closed it gently and slid it across the table toward me.

“One day,” she said, smiling, “you’ll do the same with one of your books.”

My heart began pounding so loudly in my chest I was certain she could hear it.

I hugged her so tightly I am fairly sure I rearranged a few of her vertebrae. Then I hurried back to my car.

I placed the book carefully against the passenger seat’s headrest, buckled it in with the seatbelt, and drove home as if I were a mother racing to get her children to school.

When I arrived home, I found the perfect place for it.

Beside my computer.

That is where it sits even today.

A week after that life-changing afternoon, Mrs. Rust was tragically murdered in her home.

The attack happened in the kitchen, just beside the sunroom where we had spent so many quiet hours talking about books and writing.

What shook me most was that I had been there earlier that same morning — before the crime — and I had actually seen the man who would later become the murderer arrive at the house.

Fortunately, I understood Mrs. Rust’s methods better than most people did. Because of that, I was able to help the detectives with their investigation.

I also made certain that her unfinished manuscript found its way to the right hands. In the days that followed I received many phone calls from people urgently trying to obtain it. Her husband, understandably overwhelmed and unable to understand the sudden frenzy, simply redirected those calls to me.

And so, when people ask me about my favourite book, this is the one.

And when they ask about my favourite author, the answer will always be the same.

Winnie Rust.

The value of this book is not merely sentimental — though that alone would be enough.

What makes it truly priceless is knowing that no one else in the world possesses something quite like it.

I may not be wealthy, but I can honestly say I own something that even the richest person on earth could never buy.

Mrs. Rust, you remain in my thoughts every day.

When I am writing.

And when I am not.

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Review: A Man in the Dark by Mary R. Woldering

Iwan Ross — Sun, 8 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

From time to time I enjoy sharing books from fellow writers whose work caught my attention. Today’s recommendation is A Man in the Dark by Mary R. Woldering.

A Man in the Dark by Mary R. Woldering is a gripping historical mystery that blends personal tragedy with the turbulent atmosphere of early 20th-century America. Set against the backdrop of the Great Depression and Prohibition-era tensions, the story follows Markus Ilderton as he returns to Mississippi after learning of his father’s murder—an event that shatters his comfortable life and pulls him into a deeper web of secrets and moral conflict.

What makes the novel particularly engaging is its strong sense of time and place. The social pressures and divisions of the era add weight to Markus’s investigation, transforming what might have been a simple murder mystery into a layered story about justice, loyalty, and the cost of uncovering the truth.

Markus is a compelling protagonist—flawed, determined, and increasingly aware that the answers he seeks may come at a heavy personal price. As the investigation unfolds, the narrative explores how grief, love, and vengeance can intertwine in unexpected ways.

At just over 150 pages, A Man in the Dark moves at a brisk pace while still delivering a thoughtful and atmospheric mystery. Readers who enjoy historical crime fiction with strong emotional stakes will find plenty to appreciate here.

Verdict: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

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Review: The Night She Cried by Tina-Marie Miller

Iwan Ross — Fri, 6 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

A Quiet Descent into Doubt and Unease

Sometimes the most unsettling stories are not the ones filled with monsters in the dark, but the ones where the danger creeps in quietly—where reality itself begins to feel uncertain.

In The Night She Cried, Tina-Marie Miller steps confidently into the realm of psychological suspense, crafting a tense and unsettling narrative that keeps the reader questioning everything alongside its protagonist.

Maddie Walsh has inherited her grandmother’s cottage, a place that should represent comfort, memory, and new beginnings. Instead, it quickly becomes the stage for a growing sense of unease. Her relationship with her fiancé Adam already feels strained, and when his enigmatic friend Patrick begins appearing in places he shouldn’t, the fragile sense of normalcy around Maddie begins to fracture.

Small disturbances soon turn into deeply unsettling incidents. Things go missing. Strange encounters pile up. Maddie begins to feel watched, manipulated, and slowly pushed toward the edge of doubt—not only about those around her, but about her own perceptions.

What makes the novel particularly compelling is Miller’s ability to keep the reader suspended in uncertainty. Just when you believe you’ve grasped the truth behind Maddie’s troubles, another possibility emerges. Several characters linger under suspicion, and the tension builds steadily as the story unfolds.

Despite the darkness threaded through the narrative, the novel also carries flashes of humour and moments of humanity that make the characters feel real and grounded. Maddie’s journey is not simply one of fear, but of resilience. As the mystery deepens, she is forced to confront not only the people around her but also her own strength.

By the time the truth begins to surface, the reader has been drawn fully into Maddie’s world of doubt, suspicion, and emotional turmoil.

The Night She Cried is a gripping psychological thriller that will appeal to readers who enjoy stories where tension grows quietly, characters are layered with secrets, and the truth hides just beneath the surface.

A compelling and suspenseful read that keeps you guessing until the end.

Verdict: ★★★★★

Discover the story on Goodreads.

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The Angels Who Found Me

Iwan Ross — Fri, 6 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Six months ago, I had no idea that my time at the mental health clinic would set in motion everything that followed. If I had known then what I know now, I would have cherished every moment and made the most of it.

It’s true what they say: a diamond is formed in a furnace, under immense pressure. Perhaps the same is true for humans. Sometimes it takes a crisis to push us beyond our comfort zones and reveal our most resilient, most beautiful selves.

At the time, though, I was heartbroken, filled with despair, and felt completely hopeless—even worthless. I wanted my old life to disappear. If it weren’t for the words of one particular person, I can only imagine how differently things might have unfolded.

“You said something important in occupational therapy today,” she told me. “Something that changed my life.”

“Really? What was it?” I asked, leaning into the chair beside her, my arm resting gently around her shoulders so she wouldn’t feel pressured.

She took a slow drag from her cigarette and exhaled a plume of white smoke.

“You said, ‘We always have a choice, and there is always a solution.’”

I smirked slightly, raising my eyebrows.

Then she explained.

She told me she had been planning to end her life because the life waiting for her outside those walls meant certain death. Hearing those words made her stop and think. She realized she still had choices.

She had exposed a gangster ring, and now people were looking for her. They intended to kill her. Most of her family had already been placed under witness protection, but she refused to live a life in hiding. She had a daughter, and she knew that if things went wrong, she might never see her again.

The next day, when I stepped outside, she was gone.

I didn’t ask any questions. Instead, I rushed to the balcony—the only place where I could see beyond the clinic walls. The unmarked police car that had been parked there for days, officers inside sipping coffee and eating snacks, was gone as well.

A slow smile spread across my face.

What’s strange is that when she said those words to me, I genuinely believed she needed more help than I did. I hate to admit it, but she seemed so lost, almost pitiful—like a startled fawn caught in headlights, with nowhere to run.

Now I like to think of people like her as “life angels.” They appear at precisely the moment we need them most.

For days, even weeks, I missed her terribly. But I had no idea that her story had planted a seed inside me—one that began to sprout and grow into something meaningful.

With each passing day, my happiness returned. My enthusiasm slowly came back until, eventually, I was well enough to be discharged.

But first, there was a long weekend away to make up for lost time with my beloved wife.

Wink.

Honeymoon 2.0 had arrived, bringing with it a renewed sense of self—and a wife who loved me anew. This time she wasn’t falling for a broken man, but for one who could finally cherish her properly.

And I did.

And I still do.

Every single day.

Because she is my permanent angel.

This experience gave me something I hadn’t felt in years: purpose. For the first time in a long time, I felt a sense of belonging. My stories felt meaningful again, and I believed my books could truly connect with readers.

I’ve written about this before, so I’ll keep this part brief.

During my stay at the clinic, there was a nurse I affectionately called my “night angel.”

One sleepless night, I wandered into the kitchen and suddenly stopped, my breath catching.

She was sitting at the table, deeply absorbed in a book.

My book.

It was my very first published work—the one that marked a small but important breakthrough in my life.

She was reading it, completely captivated.

After a brief chat, I signed her copy. Then I sat down with a rare cup of coffee—an unexpected luxury in a mental health clinic—and simply savoured the moment.

Seeing someone reading my book, knowing that I was the author, felt like a quiet victory.

It was in that moment that I truly realized something important:

I belonged.

And my voice—my stories—had the power to touch people’s lives.

Since my discharge, that renewed sense of purpose and belonging has transformed the way I write. My stories now flow from a place of authenticity, and the results have sometimes left me speechless with wonder.

My readership continues to grow steadily, and my latest book even appeared alongside novels by John Grisham and Dean Koontz—authors I have admired for years.

But the true reward isn’t the rankings.

It’s the readers.

I regularly receive heartfelt messages from people who tell me how much my stories meant to them. What surprises them most is when I personally reply. Those conversations matter deeply to me.

Because at the heart of everything I do is a simple truth:

My readers are the reason I write.

Yes, I have rediscovered purpose and belonging—but my readers are the reason that purpose exists. I genuinely care about them, and I am committed to creating stories that give them an escape from their worries, even if only for a little while.

That commitment—to honesty, to integrity, and to storytelling with heart—is what truly defines my work.

This connection has not only fuelled my creativity, but it has also given me a deep sense of responsibility.

Every word I write is a promise.

A promise to craft stories that uplift, entertain, and perhaps even inspire those who find their way into the pages of my books.

The accolades are secondary.

The true reward is knowing that, somewhere out there, a story of mine has touched a life—even if only for a moment.

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Jacob’s Well (Angus Reid Mysteries #1) — by Urcelia Teixeira

Iwan Ross — Sat, 21 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Every so often, a book finds you that sits just outside your usual reading preferences — and yet proves difficult to put down once you begin. Jacob’s Well was one of those unexpected discoveries for me.

While the novel is rooted in Christian faith and spiritual themes — elements I don’t typically seek out — the story itself transcends genre boundaries. At its heart, this is a tense, emotionally charged small-town mystery driven by secrets, moral conflict, and the lengths to which people will go to protect those they love.

Set in the coastal town of Weyport, the narrative unfolds through intertwined perspectives, particularly that of Mary-Jean Foley, a mother forced to confront unsettling truths about her own family, and Sheriff Angus Reid, a newcomer determined to bring order to a community steeped in quiet corruption. When two teenagers vanish, the investigation peels back layers of deception that run deeper than anyone is prepared for.

What stood out most to me was the emotional weight behind the mystery. This is not a story built on spectacle or relentless action, but on tension, conscience, and the uncomfortable realization that good people can make terrible choices under pressure. The faith element, while present throughout, feels less like preaching and more like a lens through which characters grapple with guilt, redemption, and accountability.

Angus Reid himself is a compelling introduction to what promises to be an engaging series — principled, persistent, and quietly burdened by the enormity of the task before him. The supporting cast enriches the narrative, creating a believable portrait of a close-knit town where everyone seems to know each other, yet no one knows everything.

Readers who enjoy twist-driven mysteries, morally complex characters, and stories that explore the human cost of secrets will likely find much to appreciate here. Even those who do not typically gravitate toward Christian fiction may be surprised by how accessible and suspenseful the story is.

Jacob’s Well is ultimately a reminder that mystery novels can do more than entertain — they can probe uncomfortable questions about truth, loyalty, and the consequences of silence.

A compelling start to the Angus Reid Mysteries, and one that left me curious to see where the series will go next.

Read the Goodreads review.

Rating: ★★★★☆

Recommended for: Fans of small-town suspense, character-driven mysteries, and faith-tinged thrillers.

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The Email That Changed Everything (Even Though I Didn’t Realize It Yet)

Iwan Ross — Sat, 21 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Some milestones don’t arrive with trumpets.

They slip quietly into your inbox on an ordinary day, disguised as just another message among many.

I had just finished Serenity Falls — a book that took far more out of me than I expected. Not only time and effort, but something deeper. Pieces of memory, emotion, late nights, and stubborn perseverance stitched together into a story I hoped might matter to someone, somewhere.

On a whim — and very much aware of the odds — I submitted it for a BookBub Feature Deal.

If you’re not familiar with BookBub, it’s one of the most selective promotional platforms in publishing. Thousands of books compete for very few slots. Most authors apply again and again without success. I knew this. I assumed my submission would quietly disappear into the void, like a paper boat sent out onto a vast ocean.

So I did what writers often do after releasing something fragile into the world.

I tried not to think about it.

One day later, an email arrived.

I opened it expecting a polite decline. Something encouraging but final. Instead, the first word I saw was:

Congratulations.

Their editors had selected Serenity Falls for a feature.

For a moment, my brain refused to process it. I reread the sentence several times, certain I must be misunderstanding. When the realization finally landed — fully, unmistakably — my body reacted before my thoughts could catch up.

I fainted.

Not dramatically, not in some cinematic swoon — just a sudden, overwhelming shutdown as adrenaline and disbelief collided. One moment I was standing there holding my phone, the next I was on the floor, heart racing, trying to laugh and breathe at the same time.

At the time, I didn’t fully grasp what it meant. I was too stunned, too relieved, too exhausted from finishing the book itself. It felt unreal, like being told you’ve been invited to a grand event you never expected to attend.

Only later did it begin to sink in.

A team of professional editors — complete strangers — had read the description of this story and decided it was worth placing in front of their massive audience of readers. They believed it would resonate. That it belonged there.

Somewhere along the way, without fanfare or ceremony, I had crossed an invisible threshold.

I was no longer just someone who had written a book.

I had become a BookBub Featured Author — a novelist whose work had been selected, curated, and professionally promoted to readers around the world.

And yet, strangely, the most powerful part wasn’t the scale of the promotion or the prestige attached to it.

It was the quiet affirmation:

This story matters. Keep going.

Seeing new readers discover my work now — especially from places I never expected, like Pinterest — feels like watching ripples spread across water long after the stone was thrown. Proof that stories have a life of their own once they leave your hands.

If you’re one of the new people who found your way here recently, welcome. Truly. You’ve arrived at a moment when the journey feels both fragile and full of possibility.

And if you’ve been here from the beginning, thank you for walking this road with me — through drafts, doubts, and the long, uncertain stretches between milestones.

Serenity Falls releases soon.

Whatever happens next, I’m grateful beyond words that you’re here to witness it.

— Iwan

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An Outsider’s Journey Through American Nostalgia

Iwan Ross — Sun, 1 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Eva Pasco’s 100 WILD Mushrooms: Memoirs of the ’60s is a vibrant, affectionate time capsule of American childhood and culture, lovingly assembled through sharp wit and richly detailed recollections.

Reading this book from outside the United States — as someone who grew up in South Africa behind the Apartheid curtain — felt a bit like stepping into a colourful museum where some exhibits were instantly familiar and others required careful interpretation. Cartoon characters, music icons like The Beatles, and the general spirit of 1960s counterculture resonated clearly. Yet many of the cultural touchstones Pasco references — specific cereals, candies, brands, and everyday Americana — were foreign to me.

Rather than diminishing the experience, this unfamiliarity gave the memoir a curious charm. I found myself learning as much as remembering. Pasco writes with such vividness that even when I didn’t know exactly what a “Flexible Flyer Snow Sled” or “Bazooka Joe” was, I could still feel what they meant to her generation.

Her prose is clever, playful, and often deliciously snide. The book sparkles with Wildean turns of phrase, sharp metaphors, and nostalgic observations that bring the era to life. It is clear this is not simply a personal memoir, but a carefully researched social snapshot of a decade — a mosaic of cultural history stitched together with humour and heart.

What I appreciated most was Pasco’s ability to capture the small, ordinary details of life and elevate them into something meaningful. Even when the Cold War looms in the background, the focus remains on childhood wonder, family life, and the everyday magic that shapes who we become.

As a non-American reader, I occasionally wished for a little more context to help bridge the cultural gap. But perhaps that is part of the book’s authenticity: it speaks directly from one specific place and time, without trying to translate itself for outsiders.

Ultimately, 100 WILD Mushrooms is a nostalgic, intelligent, and entertaining collection — a love letter to the 1960s written with warmth, humour, and undeniable flair. Even if some references pass you by, the spirit of the book shines through, reminding readers everywhere that growing up, no matter where, is filled with its own wild mushrooms of memory.

Rating: ★★★★ ★ (5/5)

Read my Goodreads review.

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The Day My Future Was Decided

Iwan Ross — Sat, 31 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

I haven’t saved much for retirement, largely because I never expected to reach this stage of life. It’s not something I ever imagined. Sitting here now, staring at words on a screen, this isn’t the life I once pictured for myself. At times, I feel like a stranger living inside someone else’s body. Everything feels unreal, as though I might wake from this dream at any moment.

What I do have is worth far more to me than a generous retirement fund, or spending my remaining years sipping piña coladas in dark sunglasses while watching the ocean and the parade of life pass by. Instead, I write. Full-time. And I know, with quiet certainty, that I will continue to do so for as long as I can breathe.

I love this life. And I love my wife — who has stood beside me through years that were anything but easy.

This is the beginning of the story of how I arrived here. Or, as some would say, why this was always my destiny. It’s also why I hold the beliefs I do.

We are, whether we like it or not, shaped by our parents.

In my early high-school years, my grades and social skills lagged behind those of my peers. The school psychologist believed the solution was simple: hold me back a year so my intellectual development could “catch up.” My mother — herself a psychologist — strongly disagreed. While I suspect her motivations were not entirely pure, she rarely acted without conviction.

During the summer break, she put me in the car and we drove for hours to a small city. The journey was silent, as most of our journeys were. I watched the landscape blur past the window and tried to capture it in words. As we reached the city limits, the unfamiliarity pressed in. It felt like another world.

We took a lift to the third floor. A woman with thin glasses, blonde hair, and overly bright lipstick greeted us with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. The smell alone announced that this was a medical office. I sensed immediately that my mother had been here before.

When the neurologist appeared, his smile confirmed it.

He shook my hand — firm, practiced — and led us inside. My mother settled into a chair while my head was shaved, razor-clean. Electrodes were attached. Wires snaked toward softly beeping machines. I lay staring at a screen as images flashed before me.

Then the lights went out.

I focused on the images. Occasionally my fingers twitched, reacting to unfamiliar visuals. Some were ordinary. Others were not. Bare-breasted images of young women appeared — women who seemed far too young. One image mirrored the receptionist outside. Only on the screen, she was naked.

I didn’t imagine it.

When the lights returned, the neurologist entered, adjusting his belt, tucking in his shirt. Lipstick stains marked his neck and cheek — the exact shade my mother wore. She reclined in her chair, legs crossed, wearing the smirk I knew too well.

He delivered his verdict without pause.

I would be sent to a special-needs school. I would not be allowed to participate in sports requiring motor skills. The list went on. Inside, I screamed. But I’m good at athletics. My questions dissolved before they reached my mouth.

He shook my hand and left.

I never saw him again.

The silence that followed was heavy. My mother gathered her things without a word. I knew better than to ask questions. As I stood, the cold of the examination table still clung to my skin. Outside the window, the world looked impossibly alive — a cruel contrast to what had just been decided for me.

I understood then that this wasn’t the end.

It was the beginning of a fight for a life that had been carelessly — brutally — assigned.

This story is exhausting me. It’s draining the energy I began with. But it needs to be told.

Please join me for the next instalment, where I’ll share what happened next.

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How I Learned to See People as Dogs

Iwan Ross — Fri, 30 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Let’s travel back two decades, so this story makes sense.

Once again, I found myself near the top of the corporate ladder. Over time, my responsibilities grew until I was expected to address large audiences regularly. Back then — though the term has since been rebranded — our global company employed elocutionists. Today you’d call them coaches. Life coaches, performance coaches, confidence coaches.

Their task was simple: turn competent speakers into orators. Demosthenes, ideally.

Today, public speaking often amounts to “go in there and do your thing,” while half the audience stares at their phones, the other half thinks about dinner, and nobody remembers a word you said.

Back then, it mattered.

After months of serious training, I truly believed I was becoming something of an orator. I practised everywhere — discreetly, obsessively. Dinner parties. Pubs. Anywhere people were forced to listen.

I learned to read a room.

I’d test the “hand trick” and watch eyes follow my movements. I’d casually brush hair from my forehead and reclaim their attention. I’d lean back — they’d lean back. Then I’d soften my voice and lean forward, as if sharing a secret, and suddenly everyone else leaned in too, exchanging looks as though I’d just revealed classified nuclear schematics.

As my confidence grew, I experimented with subtler body-language cues. One sequence worked disturbingly well. I added a casual glance over my shoulder — as if someone were watching — and, incredibly, they mirrored it, even though anyone approaching would have come from behind them.

Honestly, I became so good at it I could have convinced an Alaskan to buy ice.

The mastermind behind this transformation was a woman known simply as Ribs.

She had a captivating British accent and was, inconveniently, stunning. Ribs dedicated endless hours — fuelled by laughter and shared takeaway meals — to refining my presence. The company even provided a dedicated space called The Studio, where we practised both vocal delivery and physical awareness. The two are inseparable. We speak as much with our bodies as with our words.

Ribs focused on me for a reason.

I was a week away from presenting to a room full of VIPs — potential investors for our tech company. Every hour with her was intense, exhausting, exhilarating. Progress came quickly.

One day, during a final demo run, she adjusted my tie, stepped back, and said simply, “You’re ready.”

The rehearsal went so well I left with all the leftover cheese and wine. No one objected.

The big day arrived at the Sandton Convention Centre. In the dressing room, bright lights framed the mirror, highlighting even the dark circles beneath my eyes — which the makeup team promptly erased.

Ribs stood nearby, watching me dress. I didn’t mind. She made me feel calm.

“You’ve got this,” she winked.

I smiled back.

Had I heard the audience filing into the gallery above, I would have fled.

She brushed imaginary lint from my jacket, checked her watch, took my hand, and led me through corridors and stairwells to a door marked Stage Entrance. My legs trembled — not from walking beside her, but from fear. I reviewed my key points silently. She nodded, smiling.

Then she repeated the trick.

And then she added, unexpectedly, “If this goes well, you’re coming back to my place. I’ll be waiting in just my lingerie.”

My knees nearly failed me.

The door opened. Darkness swallowed me.

Nothing — absolutely nothing — could have prepared me for that moment.

A blinding spotlight tracked my steps toward the solitary podium. I raised the microphone and cleared my throat.

There was a problem.

I couldn’t execute Rib’s most important tactic. The glare erased the audience entirely. They were invisible.

“Can we please turn off that blasted light?” I said into the microphone.

They did.

The room emerged, faces revealed, laughter rippling through the crowd. Ice broken. Perfect.

“Picture them all in diapers,” Rib’s voice echoed in my head.

I tried. It didn’t help.

Then the next ten minutes vanished.

Completely.

I have no memory of what I said.

Behind me, slides flickered across a white canvas. Somewhere, I spoke. Eventually, I concluded, forgot to invite questions, unclipped the microphone, and walked offstage, eager only for whiskey.

I forgot about Ribs. About her promise. About everything.

I didn’t even hear the applause.

That Monday, colleagues greeted me with backslaps, high-fives — even hugs.

Apparently, I’d been brilliant.

I was baffled.

Inside, I’d felt like a failure.

That disconnect — between how we experience something and how others perceive it — became a recurring theme throughout my career.

And it taught me something vital.

We all develop coping mechanisms.

Popular ideas like The Let Them Theory or The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck work for many people. They didn’t work for me.

I found my own method.

I visualize people as dogs.

Yes. Dogs.

At work, two individuals often operate together. In my mind, the taller one is a Bullmastiff — calm, imposing, pushing his agenda through sheer presence. The smaller one is a Jack Russell — yapping, reactive, aggressive by volume.

Here’s the trick: challenge either directly and they retreat, regroup, and target someone else.

They appear harmless until they sense weakness. Then they pivot — predator to prey.

Once you see these archetypes, you can anticipate behavior. Spot triggers. Stay composed.

It requires vigilance. Awareness. And the understanding that beneath polished suits and friendly smiles, instinct still runs the show.

It makes me chuckle.

But it works.

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A Quietly Brilliant Puzzle of Memory and Myth

Iwan Ross — Thu, 29 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Half for You, Half for Me is one of those rare stories that seems to arrive rather than announce itself.

At first glance, it feels deceptively ordinary: a couple, a secondhand bookshop, missing time. Three days gone. No alarms blaring, no immediate panic — just the unsettling sense that something important has slipped through the cracks. And from there, the story does something quietly impressive: it refuses to rush.

Mara and Eli are wonderfully human protagonists. Their relationship feels lived-in, marked by small tensions, shared habits, and the strange resilience of people who keep going even when reality starts misbehaving. The amnesia at the heart of the novel isn’t treated as a gimmick, but as a slow-burn mystery, layered with clues, absences, and moments of recognition that feel earned rather than forced.

What truly sets this book apart is how mythology seeps into the everyday. Norse, Egyptian, and Greek influences surface not with spectacle, but with restraint — woven into conversations, symbols, and offhand encounters that slowly reframe what’s really going on. The world bends, but it does so subtly, leaving the reader constantly questioning what is remembered, what is imagined, and what has been deliberately forgotten.

There’s also a sharp, understated wit running through the story. Even under pressure, the dialogue carries a satirical edge that keeps the narrative grounded and humane, never allowing the mythic elements to overwhelm the emotional core.

I found myself enjoying this book in a quiet, almost unexpected way. It lingered with me — not because it shouted, but because it trusted the reader to lean in.

Half for You, Half for Me is a thoughtful, inventive urban fantasy about memory, choice, and the dangerous comfort of not wanting to know the truth. A story that rewards patience, curiosity, and a willingness to follow the thread wherever it leads.

Read the Goodreads review.

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