I’ve always been a reflective one.

Mostly introverted… which is, in my somewhat isolated opinion, weird for a hyperactive, over-caffeinated individual such as me. You’d think someone constantly vibrating at espresso-level frequency wouldn’t spend so much time quietly staring into space.

But I do. A lot.

At home, on quiet weekend mornings with coffee in hand.
In meetings at work (no one has noticed, so I’m safe).
While cooking. While working in the yard.
Even during mariachi gigs — which, yes, feels slightly irresponsible.

Lately, the reflection has been centered on one thing: publishing.

I published a book. Yay me!

Then I finished a second one. It drops March 29, 2026 — shameless plug, I know. I tried to resist. I failed.

After submitting the manuscript for the second collection, approving the cover art, doing the very adult, very official thing of sending it off into the world, I found myself sitting with a strange silence.

My thoughts went blank.

(Well… almost. I still write for my blog, so there’s that.)

And then they came back with a single question:

So what now?

I imagine this is a common condition among writers. You climb the hill. You plant the flag. You take the photo.

Then you look around and realize there’s more horizon.

So I did what writers do when faced with existential literary ambiguity.

I went digging.

Old notebooks. Half-finished drafts. Ideas scribbled in margins. Lines that made me smile. Paragraphs that made me wince. The occasional moment where I patted myself on the back and said, Okay… not bad.

And then I found it.

Notes from a short story I wrote in high school.

Science fiction.

Because, of course, I was into science fiction.

I devoured Ender’s Game.
I was mesmerized by Contact.
I grew up on Star Trek, Star Wars, Blade Runner.

Big ideas. Big questions. Big worlds.

Somewhere in 11th grade, I tried to build one of my own. My English teacher, Mr. Shigematsu, told me there was something there.

I didn’t do anything with it.

Until now.

There’s something humbling about revisiting your younger self’s ambition. It’s raw. Unpolished. Slightly dramatic. Entirely sincere.

But there was something there.

After sending off my second book of short stories, I started tinkering with that old idea. Noodling. Expanding. Asking questions I didn’t know how to ask when I was seventeen.

And somewhere between coffee, yard work, and mariachi gigs, the question shifted.

“So what now?” became:

What if?

What if I try something bigger?
What if I attempt a full science fiction novel?
What if I step away from memory and nostalgia and attempt to build a future instead?

It’s not as easy as assembling a collection of short stories. Those felt like curated snapshots of lived experience. This feels like architecture. Engineering. Blueprint drafting in zero gravity.

It’s different.

And that’s the point.

I’ve spent the last year writing about where I come from — small town stories, summer heat, growing up in a place that shaped me. Those stories will always matter to me.

But maybe growth as a writer means not only looking back — but looking forward.

Maybe it means risking something new.

Maybe this next story won’t just look backward. Maybe it will imagine forward — something my kids might read one day and see not just who I was, but who I dared to become.

I don’t know where this sci-fi idea will land. I don’t know if it will become a finished novel or remain a stubborn stack of drafts.

And sci-fi is a big world.

What I do know is this:

The journey continues.
The writing muscles are still moving.
The blog is active.
The coffee is strong.
The questions are bigger.

And maybe that’s the real answer to “What now?”

You write the next thing.

Even if it scares you.
Even if it stretches you.
Even if it feels unfamiliar.

Especially then.

After all, I have the idea.

I have the will.

And I have plenty of coffee on hand.

There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com. Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing – one post at a time.