The week was full—joyfully, painfully, unmistakably so. On the 29th, Handful was released into the world. I now have my author copies stacked neatly in my study, looking proud and silent, like small soldiers ready for battle.

Compared to my first book, this one came easier. Less screaming in the delivery room, fewer nights questioning the purpose of semicolons. Still, when I reread it, six typos winked at me like mischief-makers in the margins. But I’m at peace with both books. They’re my stories—flawed, finished, and fiercely mine.

There’s a strange tenderness in the moment you realise your book is ready for readers. Not perfect—never perfect—but complete. You glance at it and think, “This is it. This is the story it needed to be.”

You see the seams, the missteps, maybe even a chapter or two that shouldn’t have made the final cut. But the truth is: perfection has never published a book. People do.

If this process has taught me anything, it's that there will always be the editors, critics, and “I-could-have-done-it-better” types. Most of them never write a word, of course. It’s theatre déjà vu—opening night, all the seats filled, applause mingled with murmurs from those who’ve never stepped onto a stage but always know how it should have been done.

When I was new to novel-writing, I held editors and publishing professionals in high esteem—those literary sages with red pens and surgical precision. But three novels in, I've learned to breathe. I’ve found my voice. And if one book sings clearer than the next, so be it. They are my notes, my melody. And to the handful of beta readers who walked this journey with me: your belief made the road feel worth every step.

Because, in the end, I write for readers like you. People who crave stories spun from honesty and stitched with heart.

There was another milestone this week—more personal, and quietly monumental.

My son turned 23 on October 5th. And as if to celebrate with maximum theatricality, he moved out—with his girlfriend, into their own place. Just a short drive away, but far enough for me to stare at his empty room and feel that bittersweet ache of fatherhood.

The room still holds his scent—a subtle, unshakable reminder that your nose remembers what your mind tries to file away.

He was born at 11:42, precisely 23 years ago. I cut the cord myself, watched the midwife clean him, and I gave him his first milk while his mother rested post-surgery. And I will never forget his eyes—dark, deep, filled with something ancient and knowing. He looked at me once, and I knew: life would never feel empty again.

Being a father has been, without competition, the best part of my life.

Part of fatherhood, of course, is learning to let go. Bit by bit. Today, it was with a van loaded with dreams and his boyhood. Just before he left, a quick hug, a warm grin, and these words:
“Thanks, Dad, for everything. Drop by the studio anytime. And come visit us—whenever.”

And now, I finally understand why I write novels.
So that one day, when I’m no longer here to say it, he can read my words and remember:
My dad cared so much.

It's past midnight. Time to sleep. But first, I dry my eyes. Luckily, no one saw. Only readers feel this. I merely give you prompts—to imagine, to feel, to remember your own empty rooms and echoing goodbyes.

Until next time,
Janus

Janus Lucky
www.januslucky.com

Get The Birthmark Murders from below:

👉 Amazon
👉 Apple Books
👉 Books.by – for those who like things a bit more indie

and of course, Kobo.

And local Schrödinger’s Books In Petone is selling my book both on-site and by mail across New Zealand.