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“Another One?”

The Casual Dismissal of a Universe You Built by Hand

Filed under: Things People Say That Make You Want to Set Fire to a Manuscript

By Calder N. Halden


I’m outside. Editing. Mid-polish pass.
Doing the sacred authorial work of cleaning up em dashes and quietly hating Past Me for every sentence that now sounds like it was written by a caffeinated raccoon.

And then my husband pokes his head out.
“What are you doing?”
I answer, simple, focused:
“Working on the book.”
Beat.
“Another one?!”

Like I’ve just casually decided to start collecting stray cats made of trauma and sex and recursion.

Now—context:
He hasn’t read the first one.
He knows about the second.
But apparently the idea of this being a series is... news? Or maybe too much? Or maybe just not real to him because I’m not Jonathan-Friggin-Sanderson and it’s not printed on a box set?

And here’s the thing:
I know he doesn’t have to read it.
But when you’re working on something that holds everything you can’t say out loud, and the person closest to you reacts like you just said, “I’m repainting the bathroom for fun,” it doesn’t just sting—it erodes.

This isn’t “another one.”
This is the same one.
The same world. The same myth. The same spiral I’ve been carving with my own teeth into something that might matter—if someone just took a minute to look.

So yeah.
I’m working on another one.
And another.
And I will keep building until I am either published or fully feral.

If you’ve ever felt unseen while doing something holy—welcome.
You’re not alone. We rant here.

—Calder N. Halden
Professional myth-maker. Domestic disappointment.


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