Kelly Shade

My Actual Writing Process (Not the Romantic Version) There is no candlelit desk. No perfect routine. No soft blanky. No sudden inspiration where everything suddenly makes sense. There is coffee. Half-formed sentences. Arguing with fictional people. Deleting good paragraphs. Pretending I meant to do that all along. Tons of sticky notes and notebooks. A thousand interruptions from my children. Loud music blasting either from my AirPods or JBL Speakers. And a whole lot of smoke

Why “Trust Me” Is the Most Dangerous Line in Fiction (and in Real Life) There are scarier phrases than “I love you.” Scarier than “I promise.” Scarier than “everything will be fine.” Two words beat them all. Trust me. In fiction, it’s a warning. In real life, it’s usually a lesson. Because “trust me” is rarely said by people who deserve trust. It’s said by people who need it . In thrillers and mysteries, this line is an alarm. Not obvious but somehow... kind. And that’s exac

The “Suspect Board” Method: How I Plot Mysteries Without Losing My Mind I don’t plot mysteries in straight lines. I plot them like crimes. With motives, contradictions, timelines, and people who are absolutely lying to me on paper. The suspect board is how I keep my stories in organized chaos. It is not pretty. It is not aesthetic. It is not Instagram-friendly. But it works. A suspect board is exactly what it sounds like. A visual map of everyone who could be guilty, why they

They want trauma summarized, sanitized, inspirational. I give them facts. No narration. They ask about childhood, I ask what version, The one where love was conditional or the one where it worsened? I learned to read silence before language had formed, When chaos repeats, you prepare for the storm. Trust issues? No, that’s pattern recognition, When storms repeat, you predict the conditions. Help never came, so dependence expired, Built self-reliance under pressure and fire. D

Best Mystery / Thriller Tropes, Ranked by Chaos (for me) Not all tropes are created equal. Some are comforting. Some are predictable. And some are pure chaos in the best possible way. You know, those that make you whisper “oh no” while smiling. Those that ruin your sleep schedule and feed your trust issues at the same time. I’m ranking these tropes not by popularity, but by how emotionally dangerous they are. (in my opinion). 1. The Character You Trusted Is the Problem Nothin

Morally gray women don’t exist to inspire comfort. They exist to reflect reality. Because real strength doesn’t look perfect. It looks like a contradiction. And readers don’t fall in love with flawless characters. They fall in love with the ones who scare them a little. Jane Blake is not the nice one. She is the one who knows how to survive. To manipulate. To protect. To choose the wrong thing for the right reason. And that is exactly why she works. For years, female leads w

Some dance to remember, some dance to forget; I dance to re-assemble, so I resemble, reset. Sampled breaths in loops, chopped and set to ride; My pulse keeps time, ticking on the inside; Blood learns the loop and rolls in with the tide; Lyrics feed my brain, hot soul, to-go, with a side. I two-step, clocking every bar bars like verses, bars like yards. My record spins and clears its throat my record, as in vinyl; my record, as in my soul. DJ Memory cuts deep, watch it scratch

[Verse 1] I see the city lights flicker like a loaded gun, Shadows whisper names but they ain't trustin' none. Every move’s a gamble, every step’s a play, In a world full of liars, I make ‘em pay. Suit up, mask on, watch me disappear, You think you see the truth? Nah... just smoke and mirrors. Street code, high stakes, I don’t leave a trace, No fingerprints, no names, just a ghost in the race. [Chorus] We don’t play by the rules, we rewrite the game, You think you're in contr

Mia and Jess sat cross-legged on the bedroom floor, flipping through a stack of glossy magazines. The overhead fan spun lazily, making the room feel smaller, cozier, like a bubble separating them from the rest of the world. They giggled at some celebrity’s outfit disaster, made weird quizzes to find "what color they were" or which element suited their personality" or "which celebrity loves you", the kind of mindless fun that felt infinite when you were twelve. Jess reached fo

Unluckily Lucky What do you call luck? For me, it’s a bit of a mindfuck. Born in the wrong place, From a fleeting embrace, Came into this world unseen By luck, I wasn’t wiped clean. Was it luck to be abandoned, Or just fate in disguise? Left behind, passed along, One couldn’t, the next went wrong. Better than the system, they say, Yet somehow, I still lost my way. Alcohol and violence filled the air, But at least I had my own space there. Books, paper, music... my escape, A p

What I’ve Learned About People by Writing Fiction Writers are often asked if their characters are based on real people. The short answer? No… but also, kind of. See, I’m fascinated by psychology - why people think the way they do, what makes them tick, how they justify their actions. I want to see through the tiny cracks in their carefully constructed facades. And when I write, my characters become my personal psychology experiments. They don’t know it, of course (because, we

What It’s Like Moving to Different Countries Some people love stability. They plant roots, settle down, and build a life in one place. Me? I’ve lived in five different countries in Europe - Bulgaria, Denmark, Sweden, Spain, UK, and now Portugal - with my two kids and a dog in tow. So at this point, I’m basically an expert  in packing up our lives, throwing us into a new culture, and figuring out how to survive without looking like total tourists. The truth is, I’ve never felt

The club pulsed like a heartbeat, thick with sweat, neon lights slicing through the haze of smoke and liquor. Music throbbed through the air, drowning out everything but sensation. Conversations blurred into laughter, bodies tangled in a mess of flashing colors and electric heat. Liam leaned against the bar, cigarette smoldering between his fingers, the ice in his glass clinking as he downed the last sip of whiskey. It burned its way down, numbing the edges of things, but not

Some writers like to keep things light, happy endings, heartwarming moments, and a general sense that the world is mostly  a good place. I am not  one of those writers. I gravitate toward the dark, the unsettling, the raw emotions people don’t like to talk about. My stories explore trauma, fear, loss, psychological struggles... the things that linger in the back of your mind. And there’s a reason for that: I write what I know. Because life isn’t always lighthearted. People ar

The Burden of Knowing David Grant had a pretty standard life. Boring, even. He woke up, went to his accounting job, crunched numbers, dodged awkward small talk, and came home to a wife who sighed just a little too often. Predictable. Safe. And then, in an act of lunchtime desperation, he ate that taco. It was the kind of street food that looked suspicious even under good lighting. One bite in, his tongue caught fire, his throat clenched, and then... BZZZT! A jolt shot through

Let’s get one thing straight: I did not  plan to be a writer. If you had asked me as a kid if I wanted to spend my life crafting stories, I would have laughed in your face... loudly, dramatically, probably with an eye-roll for emphasis. Writing? No, thanks. That was for sensitive, dreamy types. And where I grew up, creativity was basically a liability. You either built an armor of toughness, or you got crushed. So, I built the armor. I was the rebel. The badass. The one who d

I waltz with secrets, slow and sweet, A tangled rhythm, sharp deceit. The truth is laughing in the dark, It knows just where to leave its mark. Step left, step right, don’t miss a beat, This game is played with silent feet. Soft words, sharp teeth, A smile wrapped in silk beneath. Your story’s tight, the tale is clean, But I can smell the truth between. Velvet lies, they slip, they shine, They coil round your every line. But darling, when you blink, you’ll see Your perfect li

The Echo in My Veins I hear them whisper in the night, Ghosts of choices, wrong and right. Their echoes rattle through my chest, Footsteps in my ribcage, never rest. Every shadow leaves a clue, Every story tells what’s true. I try to run, I try to hide, But the past walks right beside.

Carlos had spent his life making clocks that moved time forward, but he had spent the last ten years creating one that could push it back. After many sleepless nights, it finally worked. But at a cost - every second he rewound stole a year from his own life. He stood there looking at his creation, thinking about why he did it. Because someone had tampered with his clocks once. Someone who didn’t want the police to know what really happened to the mayor’s son. Carlos adjusted

Your name’s a whisper, lost in ink, A puzzle piece, a missing link. Numbers scratched, a coded lie, Burned-up maps and alibis. You think you’re safe, you think you’ve won, But games like these are never done. You left no trace, no path, no guide Except the one inside your mind. Trails