Writing With Snoopy
Cut, But Never Delete: Part 2
In Part I of “Cut, But Never Delete,” I explored the idea that deleted work can often mean missed opportunities—that what feels like creative trash today might become tomorrow’s treasure. But how did I arrive at this mindset?
It started with rejection. I submitted two short stories to different contests, pouring time and energy into both, only to be denied. At first, I considered shelving them for good. But something stopped me. I didn’t want that work to disappear. Instead of discarding them, I wrote a third short story and wove all three together into what would become Scream With Me.
That creative pivot sparked something bigger. The process inspired me to start a podcast, which eventually evolved into a YouTube channel. The road to publishing is often unpredictable, but I truly believe you wrote what you did for a reason. Even if it never sees the light of day, it’s worth holding on to. Sometimes, it’s better to have something you may never use than to find yourself needing what you’ve already let go. Every word you write has value—whether it’s part of the final draft or not.
Author Spotlight: Ryan Jones
How does one even begin to capture the weight of grief? As an author, would you dare to try? To do it justice, you have to craft an experience that is both profoundly personal and universally resonant—raw enough to feel real, yet delicate enough to invite empathy. Ryan accomplishes this beautifully in This Expanse of Eventually, where she explores the quiet, aching aftermath of losing someone you love. Her narrative doesn’t just tell a story—it allows you to feel the slow unraveling and the subtle, stubborn resilience that follows.
The way Ryan tells this story has moved readers to tears—and it’s easy to see why. The story is powerful, but what truly elevates it is how Ryan evokes personal loss—Leslie’s absence brought me back to losing Chris, a friend from middle school who passed in college. Like Lainie, I felt as if the glue holding my world together had suddenly vanished. As I read, memories of Chris would surface without warning, stopping me in my tracks with vivid flashbacks. Ryan doesn’t just tell a story of grief—she creates a mirror for our own.
Maybe I shared too much, but that’s the point: great authors blur the line between their story and ours, creating something so good it mirrors our own experiences. Ryan does just that. Her story is both captivating and deeply relatable. I can’t promise it will bring you to tears, but I’m certain it will tug at your heartstrings. And while it may stir memories of grief, I found that what lingered wasn’t the sorrow—it was the warmth of the memories I shared with Chris. In the end, those moments outshone the pain of his loss.
I highly recommend diving into This Expanse of Eventually and More Than Us. But Ryan’s journey is far from over, and is working on a New Adult Romance novel. To explore more of her work and connect with her online, click the icons below her photo.
Synopsis ~ This Expanse of Eventually
When Lainie loses her twin brother Leslie, her world shatters. Overwhelmed by grief, she’s consumed by the question no one can answer: How do you keep living when half of you is gone?
But then, the impossible happens—Lainie can still see and speak to Leslie. As her grief begins to ease, she learns that her brother hasn’t passed on for a reason: both twins must learn to face the pain of loss and let go—together. As Lainie connects with Greyson, a friend of Leslie whose presence offers unexpected warmth, she begins to realize that even in the depths of sorrow, there is still love, laughter, and still life worth holding onto.
But time is running out. Will Lainie find the strength to move forward before it’s too late for Leslie to move on?
This Expanse of Eventually is a heart-wrenching yet hopeful story of loss, healing, and the unbreakable bond between siblings. It reminds us that grief doesn’t vanish overnight—but with courage, connection, and compassion, we can carry it and still live fully.
Serious Saur Moment ~ For Kevin
I dedicate my work to two friends I’ve lost, and Kevin was the first to go. We grew up together and played side by side on the football field. Kevin was a natural—taller, stronger, smarter, and undeniably the better player. But playing next to him made me better. Whether we were grinding through workouts, running drills at practice, or going head-to-head with the opponents, he pushed me to rise to his level.
Just a few days into our freshman year of high school, the team was called to the gym. That’s when we learned the unthinkable—Kevin had died in his sleep. It was my first real encounter with death. My extended family was never very close, so my friends were, and still are, family.
At Kevin’s funeral, I made my way toward the aisle for one final goodbye—but the moment I saw him, I froze. My legs stopped moving, and my hand reached for the pew to steady myself. I couldn’t go any farther. My parents gently asked if I wanted to walk up, and I told them I couldn’t. They simply nodded. They understood. If I got close, if I truly saw him, then it would all be real.
It didn’t matter that I’d spent the past week walking into the fieldhouse, never once seeing him at his locker. That we hadn’t lined up for drills or shared a laugh before practice. None of it had convinced me. But seeing him in that casket? That would make it undeniable.
So I stood there, still, and just looked on from a distance.
I was on the edge of turning fourteen, still trying to understand how someone so young could suddenly be gone. What I’ll always carry with me—what will always haunt me—is not going up to say goodbye. Because the truth is, I can’t remember if I ever said it the last time I saw him.
Years later, during the summer before my senior year, I had a dream that felt more like a memory. I was at the Fitness Center (our small town gym), but to my knowledge, Kevin had never been there. However, in the dream, he was there—sitting, waiting, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He looked exactly as I remembered him, and we talked like we used to. Eventually, he stood to go. And this time, I said goodbye. And somehow, that moment gave me a sense of peace.
Was it some kind of supernatural gift—one last chance to say what I couldn’t three years before? Or was it just my mind, still grieving, finally giving me the closure I needed? I’ve asked myself that more times than I can count.
And while I may never know the truth, I like to believe it was the first.
Serious Saur Moment ~ For Chris
I met Chris back in middle school, not long after he moved to our town from Buffalo. One of the first things he ever said to me was, “Everyone talks funny around here.” I remember laughing and replying, “Around here, you’re the only one who talks funny.” That quick exchange set the tone for a friendship that would span years and miles.
When Chris eventually moved back to Buffalo, the distance didn’t change a thing. Not a week went by that we didn’t talk—whether it was endless AIM messages or phone calls, we always kept the connection alive.
Chris was the reason I started watching hockey. During my freshman year of college, I caught a few Sabres games, and every time I tuned in, they won. From then on, it became a tradition—he’d call or message before a game and ask, “You watching tonight?” If I said yes, he made sure I kept the TV on. He swore I was good luck. I’m not saying he was right… But I do remember they won more often than not when I was watching.
It was October of my senior year, and I was driving down Hillman Highway when my buddy Brad called with the news: Chris had passed. I pulled over at the railroad crossing, and the weight of it hit me all at once. I sat there in the car, completely shattered, crying until I couldn’t breathe.
A few days later, my buddy Colin and I made the long drive up to Buffalo. We were pallbearers—something I never thought I’d have to be at 22. Nothing prepares you for that. Carrying one of your best friends to his final resting place… it was the longest, heaviest walk of my life. For a long time, that moment haunted me.
But over the years, the memory has changed. Now, when I think of that day, it no longer ends in sorrow. That moment of overwhelming grief is quickly eclipsed by better ones: our laughs, our conversations, playing street hockey, and the list goes on. The sorrow still visits, but now it’s overshadowed by the good times.
After undergrad, I moved just a couple of hours south for grad school. One afternoon during my final year, I went out for a late lunch with a friend. I left my phone on my desk—this was before smartphones ruled our every move, and stepping away from your phone wasn’t a big deal.
When I got back to my room, I noticed I had a missed call. When I checked the log, I found it was from Chris. But that wasn’t the only strange part.
According to the log, there was a second call that lasted for over thirty minutes. That’s when my heart started to race. My phone had been sitting in my room the whole time, and my roommate was out of town. No one else had access to it. There was no possible way I could’ve been on a call, let alone for half an hour.
To this day, I still don’t know how to explain it. Some people say it was probably just a glitch, or maybe an old call resurfacing in the log. And maybe that’s true. But part of me wonders if it was something else—something beyond explanation. Something that wasn’t meant to make sense, just meant to be felt.
Grief, Loss, and Final Serious Saur Moment
I don’t think I’ll ever be seen as an expert on anything, especially not on something as complex as death, grief, or the paranormal. All I can offer is my experience. These events happened, even if the details are condensed here for the sake of the blog. While I do believe in the paranormal, I can’t say with certainty that what I went through was just that. What I can say is that it helped me.
One phrase I try to avoid with a loss is moving on. To me, moving on feels like leaving everything behind, as if the people and memories are no longer part of you.
My coaching mentor once told me, “You never defend a title. To defend implies it can be taken away. You don’t defend—you go after another.” I’ve carried that same approach into grief. When I lost Kevin and Chris, I didn’t want to feel like I was leaving them behind. Instead of moving on, I choose to carry on—because in carrying on, I carry them with me.
Final Thoughts
Thanks for stopping by! I hope you check out This Expanse of Eventually and connect with Ryan. If you’re an aspiring author, I hope Writing With Snoopy provided valuable insights. I’ll keep featuring spotlights and writing tips on the blog, so be sure to subscribe to discover incredible voices and follow my writing journey. Did you miss the last post? Click here ~ Harnessing New Platforms & Celebrating Authors and Creativity
Many authors draw from personal experiences, and today I’ve shared quite a few of mine. Opening up like this has not only been cathartic, but it’s also been a driving force behind my writing.
My book Just Friends was deeply inspired by real moments and people in my life. If you’re in the mood for a heartfelt, honest read, I’d love for you to check it out. Right now, all of my ebooks are on sale—ranging from $0.99 to $3.99. You can find them through the Amazon link below. And if you’d like a signed paperback, you can grab one directly from my Bookstore.
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