A letter of self-criticism, personal reflection, and re-dedication of efforts:

I shall be honest - I am not the most keen of writers.

I write where my passions take me, and lately that passion has fallen by the wayside as I fight my own personal demons.

I have suffered by my own hands at my own naivete, my own foolishness, and my own laziness. I wrote my stories as I imagined them, fresh from the film of imagination, with the barest amount of pre-planning and rational thought. Characters are conjured and left to grow on their own, plots move after I have already written them, and schemes write themselves. All of these I perceive as my own faults, and plenty more that I know exist but cannot recall.

But what does this all mean? And what does it have to do with you, the person who is reading this wondering why all of the sudden, my plots ceased to advance? If you have no care to read my own anguish, I shall make it simple to understand.

I'm sorry.

I've been... preoccupied these past months.

I've stared at my old drafts more times than I care to count, yet I've never entered in a word.

My thoughts have often strayed to continuing the series. But I've always been afraid.

Afraid of judgement. Afraid of backlash.

I like my stories. I like my characters. I like my goal of representing the underrepresented.

I'm not going to blame the Russians. I'm not going to blame the fandom. I just blame myself.

No longer.

Well... that's out of the way. What happens next?

For certain? The series will continue.

Less certain? Regularity.

I ask you to be patient as I work on things anew. These stories have always been... a challenge, more so than any other work I've done. Research, fact-checking, plot-weaving and the like.

I value your patience. I value your criticism. Any will do. A voice in appreciation or dislike is better than no voice at all.

With thanks,

Curios.