At the age of 42, I just finished the Mistborn Trilogy for the first time.

I actually finished it a day ago, and I’ve already read the ending twice. I stayed up late last night—until one in the morning—revisiting the last few chapters. And I have to say, it’s been a long time—a very long time—since a book made me feel this way.

I know Brandon Sanderson is one of the modern masters of fantasy, but even knowing that, I feel both deeply inspired and strangely depressed. When I finished the first book, I thought, that was how I thought the whole trilogy would end! I mean, it felt that epic. And I’m sure I’m not the only one who thought that. But Sanderson didn’t stop there—he went so much further.

By the time the trilogy ended, I had no idea it was going to be that epic, that sad, or that transformative.

It makes me think about my own books, of course—but I’m not here to compare my writing to his. That’s not what this is about. And it was never meant to be. I might be my own biggest fan (and honestly, you kind of have to be—you need to love your stories, your characters, your worlds… or why are you even doing this?). But this experience reminded me just how deeply a good story can wreck you.

Losing characters you’re emotionally attached to after only three books is… hard to explain. It’s like watching the final episode of a series you’ve been obsessed with for eight seasons. But books hit differently. There’s something about reading a story, imagining it all in your head, that makes it so much more personal.

We all know books are powerful. They take us into someone else’s mind, into someone else’s pain, and joy, and impossible choices.

But at the end of this trilogy, I felt small—not in a sad or meaningless way, but in the same way I felt when I took an astronomy class in college. Infinitely small… and yet still important. We’re all important in our own little worlds. But Sanderson reminded me how fantasy—good fantasy—can make you feel like a speck of stardust in the best possible way. And I honestly can’t remember the last time I read a fantasy that felt this fucking epic, that fully embodied the struggle of good versus evil on such a grand, emotional scale.

RA Salvatore’s Dark Elf Trilogy was one of the series that got me into fantasy in the first place. And now, Mistborn makes me feel—possibly for the first time since then—that same sense of wonder, of being changed by what I’ve read. I’m not even sure I want to read Sanderson’s Secret History about Mistborn. I’m scared it might spoil mysteries I don’t want answers to.

It honestly saddens me that I can’t reread it for the first time.

The story was so beautifully orchestrated. So well-thought-out. So perfectly plotted. It built to something immense—devastating, yes, but also earned. And now that it’s over, I’m just incredibly grateful that I have my own stories to return to. That I get to write worlds with meaning. Characters with bottomless emotions. Victories and losses that might one day hit someone as hard as this story hit me.

One of the strongest thoughts I had finishing the trilogy was something I heard at a writing conference when I first started out. It was from Dean Wesley Smith. He said something like:

“Being a writer is the best job in the world. You sit alone in a dark room, tell stories… and people pay you money for it.”

And now, I’m fired up. I’m more inspired than ever to finish my Song of the Ellydian series—and make it epic on a grand scale to make some readers feel what I’m feeling now.
So here I sit, caught in this fog of grieving, questioning, and yearning… waiting for the next great adventure from another great author to sweep me away.

What a time to be alive.