This space is mine—and now, it’s yours too.

Ink. Teeth. Firelight. Welcome home. Stay a while. I’d love to hear your stories too.

I’ve been working on ways to better connect with you. It’s easy to rattle off stats about myself: born and raised in Queens, NY. INTJ. Enneagram 1 wing 9. AUDHD. A ginger. Gender fluid. Pansexual. There are more keywords and metadata that could be tagged onto “Sloane Sabel.” But what does that really tell you?

This space will be a haven for creative, reflective, and raw discourse. I write what I know, after all—and what I know best is my own life. So, in a rare instance of being linear, let’s start at the top.

Who is Sloane Sabel?
Sloane Sabel is a pen name. 

Sloane was an easy choice: genderless, strong. It traces back to Celtic roots meaning warrior, among other things. Sabel is a respelling of Sable, referring to the luxurious dark fur or the color black—symbols of elegance and mystery. Together, they’re meant to blend strength with sophistication.

For me, this name is a mask from which I can share the most intimate, fractured pieces of myself. Sloane is the place where I can speak without hesitation or fear, so I can write for the haunted-hearted—for anyone who’s ever kissed a ghost and hoped it bit back. My stories are for broken people finding firelight, with monsters and the horror of living sitting at their side. We don’t shy away from our shadow parts—and we don’t rush to heal them either. We embrace them.

What I'll be sharing:

You’ll get the behind-the-scenes content authors love to share: inspiration for scenes, plots, characters, “deleted” moments, and more. We’ll dabble in the occult and witchiness. Cats, of course. And I’ll also be sharing some raw, unadulterated moments of grief, healing, obsession, and pain. The plan is to veer from the polished and spotlight the heart of the matter. I’ll include trigger warnings before each post—just as I do with my books.

I hope you find something here that snarls when you touch it. That means it’s alive. 

To unlock the rest of the posts simply join the Ink & Ash tier.

Its free. Always. 

Join the Dastardly Darling Discord server HERE!

I owe you an apology. I made the Darling Discord server quite a while ago… but I kept putting off opening it up to everyone.

The truth? I was nervous. I’m not very well-versed in Discord, and I worried about messing it up — about it being too small, too quiet, too much of a failure before it ever really began.

But we’re being raw here now. So I’m stepping out of my own way — even if just for a moment.

The server is a little bare bones for now, but I’m absolutely open to your ideas and suggestions for growing it into something we’re all proud of. My goal is to build a soft, safe space where we can talk books, life, and all the strange, shadowy beauty in between.

No bigotry, no homophobia, no racism — none of that will be tolerated here. This is a space for everyone to feel seen and welcome.

I’ll be checking in daily on you, my darlings. I can’t wait to see how we grow together.

⚠️ Trigger Warnings:

• Childhood trauma

• Parental abuse (implied corporal punishment)

• Dysfunctional parent-child relationships

• Emotional distress

• Alcohol abuse (by a parent)

• Generational trauma

• Mentions of physical punishment

• Grief for a living parent
  

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  I never expected a concert to heal some of my childhood trauma, but here we are.

  Last night, I got to see Metallica. I’d bought the tickets a year in advance, had been anticipating it the whole time—and they did not disappoint. The whole setup turned it into a true experience. Nostalgia punched me in the face. And then the devastation hit like a tornado. I stifled a wail as tears welled in my eyes. All I could think about was how badly I wished my dad could be there. I self-soothed with butterfly pats until the overwhelming release worked its way out of my body. After that, I had a wide smile glued to my face.

  For context: my dad is very much alive. Our relationship has always been strained. Generational trauma pummeled him, and when he stood before his children, he chose to pummel them with it. Yay.

  Standing there in blinding lights and sporadic fire while the bass set the rhythm of my heartbeat, I realized not only how much joy Metallica’s music brought me, but how deeply that joy was tied to my father.

  He was a metalhead. My childhood was filled with Pantera, Judas Priest, Mötley Crüe, Metallica, and more. When the bass rattled the house, we knew three things: Dad was home, drunk, and happy. We were raised to be seen and not heard, so we listened to the music from the safety of our rooms. Long car rides meant entire albums—on cassette. Whenever I think of our camping trips, I can’t help but remember the Allman Brothers and Metallica filling the silence between trees.

  I hadn’t realized until that moment that this music was one of my favorite parts of my father. Heavy metal meant peace. A time of mild safety. It soothed the parts of me that held fear—fear of his voice, his presence, his affection paired with corporal punishment.

  My father introduced me to metal—to the lifestyle, to the community, to the ideals held by those who scream and thrash and mosh and headbang. He may not have understood it. He may not have lived it. But he lit the spark that burned through me—and no amount of punishment, silence, or years could ever put it out. The flame still lives, screaming in every riff, echoing in my bones.