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Post #6: My Muse Is a Liar and Other Comforting Truths
I met my muse in a bookstore. She drinks tea, questions everything, and has a habit of pointing out exactly what I’m avoiding. She tells the truth—just not always at the right time.
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Post #5: The Story Had Other Plans
What began as a tidy fantasy with obedient plot points quickly unraveled. Characters rebelled, villains became philosophical, and the story wandered far beyond my outline. Somewhere in that chaos, I realized the uncomfortable truth: sometimes the story knows more than the writer.
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Interlude IV – The Thinning
The ring surrendered entirely. Fragments hovered like shattered moons around a blazing heart. What once sealed the worlds apart now revealed the truth: the barrier had only ever been waiting to break.
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Interlude III – The Deep Tremor
The circle broke open in slow defiance. Stone lifted from stone, suspended above the widening glow. Between them, the Veil shuddered—a breath of power no longer willing to remain contained.
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Interlude II – The Hairline Crack
Hairline fractures traced the ancient ring, each crack whispering of distance between realms. Light seeped upward through the stone, thin as dawn, patient as something long waiting.
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Interlude I – The Still Ground
At first it was only a tremor— a quiet loosening beneath the world’s skin. The stones did not fall; they shifted, breathing light through their seams like a secret remembering itself.
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Post #4: From Someday to Manuscript
“Someday” is a comfortable place for a story to live. Safe. Untested. But eventually, I had to choose: keep imagining it—or write it. The moment I began was the moment everything changed.
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Post #3: Love Letters to the Story
I’ve started writing love letters again—not to people, but to stories. To the drafts that haunt and quietly save me. To the characters who resist my plans. Loving a story isn’t about control. It’s about devotion—especially when it refuses to behave.
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Post #2: Reading Calvino While Editing My Book
Reading If on a winter’s night a traveler while editing my own novel reminded me that stories don’t always want to behave. A reflection on Calvino, creative interruption, and what happens when a book teaches you how to keep writing—by refusing to be straightforward.
