Most days, my work doesn’t look like a dramatic burst of inspiration.
It looks like quiet persistence.
It looks like rewriting a paragraph fifteen times until it feels emotionally true.
It looks like sitting with a scene until I understand what it’s really trying to say.
I work in layers.
First, the emotional truth.
Then the visual texture.
Then the rhythm of how it reads aloud—because I want my stories to feel lived-in, not just read.
I build my stories like rituals.
Not because I’m trying to be mystical, but because that’s how I stay grounded.
Tea. Music. A visual motif that reminds me what the story is about.
Sometimes it’s lace. Sometimes it’s glass shards.
Sometimes it’s the fox sigil that reminds me I’m still here.