How I Work

The writing journey

1. 

   Ideas

   My world didn't simply pop into my mind fully formed. It grew from a handful of ideas collected over time—ideas about magic, evil, living weapons, a hidden garden, and eventually a young woman named Emerald. They didn't begin as parts of the same story, but once they came together, nearly everything else grew from the questions they raised.

   Explore this stage: Ideas

   Inside this stage

   1. Collecting the Pieces

      I love thinking about the fantastic and the implications of those things. But I don’t always know what to do with those ideas.

      What if magic only appeared to be magic and was something else entirely?

      What if there were another Eden hidden somewhere in the modern world?

      What if a sword itself were alive? What would it do?

      For a while, these were merely interesting ideas to dwell on. But, at some point, I realized that many of those ideas fit together.

   2. Finding Emerald

      Emerald came after all of those ideas.

      And in a very different form: a dream.

      Someone I recognized as my boss told me to find Emerald. When I asked who she was, he said “You’ll know her when you see her.”

      As I searched a large auditorium, I passed many important figures. Leaders of every kind. Politicians. Corporate owners. Religious leaders. But none of them were Emerald.

      Then eventually, in an unassuming hallway, I found her: green eyes, green blouse, and emerald earrings.

      When I awoke, I knew little about her. But I needed to know more.

      She became the person around whom all of those earlier ideas gathered and took shape.

   3. Following the Questions

      Once those pieces began fitting together, they created more questions. If this hidden Garden exists, is it publicly known? Who protects it? What are they protecting it from? What rules govern the things that happen there?

      Answering one question tended to create several more. Following those questions is how a collection of unrelated ideas gradually became the foundation of The Verdant Chronicles.

   

   My actual notebook

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2. 

   Finding the Foundation

   Before I build the world, I need to know what it's built on. I establish some basic truths, decide which of them the story will explore, and figure out what my characters believe about them.

   Even if—or rather when—they’re wrong.

   Explore this stage: Finding the Foundation

   Inside this stage

   1. Establishing What Is True

      Before I figure out what the story can be, I need to establish some deeper assumptions about the world. By “truth,” I don't mean facts about its history or how things work. I mean the principles underneath it.

      What is good? What is evil? What is their relationship to each other?

      Who or what is truly important?

      I write these things down as foundational truths. From that point forward, they guide everything I build.

   2. Choosing What to Explore

      Knowing what’s true doesn’t tell me much about the direction of the story.

      From that foundation, I decide what ideas are worth exploring through each major character and the story as a whole. For The Verdant Chronicles, questions about identity, good and evil, sacrifice, redemption, and responsibility became central over time.

      I don’t want characters explaining these concepts to the reader. I’d much rather put the characters in situations where their beliefs have consequences and let you, the reader, decide what to make of what happens.

   3. Giving My Characters Something to Be Wrong About

      Themes become much more interesting when characters have to discover things for themselves.

      So I ask what my protagonist believes that simply isn’t true. What does she want because of that belief? How is that different from what she needs?

      And what would it take for her beliefs to change?

      For Emerald, those questions became part of her character arc. Other characters arrive with their own beliefs. Some are compatible. Others contradictory. Put those people together, and abstract ideas become something much more useful to a story: conflict.

      Once I know what my characters believe, I can build situations that test those beliefs.

3. 

   Worldbuilding

   Once I know the underlying ideas that make up a story’s foundation, I can start asking what kind of world grows from that.

   What is its history like? And then what would its culture be like?

   What are its people like?

   What laws and assumptions would shape their everyday lives?

   This is where the answers form into a lived-in setting.

   Explore this stage: Worldbuilding

   Inside this stage

   1. Establishing the Rules

      Even a fantastic world still needs rules.

      I need to know the difference between ordinary and extraordinary. And if someone can do something extraordinary, I need to know why. How are they able to do that thing? What’s the cost? What keeps it from being ordinary?

      I may never explain all of this to the reader, but I still need to know. Otherwise, the fantastic simply becomes an easy out for any problem I’ve written myself into.

   2. Following the Consequences

      Once I establish a rule, I try to follow it, wherever that leads.

      If something truly powerful exists, who knows about it? Or wants it? Or fears it?

      How has it affected history?

      The answers regularly create parts of the world I hadn’t originally planned.

   3. Building A Culturally Rich World

      A world isn’t merely its history or organizations or rules. Those are all things that reflect the people who live (or lived) there. I want to know what different groups or nations value, what they misunderstand, and how history has shaped them.

      Two people can inhabit the same world, country, or even street, and understand it very differently.

      Those perspectives—those differences—take the world from mere setting to a place that feels lived-in.

   4. Leaving Some Things Unsaid

      Just because I know something about the world doesn't mean the reader needs to be told about it.

      I want enough foundation under the story that the world is consistent for the reader. But explaining all of it would destroy the sense of mystery, and the world would become, well, boring.

      Often, it’s enough that I know the answers to some of these bigger questions and let the reader experience its effects.

      I think a world should feel bigger and more lived-in than what shows up on the page.

4. 

   Audience Alignment

   As a storyteller, I don’t want my story to merely exist. I want it to be experienced by someone.

   Before I commit too deeply, I ask whether the story I’m trying to build is actually the story my intended audience will enjoy.

   Explore this stage: Audience Alignment

   Inside this stage

   1. Defining the Reader

      I try to understand what kind of experience I’m trying to create and who is most likely to appreciate it.

      Different people enjoy different things.

      Some want action while others want political intrigue.

      Some want sprawling lore while others want deeply personal character stories.

      None of these preferences are wrong, but no individual story will reach everyone equally well.

   2. Testing Every Decision

      Every major decision raises another question:

      Would the people I'm writing for actually enjoy this?

      If a scene is slow, complicated, or emotionally heavy, I need to know why it's worth asking the reader to spend time with it.

   3. Cutting Ideas I Love

      One of the most painful things I’ve had to do as a writer is realize that characters, settings, or scenes don’t belong in my story.

      Sometimes an idea is interesting to me, but it slows the pacing to a crawl. Sometimes it simply isn't interesting to the people I'm writing for.

      Sometimes, entire chapters belong in another book entirely.

      I try not to confuse “I like this” with “this belongs here.”

   4. Keeping Promises

      Every story makes a kind of promise to its readers.

      Long before someone reaches Chapter One, the cover, title, and summary have already begun telling them what kind of story to expect. If I promise adventure, mystery, hope, or growth, I need to deliver those things honestly.

      My goal isn't to surprise readers by becoming a different kind of story halfway through. It's to reward the expectations the story itself creates.

5. 

   Story Architecture

   Once I know the kind of story I want to tell, the sort of world it will take place in, and for whom I will write, I can finally begin shaping the story itself.

   This is where all of the different ideas begin fitting together into something cohesive.

   Explore this stage: Story Architecture

   Inside this stage

   1. Finding the Beginning

      The beginning isn’t necessarily the first thing that happened. It’s where the reader can—and should—begin their journey.

      I look for the moment that introduces the central conflict and establishes the promises the story will keep.

      It is the stepping stone from which the protagonist will take their first, most meaningful steps.

   2. Building the Character Arc

      I already know what my protagonist believes, what she wants, and what she needs. Now I ask what would force her to challenge her beliefs and meaningfully change.

      Growth isn’t something I want to tell the reader about. It needs to be—and feel—earned through difficult choices and the consequences that follow.

   3. Giving Every Scene a Purpose

      Every scene should leave the story in a different place than it found it.

      Does it reveal character? Increase tension? Deepen relationships? Move the plot forward?

      Ideally, it needs to serve a greater purpose.

      If a scene isn’t changing something meaningful, I ask whether or not it belongs at all.

   4. Following Cause and Effect

      I don’t want major events to take place merely because I need the story to happen.

      Every meaningful decision should have a consequence which leads to the next challenge; a natural progression of events. Readers should feel that events couldn’t have happened any other way.

   5. Planning the Journey

      Before I write chapters, I determine the meaningful states my characters (and sometimes the world) move through.

      I ask where they begin, where they need to end, and what meaningful changes must happen between those points.

      That framework gives me enough structure to know where I'm going while leaving room to discover scenes and dialogue as I write.

   

   I refer to these internally as the chapter's starting and ending states.

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6. 

   Drafting

   Now that I have everything I need, I can finally begin writing.

   The first draft is going to be a flawed work. But this is the time to get the first pass onto the page.

   Explore this stage: Drafting

   Inside this stage

   1. Writing Imperfectly

      I don’t expect my first draft to be particularly good.

      It’s okay if it isn’t.

      I expect it to exist.

   2. Staying Flexible

      My outline provides guidelines. I’ll change their direction if I don’t like where they are. Or erase them and try again if that’s where the story takes me.

      It’s not as if those outlines are legally binding. But if I need to change them significantly, I might rewrite future chapters’ outlines before I continue.

   3. Listening for the Characters

      I know that heading sounds mystical, but I mean it the sense that I’m trying to keep the characters in character.

      I ask questions like “Is this actually how Emerald, given her background and all that has lead her to this point, would respond?”

      Or Tzuriel?

      Or The Caretaker?

      I try to keep who they are as characters in mind as I write a world that meets them where they are.

   4. Solving Problems Later

      When I’m drafting, I try to focus on simply writing what’s next.

      In my earliest writing, I kept stopping and rewording or even focusing on format.

      It’s now my habit to keep going until I reach the end of the segment or chapter.

      Fixing the problems comes later.

   

   Obsidian, where I spend most of my time.

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7. 

   Refinement

   Where the first draft is all about getting words onto the page, refinement is all about seeing what I actually wrote and putting it through the refinement process.

   For this, I try to set aside the storyteller in me, and instead approach my manuscript as a reader.

   Explore this stage: Refinement

   Inside this stage

   1. Challenging My Assumptions

      After I finish my initial draft of a chapter (or segment of a chapter), I’ll double back and read what I wrote.

      Whenever I notice something that feels off, I try to figure out why instead of rewriting immediately.

   2. Rewriting Without Attachment

      Refinement isn’t about getting all perfect in one go. Nor is it about protecting my first (or any) draft.

      It’s about protecting the story itself and delivering the best story I can make.

   3. Repeated Revision

      Refinement comes in the form of many revisions.

      On one pass, I might check against my Theming document and pacing.

      On another, I might check the technicals of my prose.

      On yet another, I might check for continuity.

      Every step shapes and reshapes the chapter until it fits where it ought.

   4. Reading With Fresh Eyes

      Days—or even weeks—later, after there’s distance between when I wrote and when I revisit, I’ll read again.

      Out loud, more often than not.

      It let’s me challenge myself in fresh ways.

   

   Not all of the changes I make in my manuscripts are large.

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8. 

   Critique

   No author experiences their own story the same way a reader does.

   Eventually, the manuscript has to leave my hands and meet people who have no idea what I intended. That's where I discover whether the story on the page is actually the story I thought I wrote.

   Explore this stage: Critique

   Inside this stage

   1. Finding Blind Spots

      After reading the same chapters dozens of times, I stop noticing things that would immediately stand out to someone encountering the story for the first time.

      That's where critique becomes invaluable. Sometimes I simply need another set of eyes.

   2. Listening Before Defending

      A wise friend once told me “Even bad news is good news to know.”

      The most valuable critiques I’ve gotten were uncomfortable to hear. So before I respond with anything else, I ask what they meant. It gives my work a better chance to be the best it can be.

      “Oof” —Me

   3. Testing Against Real Readers

      My alpha and beta readers help me answer questions I can't answer myself.

      Were they confused where I expected clarity?

      Were they bored where I expected tension?

      Did they notice themes I never intended—or completely miss ones I thought were obvious?

   4. Deciding What to Change

      I don’t just do everything my alpha and beta readers suggest. But I DO take everything they say seriously.

      I do this because, even if what they say to do isn’t quite right, why they’re saying it probably is.

      I can’t satisfy every reader, but taking in their feedback helps me decide what ought to change.

   

   Some valuable feedback I got from my alpha readers

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   A critique I got for a segment I had written

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