The Writing Life Nobody Talks About

There's a version of the writing life that looks very appealing from the outside.

The author at a sun-filled desk, hot tea steaming nearby, words flowing onto the page with quiet purpose. Book covers lined up on the wall and a copy of each published book on a shelf behind them. A calendar marked with signing events and speaking engagements and the occasional literary lunch. It's a tidy little picture. It's also only about 10% of the actual experience.

The rest of it is something else entirely. They're the parts that don't make it into the author bio or the back flap photo, but they're every bit as important.

I've been writing novels for over two decades now and have more than 25 published books, with well over a half-million copies in print. And I can tell you with complete honesty that the writing life has been one of the most rewarding, most frustrating, most humbling, most surprising experiences of my entire existence. Sometimes all four of those things in the same afternoon!

The Long Silences

What nobody tells you about publishing a book is how much waiting is involved.

You write the manuscript, which takes months, sometimes longer. Then you wait to hear back from your editor. Then you revise, and wait again. Then the book goes into production, and you wait some more. By the time the book is actually in a reader's hands, you have often been living with that story for the better part of two years. You know every scene, every character beat, every line of dialogue so well that you can barely read it anymore with any objectivity at all.

And then the book releases, and the world moves on to the next thing fairly quickly, and you are already supposed to be well into writing the next one.

There are also the longer silences. The seasons when the books stop coming because life demanded something else of you. I've written about my own long season away from fiction before, and the complicated feelings that came with it. What I'll add here is the silence doesn't mean the writer in you has gone anywhere. It's just waiting for the conditions to change. And eventually, they do.

The Doubt That Doesn't Announce Itself

If you talk to any author or watch interviews that dig a little deeper into the less public side of a writer's life, you'll hear us admit that doubt is a near-constant companion in this work.

This isn't the kind that makes for a good story at a conference panel. No, this is the quiet, persistent, everyday kind. The manuscript that felt promising three weeks ago now feels flat and unconvincing. The scene you revised four times still isn't right and you're not sure it ever will be. The book you poured yourself into sits on a shelf somewhere, and you have no way of knowing whether it reached the person who needed it or just took up space and is now collecting dust.

Unfortunately, that kind of doubt doesn't resolve cleanly. It's just part of the landscape. You learn to write alongside it rather than waiting for it to go away, because to be honest? It never really goes away. You just get better at not letting it in the driver's seat.

The Joy That's Harder to Explain

Now, just to make sure I'm not all Debbie-downer today, I'll wrap up with the good stuff, even if it's something non-writers might struggle to understand.

There is something that happens when a story finally comes together. When a scene clicks into place, when a character does something that surprises you, when you read back a paragraph and think, yes, that's exactly right! It's a bit challenging to describe that to someone who hasn't experienced it, though. I see it something like discovery and realization. Like you've managed to catch something true and hold it still long enough to put it on the page.

That feeling is why the doubt doesn't win. It's why the long silences eventually end. It's why, after the waiting and the uncertainty and the seasons when the words wouldn't come, I sat back down and started writing again.

Oh, and every now and then, I also get letters. Not often anymore, but often enough. A reader who found something in one of my stories that met them in the middle of something hard. A note from someone who says a particular character helped them understand something about themselves that no one else had articulated. Those letters remind me that the work isn't just for me. That the long hours and the quiet doubt and the waiting are part of something that matters beyond the shelf life of any single book.

The writing life is harder than it looks. But despite all the craziness? I wouldn't trade a single bit of it.

What's something about your own work or creative life that looks different from the outside than it feels on the inside? I'd love to hear what's behind the curtain for you in the comments.

Chincoteague: The Island That Keeps Calling Me Back

There are places you visit, and there are places that claim you.

Chincoteague Island claimed me a long time ago, long before I understood how deeply it was woven into my family's story.

My connection to this small barrier island off the coast of Virginia didn't start with a research trip. It started with family. There's this unique kind of belonging that settles into your bones when a place is part of where you come from, not just somewhere you've been.

I grew up hearing about Chincoteague the way some families talk about a hometown. The clams and oysters. Shopping on Main Street. Taking a boat out to bird watch. And of course, the famous annual Wild Pony Swim to thin out the herd on neighboring Assateague Island. In the stories, I heard a mixture of affection and familiarity and something that feels almost like ownership.

As a child, limited perspectives frame the experiences, and I always recalled the wonder and excitement of visiting the island, mainly because my grandfather was born there. But there were so many fun things to do and see as well. When I returned as an adult with fresh eyes and a writer's attention, it was like meeting someone I already knew.

What the Island Feels Like

Chincoteague moves at its own pace, and no one apologizes for that. I don't think they should, either. That pace is hard-wired into what makes the island unique.

The rhythm there is tied to the water, for the most part. To the tides that shift the light on the marshes twice a day, to the fishing boats that head out before most visitors are awake, to the particular quality of silence that settles over the harbor in the early morning before the island fully rouses itself.

It's the kind of place where you notice things you'd walk right past anywhere else. The weathered paint on a waterfront building. The way the tall grass bends in the marsh wind. The sound of gulls announcing the morning with more enthusiasm and excited flare than necessary.

I've stood on that waterfront in the early hours with a notebook in hand, writing down details I didn't want to lose. At the time, I had no idea where they'd go, but I did know they needed to be kept.

That's what Chincoteague does. In its own quiet, charming way, it insists you pay attention to it.

Why I Decided to Put It in My Fiction

A place that holds personal history and sensory richness in equal measure is almost impossible to keep out of your writing. Chincoteague has found its way into my storytelling time and time again. In recent writing, I decided to take the stories to a full novel.

The story I'm working on now is set against that marshy background and small-town life where everyone carries a longer history with each other than they always let on. Chincoteague understands that quite well. Small communities have long memories. Relationships there carry weight and texture that a larger, more transient place doesn't accumulate in quite the same way.

For a novelist writing about two people with a complicated shared past, that kind of setting is pressure. It's context. It's a place that remembers things even when the characters would rather it didn't.

That has potential to be endlessly useful as a writer, and it's story progression gold when you need it most.

What Keeps Drawing Me Back

If I'm being honest, it's not just the writing that pulls me back to Chincoteague.

It's the feeling of standing somewhere that connects me to people and a history that existed long before I did. Given that I moved 9 times by the time I was 14 years old, and then 4 years later, continued to add to my list of moves by racking up another 9 that included 4 different states over the next 32 years, I can't exactly define my life by a single place I've called home.

There's something grounding about having that, though, especially in seasons when everything else feels uncertain or in motion. The island was there before me and will be there long after, doing exactly what it has always done. Rising with the tides, weathering the storms, going quietly about its own business in its unhurried way.

For a person of faith, there's something almost theological in that. A reminder that the world is larger and older than my particular corner of it, and there is steadiness to be found in places that have endured.

I'll keep going back. And I have a feeling the island will keep finding its way into my stories for a long time to come.

Is there a place that has pulled you back again and again? Somewhere that holds something special, just for you? I'd love to hear about it in the comments.

Faith in Fiction: How I Write What I Believe Without Preaching It

"Any amount of theology can now be smuggled into people's minds under cover of romance [fiction] without their knowing it." ~ C.S. Lewis

I've been asked more than once how I keep faith from feeling forced in my novels.

That's a fair question. Anyone who reads broadly in the inspirational fiction genre has probably encountered both ends of the spectrum. You have the story where faith is woven in so naturally you barely notice the seams. Then, there's the story where a character delivers what amounts to a theological treatise in the middle of what was supposed to be an emotionally charged scene.

The second kind pulls you right out of the story. It reminds you of the author behind the curtain with a message to deliver, and suddenly you're no longer living inside the narrative. You're being instructed by it. This aligns with a common bit of advice: Show, don't tell. That second kind? It's telling, not showing.

That's not what I want to write. It's never been what I want to write. And I try hard not to write it.

But I also don't want to scrub faith out of my stories entirely, because it's genuinely part of how I see the world. It shapes how I understand people, why they make the choices they make, what they're really looking for underneath the surface desire or conflict. Removing it entirely would be like trying to write without a moral compass at all. While that's technically possible, it would produce something that doesn't actually sound like me.

So how do you write what you believe without turning your novel into a sermon?

Starting With People, Not Lessons

Sometimes, when in the beginning stages of writing a new story, it's tempting to start with the theme I want to explore or the spiritual truth I hope a reader takes away. But that will almost always lead to preaching or narrative instruction. 

No. To avoid that, you start with the people. The ones who are broken, contradictory, wanting things they can't quite name, afraid of things they won't quite admit.

Real human beings, even fictional ones, are complicated. They don't move through life collecting tidy lessons. They stumble into grace sideways. They resist the very thing that would help them. They sometimes do the right thing for the wrong reason and the wrong thing out of genuine love.

When I start there, with characters who feel true, the faith elements find their natural place in the story. A character wrestling with whether she can forgive someone who hurt her isn't a vehicle for a lesson on forgiveness. She's a person in pain, and the question of forgiveness is simply part of what that pain demands of her. The reader doesn't feel preached at because I'm not preaching. I'm just following this woman through something hard and letting the story ask the question without forcing the answer.

What Faith Actually Looks Like in a Story

In practice, this means faith in my novels tends to show up the way it shows up in real life. Quietly, imperfectly, and usually smack dab in the middle of something difficult.

It looks like a character who prays and doesn't get the answer she wanted. Or someone who grew up in the church and still isn't sure what he believes anymore. It looks like a moment of unexpected grace that a character almost misses because she's too busy being angry. And it also looks like doubt that doesn't get neatly resolved by the final chapter, because some doubt doesn't resolve that quickly and readers know that.

It won't look like a character who exists primarily to speak truth into another character's life at convenient narrative moments. And it doesn't look like a crisis of faith that gets wrapped up in a single conversation. It also won't have a redemption that costs nothing.

The faith that resonates in fiction is the faith that has been tested by something real. And the only way to write that honestly is to let the characters be tested by something real first.

Why It Matters to Get This Right

I write inspirational fiction because I believe story is one of the most powerful ways truth travels. Not truth shouted for all to hear. Lived truth. The kind that sneaks past your defenses because you're invested in a character and you feel what they feel before you've had a chance to decide whether you agree with the premise.

A heavy-handed faith narrative can do more damage than good. It can make readers feel manipulated, or confirm the suspicion that Christian fiction is more interested in delivering a message than telling a real story. I don't want to contribute to that.

Instead, I want a reader to finish one of my books and feel something true. Maybe something they couldn't have articulated before they read it. Maybe something they needed to feel without knowing they needed it.

If the faith in the story helped carry them there without announcing itself along the way, then I've done my job.

So, have you ever read a book where the faith element felt completely natural? How about one where it felt forced and pulled you out of the story? What made the difference? I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

Two Purloined Pillows by Allie Pleiter: Spotlighting a Friend

Some books arrive at exactly the right moment.

I've known Allie Pleiter for years through ACFW and our writing journeys. Last time we chatted, I think we counted at least 20 years! If you've spent any time in the Christian fiction community, you probably know her too — or at least you know her work. She's the kind of author who brings genuine warmth and wit to everything she writes, and her newest release is no exception.

Two Purloined Pillows is Book 2 in the Nimble Needle Mystery series, and I'm excited to help spread the word on release day.

About the Book

Shelby Phillips never planned to stay in her small hometown outside Asheville, North Carolina. She came back to manage her mother's needlepoint shop temporarily, after an office romance and career implosion sent her life in an unexpected direction. More than a year later, she's still there — and still finding herself tangled up in things that go far beyond needlepoint.

This time, Shelby is overseeing two well-known designers participating in the town's first arts festival. Both have created one-of-a-kind pillows set to headline the festival auction. Both pillows disappear amid a string of shoplifting incidents. And the two designers couldn't be more different — one wound tight with anxiety, the other an egomaniac who's convinced his rival has been stealing his customers for years.

When one of them collapses and dies at the auction dinner, what started as a festival headache becomes something far more serious.

If you haven't started this series yet, you should begin with Book 1: One Sharp Stitch. But if you're already a Shelby Phillips fan, you already know what you're getting into, and you're definitely going to want this one.

Why I'm Recommending It

Allie has a gift for building small-town worlds that feel genuinely lived-in, populating them with characters who are funny and flawed and deeply human, and layering in just enough mystery to keep you turning pages well past when you intended to stop.

For book 2, we return to the unique setting of the Nimble Needle and the small southern town near Asheville, NC, where Shelby is managing the shop. Once again, she gathers her ragtag team of family and friends with a little more of that romance from book 1 thrown in. And in addition to the reader-favorite cozy mystery tropes, there's some unique twists you won't see coming.

The clues — and even a few red herrings — are plentiful, but the variety of quirky characters like the NYAGs provide most of the entertainment. I'm not going to spoil anything for you, though. You have to read the book yourself to find out more.

A needlepoint shop. A pillow that disappeared. An arts festival gone sideways. Poison. A needlepoint rivalry. A killer still unaccounted for. This is another fantastic Allie Pleiter story, and that's why you should pick up this book today!

Where to Find It

You can find Two Purloined Pillows at Amazon and Barnes & Noble, as well as wherever books are sold, and you can learn more about Allie and her work at alliepleiter.com. You can also connect with her on Facebook, Instagram and LinkedIn.

If you pick it up, come back and tell me what you thought. And if you've already read Book 1, I'd love to hear how you think the series is shaping up.

Have you read anything by Allie Pleiter before? Are you a fan of cozy mysteries set in small towns with a little heart woven in? Tell me your favorites in the comments. I'm always looking for the next great read.

The Detail That Changes Everything

I keep a notebook with me almost everywhere I go.

Not a fancy one. It's usually something small enough to fit in a bag without taking up much space, with a pen clipped to the cover that I will inevitably lose and replace three or four times before the notebook itself is full. The system is imperfect, but it works.

What do I put in that notebook? Details. Small, specific, sensory details that catch my attention in the moment and would be gone entirely by the time I got home if I didn't write them down.

The sound a screen door makes in a house that's been standing for fifty years. The way late afternoon light falls differently on water than it does on land. The particular smell of a marina at low tide. The faded lettering on the side of a boat that someone painted by hand, decades ago, and never repainted.

None of those things feel important when I'm writing them down. They feel like simple observations. But months later, when I'm sitting in front of a manuscript and trying to make a scene feel real, I open that notebook and suddenly I'm not inventing anymore. I'm remembering.

Why Being Specific Works

It's tempting, when writing a setting or a sensory moment, to reach for the general. The water was beautiful. The old building had character. The town felt like a place where everyone knew each other. Those sentences aren't wrong, exactly. They just don't do much work. These days, they're often considered "cliche" because of overuse.

A reader's imagination needs something to grip. The green of water that's shifting from morning gray to afternoon blue as the sun climbs, the crack in the plaster above the door that someone patched and painted over but never quite fixed. Give it something specific, and suddenly the imagination has traction. It can build around that detail. It can inhabit the space.

The specific detail does something else, too. It shows and proves the author has actually been somewhere, seen something, paid attention. It builds a kind of trust. And once a reader trusts you, they'll follow you almost anywhere.

The Details You Don't Plan

Some of the most useful details I've ever worked into a scene weren't ones I went looking for. They were ones that showed up unexpectedly during a research trip or an ordinary afternoon and lodged themselves somewhere in my memory before I fully understood why.

On my trip to Chincoteague, I remember standing on a dock early one morning before most of the island was awake. The boats rocked in the harbor and the rigging tapped against the masts in a rhythm that was almost musical. I wrote it down without knowing which story it belonged to. I just knew it was the kind of thing that belonged somewhere.

It found its place eventually. Details like that usually do. They wait.

That's one of the things I've come to love about keeping the notebook. It's a collection of moments that haven't found their story yet. Some of them will. Some of them will sit in there indefinitely, and that's fine too. The act of noticing them and writing them down keeps the observational part of my brain active in a way that benefits everything I write, whether or not any specific detail ever makes it onto a published page.

I also transfer those notes to files on my computer to make them much easier to find when I need them. Otherwise, I'd be flipping through that notebook and wasting precious writing time.

The Detail as a Window Into Character

Here's one more thing I've learned about specific details: they don't just build setting. They reveal character.

What a person notices in a room tells you something about who they are. A character who walks into an unfamiliar kitchen and immediately clocks the stack of unopened mail on the counter is different from one who notices the handwritten recipe card taped inside the cabinet door. Same kitchen. Completely different people. The detail becomes a lens, and what a character sees through that lens tells the reader something they couldn't learn from backstory alone.

That's when a small, specific observation stops being atmosphere and becomes story. And that's when I know I've found the right detail. It goes beyond making the scene feel real and makes it mean something.

Is there a small, specific detail from your own life (a smell, a sound, a sight) that you've never been able to forget? Something that takes you right back to a particular moment or place? I'd love to hear it in the comments.

When the Story Stalls: What I Do When the Words Won't Come

There's a particular kind of quiet that settles over a writing session gone wrong.

It's not the peaceful quiet of early morning before the house wakes up or the silence of the late night after everyone is tucked in bed. The kind where ideas surface easily and the words seem to know where they're going.

No, this. This is the other kind. The kind where I've been staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes and the cursor hasn't moved, and I'm starting to wonder if maybe I should go reorganize a kitchen cabinet instead.

Every writer knows that quiet. Nobody talks about it enough.

I've lived through several versions of it over the years. The short kind, where a scene simply isn't cooperating and a good night's sleep resets everything. The longer kind, where weeks pass and the manuscript sits untouched and the guilt about the manuscript sitting untouched somehow makes it harder to open. And the longest kind. The season I've written about recently here, when life demanded everything I had and the creative well went completely dry for a stretch of years.

They're not all the same problem, and they don't all have the same solution.

When the Scene Is the Problem

Sometimes the stall is right in the manuscript I'm writing. One scene, one chapter, one conversation between characters that refuses to come together. When that's what's happening, I've learned that pushing harder rarely helps. Staring at a stuck scene with increasing frustration is a bit like pressing harder on a key that won't turn. Eventually something gives, but it's usually not the lock.

For stuck scenes, I've learned to step back and ask whether the scene is stuck because I'm writing it wrong or because it shouldn't exist at all. Those are two very different problems. A scene written from the wrong point of view, or entered at the wrong moment, or carrying too much expository weight will resist you. But sometimes a scene stalls because some part of you already knows it doesn't belong in the story. It's just taking a while for your conscious mind to catch up.

I've deleted entire chapters that I worked on for days once I finally admitted that's what was happening. It's never a comfortable moment. But the story always moves more freely afterward. And don't worry. Those deleted chapters are never permanently deleted. I've almost always found use for them somewhere else, in some other story or book. Nothing written is ever wasted. It's simply repurposed.

When the Writer Is the Problem

Other times the stall has nothing to do with the manuscript itself. Life is loud, or heavy, or simply full in a way that leaves nothing left over for fiction. The creative part of my brain requires a certain amount of margin to function, and when that margin disappears, when every hour is spoken for and every emotional reserve is already committed somewhere else, the words stop coming. The story isn't broken. I'm just temporarily running on empty.

That's a harder stall to work through, because the solution isn't craft-related. You can't outline your way out of depletion. Sometimes the most honest thing a writer can do is set the manuscript down without guilt and tend to whatever is actually demanding attention. The story will still be there.

I've had to learn that lesson more than once. And no matter how often it happens, it doesn't come naturally to me.

What Actually Helps

When I'm stuck and the cause isn't immediately obvious, a few things have helped me find my way back.

Reading almost always helps. Not reading about writing, though. Just reading fiction I love (the kind that reminds me why stories matter) rekindles something in me that a stuck manuscript can temporarily extinguish. There's something about immersing in someone else's well-crafted world that loosens whatever has tightened up in my own.

Getting away from the desk helps too. Some of my best breakthroughs on a stubborn scene have happened in the car, or on a walk, or in that half-awake space just before sleep. That's why I keep a notepad and pen by my bed, in the car, and in various places around the house. I also learned how to quickly access my voice recording on my phone for when inspiration strikes. The brain keeps working on the problem even when you stop forcing it to produce. Giving it room to do that quietly is sometimes all it needs.

And occasionally, what helps most is simply lowering the stakes for a session. Instead of sitting down to write the scene, I'll write around it.

• Journal from a character's perspective.
• Draft a scene that will probably never appear in the book but helps me understand something about where they are emotionally.
• Take the pressure of the actual manuscript off for an hour and let myself write badly and freely.

All of this helps me remember that words still come when I'm not gripping them so tightly. The story always comes back. That's the thing I keep having to remind myself in the middle of a stall. It always comes back.

When you're stuck on something hard, whether it be a project, a decision, or a difficult conversation, what gets you unstuck? Is it pushing through, stepping away, or something else entirely? I'd love to hear your approach in the comments.

What I Learned from the Books I Didn't Finish

 

I have a small confession to make.

There are books on my shelf with bookmarks still in them. And it's because I stopped on purpose and never went back. Do you have any of those? Maybe they're not even on your shelf. Maybe you returned them, sold them at a yard sale, gave them to someone else, or donated them to a thrift shop. I've done the same thing with a lot of books. And now, there are only two I never finished reading. I just haven't decided what to do with them. The rest are gone, off to entertain someone else or possibly become a paperweight or doorstopper.

As a novelist, I used to feel guilty about that. Shouldn't I, of all people, extend more grace to a fellow author's work? Shouldn't I push through to the end? Perhaps. But somewhere along the way I made peace with the fact that an unfinished book is actually information for me as a reader. And some of the most valuable craft lessons I've absorbed haven't come from the books I loved, but from the ones I quietly set down and never picked back up.

When the Connection Breaks

For me, it almost always comes down to character. If I don't care what happens to the person at the center of the story, the plot eventually stops mattering. Tension without emotional investment is just noise. I can admire beautiful writing, an intricate mystery, or a fascinating historical backdrop and still find myself not caring enough to turn the page if the character hasn't made me feel something.

That realization changed the way I write.

I became more aware, early in a manuscript, of whether I was giving readers a reason to care before I gave them a reason to keep reading. Those aren't always the same thing. A gripping opening scene can pull someone in, but it's the character's interior life and relatability that makes them stay. The small moment of vulnerability. The thing they want that they'd never admit out loud. The contradiction between who they appear to be and who they actually are when no one is watching.

When I find myself skimming in someone else's book, I've learned to stop and ask why. Usually the answer points me toward something I need to pay more attention to in my own work.

Pacing and the Reader's Patience

The other thing that loses me is pacing. Like when a story asks me to wait longer than I'm willing to wait for something meaningful to happen.

There's a difference between a slow burn and a story that has simply lost its momentum. A slow burn still makes progress. There's still tension simmering beneath the surface, still a sense that something is building even in the quiet scenes. When that tension disappears entirely and scene after scene feels like it's marking time, I start to feel it as a reader. And once I start feeling the length of a book rather than the pull of it, I'm ready to toss it away.

I try to keep that foremost in my mind with my own writing. Every scene needs to be doing at least two things at once. Moving plot forward, deepening character, raising a question, or answering one. A scene that exists only to fill space between more important scenes is a scene that should probably get deleted.

What the Unfinished Books Gave Me

A book that loses you is still teaching you something, if you're paying attention.

It's teaching you what you value as a reader. What you're willing to forgive and what you're not. Where your patience ends. What kind of character earns your loyalty and what kind of story keeps you coming back after you've set it down for the night.

Those are exactly the questions a novelist needs to know the answers to. Not in the abstract, but personally and specifically. Because the books we write are, in some way, always written toward the reader we are. The books I didn't finish helped me understand that reader better than almost anything else.

Have you ever put a book down and never gone back? What was it that lost you? The characters, the pacing, something else entirely? I'd love to hear about it in the comments.

The Characters Who Won't Let You Go

There's a character sitting in the back of my mind right now who has been there for years.

She showed up long before I knew her full name, long before I understood what she wanted or what fears she had. She arrived as a feeling more than a person. A particular kind of quiet. A way of standing at the edge of a room and watching everything without quite belonging to any of it.

I didn't know what to do with her at first. Life had me shackled at the time to the demands of what was right in front of me. I didn't have the luxury of discovering who she was. So, I waited.

Writers talk a lot about the craft of building characters. About using personality profiles, backstory worksheets, goals exploration, motivation charts, and potential conflicts. Those tools have their place. But the characters who end up mattering most rarely arrive fully assembled. They show up in bits and pieces. A gesture. A voice. The wound that hasn't been named yet. And then they wait, sometimes patiently and sometimes not, for the story that finally fits them.

That's the part of writing nobody warns you about. I can't remember when I didn't have stories running through my head all the time. It's why I frequently embellished the truth when I reported what happened to others. Little did I know then the tiny seeds growing would lead to me one day creating characters for stories in real life. There was only one problem. Characters don't always stay where you put them.

When They Start Talking Back

Some of the most memorable people I've written have surprised me somewhere in the middle of a manuscript. I'll be moving a scene along, following the outline, doing what a responsible author does. Then, all of a sudden, a character will say or do something I didn't plan, and everything shifts. A piece of their past surfaces that I hadn't consciously invented. A reaction that reveals something deeper than I knew was there.

I used to find that unsettling. After all, these were supposed to be fictional characters. Made up. Not real. How in the world could something happen that I didn't expect? Wasn't I the writer? The creator? After spending time with other writers, I realized it was completely normal. Now I find it one of the most exciting parts of the process.

It's a sign that the character has become real enough to push back. That they're no longer just a role I've assigned but a person I'm discovering. When that happens, I've learned to stop and pay attention, even if it means setting the outline aside for a bit to follow where they're leading. Sometimes, that means stitching an unplanned scene together with the rest of the story.

The two central characters in my current work-in-progress did exactly that.

I thought I understood them when I started. I knew where they'd come from, what had gone wrong between them, what this story would ultimately ask of them. But as the manuscript has taken shape, both of them have revealed things about themselves that changed how I see the entire story. One of them, in particular, carries a specific kind of grief I hadn't fully accounted for. Once I saw it, I couldn't unsee it, and I had to go back and layer it in from the beginning.

That's the thing about characters that jump off the page. They don't let you off easy.

The Ones Who Stay

I've also noticed that the characters who take the longest to write are often the ones who linger longest after the book is finished.

There's something about sitting with a character through their whole arc that creates a special kind of bond. From the broken place where they start to the hard-won place where they land. By the time a manuscript is done, I know these people in the same way you know someone you've watched get past a struggle. You've seen what they're like at their worst. You've been there for the quiet moment when getting beyond the pain finally begins.

Readers sometimes ask if I miss my characters when a book is finished. Honestly? Yes. Some of them more than others. The ones who gave me the most trouble on the page are often the ones I think about afterward. As if working through their story somehow worked through something in me, too.

Maybe that's why I keep writing.

Have you ever had a character from a book who stayed with you long after the story ended? Who were they, and what was it about them that wouldn't let you go? Tell me in the comments.

The Research Trip That Still Lives in My Head

Writers tend to collect experiences the way some people collect souvenirs.

A certain street corner. The smell of saltwater on the wind. The creak of wooden boards beneath your feet as you walk along a dock. Those details linger long after the trip ends, waiting for the moment when they can find their way into a story. It's probably why I'm more of an experience gal than a "stuff" gal.

One of the research trips that still lives vividly in my mind took me to a coastal town where the rhythm of life seemed tied to the tides. Fishing boats rocked gently in the harbor, and the air carried that unmistakable mix of salt and sun-warmed wood. So many of the sights and sounds took me back to my childhood, when I visited this little island and first learned about my family ties to it.

This time, I reserved a room at a quaint little B&B for two nights. I remember walking along the waterfront early one morning before most of the town had fully woken up. A few shopkeepers were opening their doors on Main Street, and gulls wheeled overhead, their squawks announcing the start of the day like a rooster's crow. Oh, there were a few of those too.

Moments like that are gold for a novelist.

Writers tend to notice things others might otherwise overlook. The color of the water shifting as the sun climbs higher, the way the breeze carries voices across the docks, the quiet conversations between locals who have known each other for years.

Research trips aren't always about gathering facts. Sometimes they’re about absorbing atmosphere.

On that particular visit, I carried a small notebook with me and jotted down details whenever something caught my attention. The sound of rigging tapping against a mast. The faded lettering on the side of an old boat. The scent of fresh coffee drifting from a café tucked into a corner building.

None of those details seemed important at the time. But months later, when I sat down to write a scene set along the shoreline, those small observations returned like old friends. Suddenly the setting felt alive because I wasn't inventing the world entirely from imagination. I could actually remember it...thanks to my notes.

Places Have Stories of Their Own

Every weathered building has witnessed laughter, loss, and everything in between. Every harbor or town square holds decades of quiet history beneath the surface. Part of a writer's job is simply to listen.

To walk through a place slowly enough that the atmosphere sinks in. To notice the little details that reveal character. That doesn't only come from the people who live there. It can also come from the setting itself. As a writer, I try to paint a setting in such a way that the reader goes there with me and imagines themselves standing right there with my characters.

That research trip reminded me that stories don't always contain intense, dramatic moments. Sometimes, the story is found in the quiet spaces between those moments. I mean, think of your favorite movie. It could be an action thriller or a small town romance. The entire movie isn't 100% constant action or constant drama. The script also layers in some lighthearted, relaxed moments to give viewers a chance to breathe or connect better with the characters on a different level.

A good setting can lend itself to those sliced-in moments. It's also often a place that sticks with you long after the story concludes. It lives and breathes and seems to have a life of its own. When you close your eyes, you can see the details clearly in your mind.

And for a storyteller, when I pay attention long enough, a place will tell me exactly the kind of story it wants to become.

Have you ever visited a place that stayed with you long after you left? Somewhere that felt like it held stories in the air? Share with me in the comments what location has lingered in your memory the most.

Behind My Current Work-in-Progress

Every story begins with a question. Sometimes it's a simple one. 

What would happen if two people with a complicated past had to face each other again?

Other times it's more layered.

What happens when someone must choose between protecting what they love and doing what's right?

The idea for my current work-in-progress started the way many of my stories do, with a setting that has long been infused in my family history and holds a special place in my heart.

Certain places have a way of planting themselves in your imagination. The shoreline. The quiet rhythm of boats in the harbor. The weathered charm of buildings that have witnessed decades of history. That's Chincoteague Island for you. Every time I visit, my mind spins with characters appearing in my imagination as if they've always belonged there.

This particular story centers around two people whose lives have taken very different paths since their younger days. Time and circumstance have shaped them both. When their worlds collide again, old memories and misunderstandings surface right along with them.

What fascinates me most about stories like this is the emotional journey beneath the surface plot. Characters rarely struggle with just the obvious problem. Beneath every disagreement or difficult decision lies something deeper. Usually, you'll find fear, regret, pride, or the quiet longing to be understood.

Those hidden layers are where the real story lives.

Researching the Hidden Layers

Research plays its part in the process, too. Once the initial idea takes hold, I inevitably fall down a few rabbit trails. I've spent more than one afternoon chasing historical details, regional traditions, or even some of those bits of local lore that have potential to add texture to a scene. Everybody loves local lore, right?

Sometimes those discoveries lead to entire moments in the story I hadn't planned. Other times they simply deepen my understanding of the world the characters inhabit.

Faith also weaves quietly throughout the story as part of how the characters wrestle with their choices. Questions of forgiveness, trust, purpose, direction, and second chances often appear in my novels because many of us face those questions in real life. When I don't have someone right in front of me to listen, stories give me a safe place to explore those struggles.

As this manuscript continues to take shape, I'm still learning things about the characters myself. They surprise me sometimes, taking a conversation in a direction I hadn't expected or revealing a piece of their past that suddenly makes everything else make sense.

That's one of my favorite parts of writing. You begin with an outline and an idea, but somewhere along the way the story starts breathing on its own. And when that happens, you know you're on the right track.

When you read a novel, do you ever wonder what first sparked the story for the author? What part of the storytelling process interests you most: characters, setting, research, or the twists along the way? Tell me what it is and why in the comments.

What Raising Kids Taught Me About Storytelling

There’s a funny thing about storytelling. You can study craft books, attend conferences, and read hundreds of novels, but some of the best lessons come from everyday life.

For me, a lot of those lessons came during the time I had to step back from writing my novels to focus on my family and being present with my kids.

There were years when my writing happened in the slim margins of the day. During naptime, after bedtime, or in the quiet moments before the house woke up. Those seasons didn’t leave much room for uninterrupted creativity, but they did offer something just as valuable. Looking back at what I did manage to write, I see I had a front-row seat to real human emotion.

If you've ever watched a toddler insist they can do something themselves, you've seen stubborn determination in its purest form. If you've comforted a child after a hard day at school, you've seen vulnerability. If you've witnessed siblings move from fierce argument to wholehearted forgiveness in the span of ten minutes, you've seen a character arc unfold in real time. Of course, in fiction, it doesn't happen that quickly.

Parenting as a Mirror to Character Development

Still, parenting has a way of revealing the layers inside people, both in your children and in yourself. It exposes impatience, perseverance, pride, grace, and the quiet courage required to keep showing up day after day. Those same layers are exactly what make fictional characters feel real.

One afternoon years ago, I remember sitting at the dining room table with a notebook open beside a pile of math worksheets. My child worked through fractions while I scribbled a few lines of dialogue between characters who were stuck in the middle of their own conflict. The two moments seemed unrelated at the time, but looking back now, I can see how closely they mirrored each other.

Both required patience.

Both required persistence.

And both reminded me that even though I like things tied up with a well-formed bow, growth rarely happens in neat, tidy steps.

What a Story Needs

Stories thrive on tension, the space between where a character is and where they need to be. Parenting lives in that same space. You guide, encourage, correct, and hope the lessons take root somewhere beneath the surface. You're also experiencing your own growth journey as a human being, guiding little future adults.

In many ways, raising kids sharpened my understanding of character more than any writing manual ever could. It taught me that people don't change overnight. They stumble. They learn. They try again. And sometimes the most meaningful victories are the quiet ones no one else notices.

Faith plays a role in that perspective, too. Watching children grow is a daily reminder that none of us are finished works. We're all learning, all stretching, all discovering what it means to live with humility, courage, perseverance, and grace.

Those truths inevitably find their way into my stories.

The years of juggling writing with family life may have slowed the pace of blog posts or manuscripts at times, but they deepened the well I draw from as a storyteller. And if there's one thing parenting confirmed for me, it's this:

The best stories don't come from imagination alone.

They come from paying attention to the people right in front of you.

I hope the stories I write now showcase greater depth and character emotion than the books I wrote prior to my hiatus. Although I still struggle with tapping into some of those emotional experiences myself, my characters can experience them for me.

Have you ever noticed how everyday moments—especially with family—reveal deeper truths about people and relationships? What life experience has taught you the most about understanding others? Share it with me in the comments.

The Story Behind the Stories

Welcome to Rooted in Story

There’s something fitting about beginning again with a story.

Years ago, this little corner of the internet lived under a different name — A Fiction-Filled Life. I posted book reviews, interviewed authors, shared photos from research trips, and talked about whatever story had taken hold of my imagination at the time. Then life shifted. Babies grew. My daughter showcased special needs. School schedules filled. Deadlines tightened. And like so many good things, the blog went quiet.

But the stories never did. Now, I'm back to tell more. I've heard folks relate better to failures than successes...although they still want to know you succeed. Well, this road bridging to the past has a lot of those tried-but-failed moments.

I’ve always written fiction because story is how I process the world. Give me a setting, a conflict, a pair of wounded hearts trying to find solid ground, and I can untangle almost anything. Fiction lets me ask questions safely. It lets me wrestle with doubt, forgiveness, pride, hope, and redemption without pointing fingers. It gives me room to explore truth through characters who feel real enough to sit across the table from me.

I still remember the years during high school sitting at my childhood desk. That old wooden one with the drawer that stuck every time I tried to open it. At that desk, I drafted my first serious attempt at a novel. I had a spiral notebook, a pen that smeared when I wrote too fast, and absolutely no idea what I was doing. I only knew that the characters wouldn’t leave me alone. I wrote after school, late at night, whenever I could steal an hour. I wasn’t thinking about contracts or publication or platform. I was thinking about whether the heroine would forgive the hero, and whether the ending would feel honest.

That hasn’t changed. What has changed is perspective.

Faith has always shaped my storytelling, but not in a heavy-handed way. I don’t sit down with a checklist of lessons to teach. I start with people. With broken places. With longings we all recognize. And because my faith informs how I see the world, grace and redemption naturally find their way onto the page. But I work hard to not lecture. I avoid a sermon disguised as dialogue. Instead, those redemptive themes exist as the quiet undercurrent that reminds me no story is beyond hope.

I believe truth resonates most deeply when it’s woven into lived experience. When readers see themselves in a character’s stubbornness or fear. When they recognize their own questions in a scene. That’s where story becomes more than entertainment. It becomes connection.

What You Can Expect Here Now

You’ll find behind-the-scenes glimpses of works in progress. Research rabbit trails. Reflections on books I’m reading and authors who inspire me or tell great stories. The occasional guest voice. Pieces of the writing life that don’t always make it into a polished novel. Let's call them the messy middles, the sparks of inspiration, the moments when a setting suddenly feels real.

This space has grown up a bit since its early days, just like I have. But the heart of it remains the same: a love for story, and a desire to explore the deeper truths that shape us.

Welcome (back) to Rooted in Story — where fiction, faith, and the life behind the books meet.

I’m glad you’re here. Let's journey through stories together!