People often ask where a story starts, as if there’s a clean moment, a deliberate choice, a tidy beginning. But the truth is, my trilogy didn’t begin with intention. It began with heartbreak — the quiet, aching kind that comes when two people love each other deeply but know their lives no longer fit together. After two years, we parted ways. Not in anger, not in blame, but in that devastating space where timing refuses to cooperate with love. In the weeks that followed, every night became a strange kind of ritual. I would lie in bed and slip into a world I was building in my mind — a bar, a man, a family I had never met but somehow knew intimately. I wasn’t writing yet. I was dreaming. Sometimes literally, sometimes in that half awake drift where imagination feels more real than reality. Each night I added a little more. A new scene. A new moment. A new thread of connection. I couldn’t wait for bedtime, because that was where I met him — the man in the world I was creating. Eventually, the dreams became too full to hold. I realised I needed to write them down — not because writing was new to me, but because this kind of writing was. I’ve written all my life: as a child inventing language on holidays, as an adult publishing business and marketing books. But this was different. This was the first time I was writing from the softest part of myself. The first time the story wasn’t built for work, but for healing. The first time the words arrived as emotion before they became sentences. So, I started at the beginning — the first dream, the first construction — and I wrote it exactly as I had lived it in my mind. Night after night, I would “meet” with the characters before sleep, asking them where they wanted to go next, or telling them where I planned to take them. It sounds strange, but it was the most natural thing in the world. They were real to me. In under four months, I had the entire trilogy handwritten. Three books born from heartbreak, imagination, and the strange alchemy of emotional truth. When I held those pages in my hands, it felt like giving birth — not to a story, but to a world. A world that had carried me through grief and delivered me into creation. Typing it, shaping it, refining it — that came later. But the heart of it, the soul of it, the spark of it — that happened in the dark, in the quiet, in the space between loss and possibility. And I’m proud of that. Proud of the girl who dreamed her way out of heartbreak. Proud of the woman who wrote it all down. Proud of the world that came alive because I said yes to it.
Where Stories Begin
- Half Dream Half Reality
- February 28, 2026
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