My Strange Journey to Writing The Dark Mage

I’ve always—always—dreamed of being a writer.

From the moment I understood that books had authors, I knew I wanted to be one. Tolkien and L. M. Montgomery were my first heroes. I longed to write fictional individuals on heroic journeys, discovering their true selves against impossible odds. I devoured stories. Read until my mom threw up her hands because I hadn’t moved in hours.

I consumed the stories others wrote, in part from a deeper desire: to one day tell a story of my own.

But I was also paralyzed by perfectionism. I believed that if you didn’t know exactly how to do something, it wasn’t worth doing. Creative writing felt like a club for the trained, the technically skilled. Real writers knew how to analyze, master, and perfect their craft. They layered subtext and foreshadowing. I was just… me. Someone who struggled through English lit class. A capable environmental scientist. A botanist. A mom.

Sure, I could author a journal article on genetics and plant population dynamics. But a novel?

I Never Stopped Dreaming

I still have my old school journals full of freewriting—fictional short stories, little plays, bursts of imagination. Even when I stopped writing, I never stopped dreaming. At night, my mind was full of vivid characters living real, vibrant lives. I followed them through entire arcs, month after month, quietly, internally. I told myself it wasn’t practical. That it wouldn’t make a living. That it didn’t count.

So I became a botanist. And I loved it.

I became a wife. And I loved it.

I became a mom. And I loved it.

But the characters never left. They stayed.

They waited.

Like they knew they deserved a place on the page.

“What if you did something you’ve always wanted to?”

It was my therapist, Olivia, who asked me that question.

And without hesitation, I replied:

“I’d write a novel.”

That was it. That was the unlocking. A strange kind of permission slip to set it free.

Ren’wyn was already waiting—this quiet, hurting woman whose story I told every time I mowed the lawn. I didn’t know who she was at first. I knew she had magic, but her rage and tenderness and trauma were wrapped in fog and mist. And I knew she needed someone to tell her story.

And I realized… that someone was me.

It Was an Undeniable Flood

I wrote The Dark Mage in seven months.

Almost 220,000 words.

I couldn’t stop.

I wrote while the kids played.

While the baby napped.

While I walked, exercised, drove.

I dictated entire scenes on work trips through the foothills of the Appalachians. The story lived in me like a fire, like rushing water from a collapsing dam.

I don’t remember weeping while writing. I remember urgency. Clarity. Ren’wyn’s voice was strong and constant. I felt her journey. Her fear, her grief, her rage, her surprise at being loved. I carried her in every moment I could steal.

I wasn’t afraid of writing a familiar plot—a heroic journey—because Ren’wyn was entirely her own. She wasn’t a trope. She was truth. Her truth. My truth.

Bryce, my husband, helped me solve plot snags.

He championed characters.

He read every version.

He celebrated every milestone.

And when I reached the end, I was proud. So proud.

We saved to afford a professional edit. My editor told me it was well-written—but too long. No surprise. I had to cut nearly 100,000 words, entire pieces I loved. But I was still in love with what I had made.

But I’m still in love with this story. With Ren’wyn.I’m proud of her. I’m proud of me.

Because what I didn’t realize when I started is how many of my own deepest wounds, fears, and hopes lived on those pages. I’ve given them a place. I’ve given them breath and mercy.

And now—others will hold them.

So if you hold The Dark Mage in your hands and see a piece of yourself inside…

If you’re healing, aching, angry, tired…

If you’ve doubted your worth, your magic, your story…

Know this:

You are allowed to be seen.

You are allowed to be loved.

Your story, your bruises, and your bravery are holy work.

This novel is mine, yes.

But I hope, maybe, it can be a little bit yours, too.