Alison Robinson's Blog
April 23, 2025
Why Fantasy Matters: On Fun, Faith, and the Weight of Story
February 18, 2025
What is Shadowless about?
It’s the number one question I get asked when I tell someone I’ve written a book. And for good reason! When you’re considering a new read, you want to know one main thing: what’s it about?
I can’t remember ever picking up a book—or even watching a TV show or movie—without first knowing a little about the story. What if it’s a horror novel, and I hate anything with blood? That’s a problem. [note Shadowless may have a ghost, but it's certainly not horror]
So, what’s Shadowless about?
Well, there are a few ways I can answer that. The first is the most straightforward: my elevator pitch. [Cue dramatic movie-trailer voice circa the 1990s...]
"In a kingdom where souls are bound to magical animals called Shadows, Rowena’s Shadow is a ghost—silent, powerless, and a death sentence if anyone finds out. Forced to live in hiding, she joins forces with a rebellious outcast to uncover the truth about the bond between humans and Shadows. But in a world where souls are split in two, the truth might shatter everything."
Wait, scratch that. Cate Blanchett’s voice from the opening of The Lord of the Rings would be so much better. Go back and imagine a breathy elf-queen reading the pitch instead. Nice, right?
But honestly, as a reader, I often want more than just a synopsis. I want to know what the book feels like. Plot alone isn’t enough. It’s the emotion, the atmosphere, and the intangible things that give you that pleasant afterglow when you close a really good book.
Shadowless opens cozy and warm, with a charming, whimsical feel and humor sprinkled throughout. There’s action, a fight scene or two, lots of twists and turns, and a dash of sweet romance. An air of mystery winds through every chapter, and by the end, your heartstrings will be plucked like a harp. I've also been told by readers that their "mind was blown" at one point or other.
Oh, and there's a castle set mostly in autumn. Because that's all any of us ever want: to live in a castle during perpetual autumn.
But maybe you’re a fan of comparing books to other favorites. So let’s get more specific:
Where would you find Shadowless on a private bookshelf—the kind not organized by the Dewey Decimal System but carefully curated by a book fanatic?
Shadowless would be cozied up among classic fantasies. Directly on its right would be The Golden Compass series. Philip Pullman’s “daemons” are very similar to Shadows, although his didn’t have magic like mine. On the left, you’d find the fiction of C.S. Lewis, as Shadowless explores spiritual and philosophical questions through vibrant storytelling, much like The Chronicles of Narnia or The Great Divorce.
Nearby, you’d spot the action-packed Wingfeather Saga, the rich magical world-building of Harry Potter, and perhaps the Caraval series for its lush romance and pretty costumes.
Shadowless belongs among all these stories and others like them.
And just in case you’re a visual person, here’s a graphic:
If you’re still curious, there’s only one thing left to do—read it for yourself!
Join Rowena and Penalynn as they investigate the mystery of Shadows and uncover secrets that could change everything.
Available on Amazon February 25th, 2025!
Add it to your GoodReads now:
September 5, 2024
You never forget your first love
It was a Sunday, and church had just let out. The small but faithful Texas congregation lingered at the doors of Lonesome Dove Baptist Church, chatting neighborly. But not me. I leaned against the wall, hoping to be ignored like faded wallpaper. The traditional melancholy found in fourteen-year-old girls had ramped up in recent months, metastasizing in my heart to a bitter gloom.
You see, it was the year 2000, and my family had recently moved. Amid Y2K panic, I was displaced from my home and friends in the beautiful Arizona desert and suddenly plopped down in Grapevine, Texas. A state where the climate was somehow both wet and dusty. Where the people didn’t talk but drawled using made-up words like “y’all” and “fixin’ to.” Seriously, the whole state was obsessed with contractions and apostrophes.
I had taken to punishing my parents with an unrelenting gray cloud shrouding my countenance. With a frown in place, most of my time was spent inside my head, daydreaming, pouting, and attempting to escape the humid reality of Texas. I missed my friends and was too busy feeling sorry for myself to care about anyone or anything.
It was in this frame of mind I hid in the corner of the 150-year-old church like a surly houseplant. My dad walked over to the pastor to shake his hand. The elderly Pastor Quesenbury smiled, his mustache lifting as he invited our family to lunch. He said his wife had already gone to set the table at the parsonage. It was an offer impossible to refuse. My parents, being new in town as much as I was, accepted with much more gratitude than I did.
We followed the pastor across the parking lot, our church shoes growing dusty despite the recent rain. The parsonage lived among shade trees that looked as old as the church. It was a low-slung ranch-style home, well-kept and modest like any parsonage ought to be.
After the meal, the grownups lingered around the table, talking. This left my brother and I to amuse ourselves. Being four years my junior, Stewart wandered outside to muck about, no doubt tossing rocks or climbing a tree. But I was fourteen and, in my own eyes, too mature for such activities. So, I chose the more sensible option of remaining indoors. But, being fourteen, I found the adult’s conversation dull. Their smiles grated against my gloom. Soon, I wandered into an adjacent room.
It was a formal sitting area, the couch upholstered in a floral that reminded me of my granny’s couch in Waco. The first thing I noticed about the room was how lopsided it felt. I’m sure a licensed home inspector would have declared the floor perfectly level. Still, I couldn’t help but lean as if on the deck of a ship listing portside. It seemed as if the prim couch and coffee table should be sliding across the carpet to careen overboard. The reason for this imbalance hulked in my periphery. I turned to face it.
A heavy-set bookcase hunched in the corner like an elephant attempting to fit in a shoebox. Next to the bookcase was an upholstered armchair before a curtained window. The chair had a wizened, professorial look as if it required you to wear spectacles and tweed to sit there. Despite their marked contrast in size, the chair fit the bookcase like two minds in agreement.
Hundreds of books lined the shelves, organized by matching covers in rich leather. A set of encyclopedias were blue, biblical commentaries in shades of brown and yellowed cream, histories in black, and so on. I felt bashful in the presence of such a studious collection. But the bookcase seemed to pull at me like gravity. My fingers inched forward, curious, as fingers often are. I opted for the friendliest-looking spine: a cherry-red tome with gold-leafed letters reading Alice Through the Looking-Glass. Its matching siblings on either side made up the “Classics” family, the gold letters said.
The leather spine creaked. I was the first to open the book. I supposed that pastors were too burdened with high matters to be dallying with fairy stories.
I leafed through ivory-colored pages edged in gold and illustrated in black. In the background, the murmurs of my parents, pastor, and his wife shifted from cheerful to thoughtful at easy intervals. Though I wasn’t wearing spectacles or tweed, I lowered myself onto the armchair. I perched on the edge, not wanting to seem impertinent.
I didn’t realize what was happening at the time. But looking back, I recognize it for what it was. There, with the mammoth bookcase looking over my shoulder, in the pastor’s armchair, I fell in love for the first time. It was the kind of love that felt safe. Enough for me to tiptoe beyond myself, turning my attention outward instead of inward. The kind of love that makes you most like yourself, the best version of yourself. That little corner of the pastor’s house took me by the hand and pulled me from the confines of my mind—where I’d shrouded myself in loneliness and resentment, thinking I was protecting myself—and it set me down in reality. I sat in that armchair, fully present and completely content. I didn’t ache for my old home or my old friends. Instead, I felt as if I’d found a new kind of home and more friends than I could count there among the books.
At some point, Pastor Quesenbury entered the room to find me with my feet curled up in his chair, reading his books. I will never forget the way his mustache twitched. His eyes sparkled as if he had just been told wonderful news. He gushed words of approval and encouragement. “Come by anytime to read, won’t you,” he urged. As he spoke about his collection, I heard a sweetness in the Texas twang, a charm in the long, wide vowels that I hadn’t noticed before. It would take me many years to finally muster a “y’all” myself, but I didn’t mind it so much when he said it.
From that moment on, I found a permanent home among books—on shelves, in stacks, in shops, in libraries. I feel most at ease when I'm surrounded by books, most awake to reality, and most myself.
A little over a decade later, I left Texas, eventually finding a young pastor who enjoyed the same kind of books as me. And he smiled even more than that old Texas pastor. Recognizing a rare gem when I saw one, I had the good sense to marry him.
We’ve made our home deep in the heart of Alabama, in a land of “y’alls” and drawls but a bit less twang. In our front room, just off the dining room, there’s a formal sitting area where I dream of one day building bookcases that flank the window. The hulking, heavy kind with gravity all their own. And they will peer over my shoulder in a kindly sort of way, watching as I read. Friendly and safe. Just like a home ought to be.
And maybe a surly teen will come over one day. Bored and looking for distraction, maybe she’ll peruse my shelves. I trust my collection to pull a smile from her. Maybe it will give her a step up. Up out of the hardship of youth and into something brighter, more interesting than her own dreary thoughts, more real than her youthful assumptions. Maybe that girl is already in my house, only six years old now. Maybe it’ll be one of my daughter’s friends. Or maybe it’ll just be the inner child within me, resting among her life’s collection.
Until then, my books are piled and stacked around my house, with a few shelves tucked here and there. And coming soon, a new book—one of my own making—will be added to the stacks.
I can’t wait to hold it in my hands.
Just a few months more…
Shadowless, coming soon in 2025.
August 19, 2024
"Why fiction?" they ask me.
My husband drove, one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding mine on the center armrest. It was late, nearing midnight, the black outside interspersed with lit-up exits as we made the I-20 trek from Atlanta to Birmingham. Toward home.
“30 years old,” he said with exaggerated ponder, his face faintly glowing from the dashboard lights.
As the birthday girl, I grinned contentedly, saying for the 10th time that it was the best birthday I’d ever had. It had started with a leisurely stroll through the Georgia Aquarium, complete with a behind-the-scenes peek at whale sharks, dinner at an Irish pub, followed by a Cirque-du-Solei show where a clown picked me out of the crowd, pulled me onstage, and included me in an entire scene before dragging me backstage and kissing my hand with an affected “Merci!”
Having planned the day, my husband grinned in the way one does when he’s knocked the whole “gift-giving thing” out of the park. The puzzle he bought me from the circus gift shop rested against my leg in the shiny tote he had to pay extra for. As far as I was concerned, it was a perfect day.
“A new decade,” he declared, “What is something you’d like to do before your 40th?”
I tilted my head. I’d been 30 for less than a day. My husband is known for asking such questions—the kind you haven’t thought about yet. But I heard an answer launch from my lips without my permission: “Write a book.” My husband’s eyebrows raised, and my eyes widened in shock. Who’d said that? Me? Couldn’t be.
After the initial shock of having words fly from my mouth as if cast out by an invisible spirit, the idea settled, and I realized it was true. I wanted to write a book. And turns out, I’d wanted it for quite some time but had kept that desire hidden, even from myself.
“What kind of book?” my husband asked.
Another question I’d given exactly zero thought to. As a voracious reader, I consumed an equal amount of fiction and non-fiction. “Well, of course, fiction would be the greatest honor and highest accomplishment,” I said as if it were common knowledge uncontested in all of time and space, “but I’m not smart enough to write a novel, so I guess non-fiction. Maybe something combining my training as a counselor and Christian faith.”
Yes, that was my answer. I will pause here to let the multi-layered ridiculousness of that statement sink in. I may have been newly thirty, but the heady cocktail of immaturity and pride that domineered my twenties still laced my veins and addled my brain. That statement contained truth but not much wisdom. That would come later, the way wisdom usually does, through hardship and pain.
The truth was, I, indeed, was not smart enough to write fiction. I wasn’t even smart enough to articulate what I meant by “smart enough.” Having read hundreds of works of fiction at that point, many of them classics, I had an inkling of fiction's advantage over non-fiction. Don't get me wrong. I love non-fiction. In fact, it's the genre I've consumed the most. Which is why I am convinced fiction is more potent for persuasion. A well-crafted story can harness the ideas studiously debated within the pages of non-fiction and render them unforgettable. Science, philosophy, theology: they entice the mind, and if the work is good and the reader is motivated, with enough thought and pondering, the truth of non-fiction can find its way into the heart, so long as there's conviction. Some concepts even have the ability to enter the soul. But story goes for the gut. Like sugar, it enters the bloodstream and, from there, touches everything. Fiction is sticky. Themes, symbolism, characters, and emotions will linger long after facts have faded from memory. Fiction can change a person in a moment, a scene, a sentence.
And indeed, I was not smart enough to create such fiction, but I was prideful enough to think nonfiction would be a cinch. To this day, I am still amazed my husband didn’t laugh at me. He probably should have. But no. He smiled at me with, of all things, respect in his eyes. He truly does love me, poor guy.
A few days after my thirtieth birthday, I sat at my computer, figuring I better get to work. I had a decade before my 40th, and it might take a while to become the Brene Brown/Beth-Moore hybrid of my dreams—or rather, my delusions.
After banging out a first chapter that I was convinced would move people to tears and altar calls, I closed my computer. Despite my self-assuredness, I had read somewhere that writers should always allow space between them and their work. Having a pretty hefty rap sheet of poorly worded emails and regrettable blog posts, I took that advice and set an alarm on my calendar for one month away. The bell went off sometime in June, and I opened the Word Document containing that Christian/psychology chimeric monstrosity. It took me only one read-through to realize that the last thing anyone in God’s creation needed was my thoughts on any given matter. Who knew you could feel embarrassed while sitting totally alone? I had always thought that required other people to be around. But reading what I’d written a month prior, my face and neck burned a cringing maroon, redefining for me the term “shame-faced.” With a couple of chastened mouse clicks, that incriminating document borne from pure ego was buried in a folder with the other regrettable writings of my life (mostly one-act plays and poems that will NEVER SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY. Seriously, there’s a person in my life whose sole job on the day of my death will be to open my computer and destroy this folder. Incidentally, there is a second person who will burn my prayer journals. My capacity for truly awful literary navel-gazing is astounding. Lord, forgive me.
(Why leave it in a folder, you may wonder? Why not delete it? Well, I figure in my 70s, I may want a giggle. I’ll have plenty of fodder for wise old Alison to get a kick out of.)
So, the non-fiction route was dead. Taken out back by God himself and mercifully put to rest. But I still wasn’t “smart enough” to write fiction. In my humbled and humiliated state, I put the whole matter into the Lord’s hands and moved on with my life.
A few years later, I was pregnant and minding my own business, believing my writing days were over (having a swollen computer file to prove it) when an idea popped into my head. After a few weeks, the idea wouldn’t let up, so I wrote it out. This wasn’t entirely uncommon. After all, how do you think all that nonsense wound up in my Embarrassment File? I figured this little ditty would be the next installment. This time, I let it sit for longer than a month. I wasn’t keen on another humiliating read-through. After a year, in which I gave birth and nursed a newborn, that idea still wouldn’t let up. My baby wasn’t the only thing keeping me up at night. So, I grabbed my computer during naptime and opened the year-old document. To my utter astonishment, I didn’t cringe. Was this good, I wondered? No, it couldn’t be. But, it was...something. I didn’t know what, but it was something.
For six years, I’ve worked on this something. Turns out, I was totally right. I wasn’t smart enough to write fiction, let alone a whole novel. It’s taken me five drafts, the kind where you open a blank Word document and start completely fresh. The first chapter alone has been re-written 25+ times. I’ve spent a lot of time with a blinking cursor on a blank page. Now, with the first book in the publishing process and my second novel in the first draft stage, I still don’t think I’m smart enough for fiction. But I know way more than I did before, and that’s not nothing.
The master fantasy writer, JRR Tolkien, once wrote a letter to a “Dora Marshall” about his exceeding difficulty in getting his story published and how surprised he was when The Lord of the Rings finally made it into the hands of readers like her. In this letter, he told Dora how his good friend, C.S. Lewis, once said to him, “If they won’t write the kind of books we want to read, we shall have to write them ourselves, but it is very laborious.”
Consider Tolkien and Lewis, with all their intellect and wit. If these giants of the pen struggled to write fiction, only imagine how difficult it is for someone like me who has the constant distraction of YouTube videos about Labradors and turtles becoming best friends.
But, God, in his mercy, has allowed me to accomplish a dream of which I have no right, considering my own merit. As Lewis said, it has been “very laborious” and the highest honor.
On my 30th birthday, I couldn’t imagine myself writing fiction. Now, I can’t imagine writing anything else. And I can’t wait to get it into the hands of readers.
Next month, I will release my first chapters for free to anyone who wants them.
Pre-orders start sometime in October.
July 18, 2024
Unveiling My Dream: The Emotions of Publishing My First Novel
Over the past six years, between my life’s work as a mom, homemaker, and wife (as well as a pastor’s wife, which is its own thing entirely), I’ve written a novel. A young adult fantasy novel intended to be the first in a short series. And now, I’m on the cusp of publishing—launching it to you, my future readers. For six years, I’ve worked primarily in secret. While I’ve toiled to create a world with stories, characters, and magic, the real world has gone on without any idea what I’m doing. But now, all of that will change.
In the coming months, as I prepare for a book launch, I invite you to join me as I share my journey from learning to write and re-write this book, sending my manuscript to agents and publishers, enduring what I call the “land of rejection,” to finally landing on a process called “hybrid publishing.” The best way to follow my journey and book’s progress is through my newsletter. Sign up, and you’ll be the first to receive updates, news events, and sneak peeks on my first chapters and cover art.
But for today, I thought I’d answer just one question:
What does it feel like to be publishing my first novel?
If you’ve ever ventured out in a new adventure, I'm sure you’ve felt something similar.
A few weeks ago, I went on vacation with family. As one does when traveling, I eventually stole away alone, needing a minute to myself. I stood on the shore of Flagler Beach in front of our rental—a pristine stretch of terracotta sand, quietly nestled between the spectacle of Daytona and old-world St. Augustine.
Somewhere on a lifeguard stand, a red flag waved like a warning. The surf’s up, as they say. To prove it, white and sea-green foam swallowed my feet, splashing my shorts. My toes sank into the receding sand. The wave retreated, and little bubbles popped intermittently in the sand like constellations, leaving behind a hundred holes the circumference of a toothpick.
To my right, I knew the sand stretched hundreds of miles to the tip of Florida and, to my left, the entire North American eastern seaboard. The Atlantic roared before me, the vastness of the beach and ocean overwhelming to fathom. Even so, this was only one coast of one ocean. A wave rose up, and the water splashed higher, my pockets now wet. More tiny bubbles dotted the sand.
Sandcrabs skittered in my periphery, perfectly camouflaged if it weren’t for those shiny black eyes. They danced with the waves in calculated steps, back and forth, in a waltz. The wave crashed then retreated, and when it did, a crab advanced, aiming for a pinprick dotting the sand. Life hid beneath those dots, like X’s on a treasure map. The crab’s carapace lifted as if to say, “Aha!” A claw scooped, and just before the wave could swallow his prize, he ran for cover in dry sand, his dinner secured. After he dined, he moved on, leaving behind the “wrapper.” I picked up the empty coquina shell. There were hundreds of thousands of them littering the shore. Too commonplace to make it into a tourist’s collection, too miniscule to be recycled by a hermit crab. It would be pulverized by the waves, ground to sand like the trillions before it.
I held the empty shell the size of my fingernail and felt a pang in my chest. My heart reached like a child’s hand upward, searching for the reassuring grip of a parent, my prayer wordless and aching.
I am launching my first novel into the world, and the more I learn about the publishing industry, the more daunting the task becomes. As a reader, I saw the book market as a friendly, cheerful place, much like a favorite cozy bookstore. A charming industry filled with smiling librarians and heartwarming bookstore proprietors like Meg Ryan’s character in You’ve Got Mail. Now, as a pending author, I see a market that is the scope and size of an ocean connected to multiple oceans of content. Countless authors churn out countless more books, numbering the creatures of the sea—the vastness of the industry so complex and overwhelming that even the big, traditional publishing houses are losing from the sheer volume of books spewing into an increasingly variable market.
Tears filled my eyes as I walked the beach, shell in hand, feeling equally small. But then, my prayer stopped short when I came upon a patch of cordoned-off sand—a sea turtle nest. My breath caught in awe. It’s well established among beach-goers that a sea turtle nest is a marvelous wonder. Just out of sight lay hundreds of eggs. I watched the sand for signs of movement. Everyone does this when they come upon a nest such as this. Could this be the moment? We’ve all seen the videos online or in documentaries. When life miraculously pops out of the sand. Baby turtles (as tenacious as they are cute) dig their way to the surface. Their home calls to them, and they answer, flippering their way, exposed to gulls, pelicans, crabs, and idiot tourists. If they make it, sea turtles can have a lifespan of well over a hundred years. But only 1 in 10,000 babies ever make it to adulthood. They fight their way to their aquatic home, not because they are brave, but because they have no choice; the hope and promise of life call, and they answer.
I stare at the sand and pray, “Oh, please!” I’d love to witness such a sight. But, of course, the sand doesn’t move. The babies aren’t ready yet. I continued my walk and found another nest, then another. In the short stretch of beach, I found nine nests. Together, that’s anywhere between 900-1800 eggs. Multiply that by ten, and the odds are that only one will make it to maturity. Still, inside every egg lay the promise of life. Hope. The dream of a creature with the potential of a century-long adventure.
Standing on the beach amidst so much potential, I couldn’t help but smile. I know that feeling. It’s the feeling that propelled me to run to my computer in the middle of the night six years ago to bang out my first chapter with frenzied excitement.
The odds of my book “making it” are slim. My book may be like a coquina, a tiny, insignificant blip, like a bubble on the eastern seaboard, gaining the attention of few, and some crabs and shorebirds. And sure, even if my book is remarkable, it’s still a treacherous fight. I dream of creating art with a far reach and a long shelf-life. The sea turtle of books, beating the odds and living decades beyond its author. Shoot, I’d settle for something like an octopus, short-lived, sure, but vibrant while it lasts.
The fear of failure never eases up, and sometimes it feels almost crippling. So why bother? Why fight? The odds are so great. Failure so eminent.
Because the alternative is unthinkable. When hearing the call to adventure and life, who would ever say no? Not even a baby turtle, with 10,000-1 odds stacked against them, will ever refuse the ocean’s call. I will struggle and fight and work because there is no other way.
I love this book. I’ve spent six years with the same characters talking in my head and haven’t gotten sick of them yet. I have persevered through years of difficult odds (which I’ll share in the coming months), and this work has still endured. Already, I can see what sort of book I have in my hands. When it’s finally in yours, I think you’ll really like it.
I believe in my gut this book is like a sea turtle. Join me, and together, let’s see how far it can swim.
(photo of the sand-turtle my daughter and I made at Flagler Beach)
