What I Love About Writing: Worlds Within Words
What do you enjoy most about writing?

There’s a moment, just before the words arrive, when everything feels possible.
It starts with a flicker—a mood, a whisper, a glimmer of a place that doesn’t exist yet. Writing, for me, is the art of listening to that flicker and letting it grow. It’s how I create new worlds and meet the characters who live inside them. And every time I sit down to write, I’m stepping into a kind of ritual: one that blends imagination, intuition, and the thrill of discovery.

I love building worlds that feel like secret sanctuaries. Sometimes they’re misty forests threaded with moonlight, or ancient castles perched on cliffs. Other times, they’re quiet rooms filled with strange books and flickering candles. These places aren’t just settings—they’re emotional landscapes. They hold longing, curiosity, and the kind of magic that only shows up when you’re paying attention.
Creating these worlds gives me a sense of agency. I get to decide what’s sacred, what’s possible, and what kind of beauty exists. It’s a way of reclaiming space—especially when the real world feels too loud, too fast, or too rigid.

Characters arrive like dreams. I rarely plan them. They show up with their own voices, wounds, and desires. Some are bold and chaotic; others are quiet and mysterious. But every one of them teaches me something—about resilience, vulnerability, or the strange ways we try to belong.
Writing is how I get to know them. It’s how I learn what they fear, what they hope for, and what they’ll risk to protect what they love. And in the process, I often discover parts of myself I didn’t know were waiting to be seen.

For me, writing isn’t just a craft—it’s a ritual. It’s how I connect with my intuition, how I process emotion, and how I make meaning out of the mess. I light candles. I pull tarot cards. I let music guide the mood. And then I write—not to be perfect, but to be present.
There’s something sacred about that. Something that feels like magic.