There is a quiet assumption that if a writer is not publishing, they are not writing. That an empty page must reflect an empty mind—or worse, a lack of discipline. 

I live between two worlds: one where my recommendations are followed and my advice is considered and another in the unruly company of my characters. One demands predictability—a deliverable, a forecast, a measurable outcome. The other asks only that I remain still long enough to listen. 

It is a strange thing to spend the day reducing reality into revenue and logic, only to return at night and discover that a character has quietly overturned the entire architecture of the story while I was gone. 

People speak about writing as if the writer were in control. I have never found this to be true. The deeper I go into a story, the less control I seem to have. Characters arrive with their own convictions, histories, and stubbornness. I am not so much their creator as the witness to their existence. 

Naturally, this makes publishing difficult. 

People ask why I do not pursue the publishing route—traditional or indie—more aggressively. They point to market trends, word counts, visibility, audience capture, author brand. They speak about “sensitivity” as though fiction should exist primarily to reassure the reader that their worldview will remain intact. 

I understand the logic. I simply do not share the appetite for it. 

I am far more interested in the 160,000 words that refuse to behave than the 80,000 engineered for market compatibility. One feels alive. The other feels professionally embalmed. 

So yes, things remain quiet. But stillness is not absence. 

Beneath the surface, there is movement—slow, tectonic, unseen. Entire worlds are being assembled in the narrow hours surrounding eking out a living. Conversations are unfolding. Histories are colliding. Characters continue to ignore my plans with astonishing consistency. Very rude of them, honestly. Fictional people are terrible employees. 

I am not particularly interested in building an audience for its own sake. I am waiting for the smaller group of readers who still believe a story is not merely consumed, but inhabited. 

The characters remain unruly. The map remains unfinished. 

And I remain, quite contentedly, the least important person in the room.