Anyone who knows me will likely be surprised to hear that I sometimes hate writing. By October 2026, I will have published 11 titles—10 novels and one novella—in five years.

Writing is a compulsion to me. From fall 2019 until February 2023, I worked on writing every single day. I do not consider writing—or working on writing—work, so there’s no real need for a break. Now, I only take off the two weeks we spend in Germany every year starting at the end of May.

Yet sometimes I genuinely hate writing. I think it’s partly because I’m a pantser. Maybe if I had every aspect of my stories outlined—and then actually managed to stick to those outlines—this wouldn’t happen.

When I come up with an idea—usually inspired by a song, a saying, or something someone says—I have an arc in mind. I know who the characters are supposed to be, where they start, and where I want them to end up. I’m not talking about the romance. That’s a given. I mean who they become as people.

But most of my plans change, at least to some degree. Sometimes the changes are radical—a character doesn’t work, and I have to do a rewrite (looking at you, A Question of Sincerity). Sometimes someone who was supposed to be meaningless suddenly grows into a major character. Sometimes a villain becomes a loyal supporting character with a completely different arc. And sometimes the overall plot shifts dramatically because of an idea that pops into my head thirty percent in (Forged in Deception).

Everything is in flux while I’m writing, and that can be daunting. Just like opening a new Word document. A blank page. An empty file that I have to fill with another story. On some level, that’s terrifying. You sometimes doubt whether you’ll be able to do it again.

It also means I write (almost) every day during drafting. If I step away for too long—sometimes even three days—it becomes difficult to get back into the story. It’s not that I’ve forgotten what happened. I simply don’t feel it the same way anymore.

The middle of every draft is also a nightmare. It’s difficult in part because I’m an underwriter. If I let myself, I could probably finish a draft at around 45,000 words. The problem is that the story in my head always has more meat than what ends up on the page.

To me, everything feels complete. The emotional beats are there. The logic of the story is there. But sometimes my beta readers or editors have to point out what’s missing: Could we see another scene here? Maybe spend a little more time with them at this stage? Those gaps can be hard for me to spot, because in my mind the story already exists in full.

That means my content revisions usually add five to ten thousand words. I also don’t care much about description or scene setting. Probably because I can’t picture anything in my head. My stories revolve around what’s happening in the minds of my characters and in their conversations.

Drafting a novel is hard. It’s pressure. It’s uncertainty. But it’s necessary to do what I love most: shaping a draft into a novel. I love revisions. That’s where the real joy lies for me.

I do enjoy writing—I obviously wouldn’t write this much if I didn’t. But I much prefer what comes after the first draft is complete, when you can start molding it, when you can breathe real life into it.

That’s not to say my first drafts are terrible. I usually keep ninety percent of what’s there. But it’s like creating a sculpture. The draft forms the body—the overall shape, the head. And once you have that, you can begin the delicate work. You add precision.

That’s where the heart of my stories lies. And to get there, I have to write the first draft.