I didn’t start writing because I had a story burning inside me. I started writing because my son was afraid of stories. He loved books, but only in theory. The moment tension appeared, an argument, a shadow, a hint that something bad might happen, his anxiety would flare. He wasn’t scared of monsters or villains. He was scared of feeling scared. He was scared of the unknown. He was scared of the possibility of loss.
We made it halfway through the third Harry Potter book before a friend told him a character would die. That was it. He shut the book. And in his mind, by not reading any further, he had saved that character’s life. The story couldn’t hurt him if he refused to turn the page.
I understood that logic more than I wanted to admit. But I also wanted him to experience what books had given me: wonder, escape, laughter, connection. So I wrote him a story where nothing bad happened. A man quits his job at a bank to become a pirate, but a good pirate. The humour matched my son’s. The world was safe. The adventure was gentle. And he loved it.
Something shifted in me as I wrote it. I realised I wasn’t just creating a story for him, I was discovering a part of myself I didn’t know was waiting. Characters started appearing in my head. Flaws, quirks, goals, twists. Some arrived fully formed; others I had to chase. But they came. And the more I wrote, the more I wanted to write.
I learned that ideas don’t always show up before you start. Sometimes they only reveal themselves once your fingers are already moving. So even when I have no idea where a story is going, I write anyway. The act of writing becomes the act of discovering.
My first drafts are for me. They’re messy, instinctive, full of wrong turns and strange detours. But the second and third drafts? Those are for the reader. That’s when I start thinking about emotional architecture. How can I create dread? How can I build suspense? How can I devastate the reader in a way that feels earned?
It’s a strange evolution, from writing to protect my son from fear, to writing stories that deliberately use fear. But it makes sense when you look closely. Hope and dread are twins. You can’t feel one without the other. When a reader cares, they fear. When they hope, they dread. When they love a character, they brace for the moment that love might be tested. That tension is the heartbeat of storytelling. It’s why twists work. It’s why catharsis hits so hard. It’s why we keep turning pages even when we’re afraid of what’s coming.
My son taught me that.
He taught me that fear isn’t the enemy. Uncertainty is. The not‑knowing. The waiting. The possibility of loss. And that’s exactly what writers manipulate. To create emotional impact.
I still write stories he can enjoy. But I also write stories that lean into the shadows, because shadows make the light matter. I write warmth so I can break it later. I build hope so dread has something to cling to. I devastate because devastation is proof that the story meant something. I started writing to help my son feel safe. I keep writing because stories help me feel alive.