In a time of instant gratification across nearly every aspect of modern life, stories—whether books, essays, or screenplays for movies or TV adaptations—are expected to be released quickly, one after another. This is especially true if the story is part of a series. Speed is often regarded as a virtue, seen as a sign that a story and its author are genuine. For some reason, delays are viewed with suspicion, as if someone is hiding something or holding back. But often, the opposite is true.

Have you ever been in a situation where there was a silence in a conversation, and you felt the need to fill it with something? Silence is often frightening. Many people innately see it as dangerous, awkward, and unproductive. It can cause one’s anxiety level to spike to an 11 out of 10. It has a feel—hollow and airless. So, people often seek something to say or do to fill it, often with questionable success. But what if there was much to learn and gain from the silences in our lives? What if silence isn’t emptiness, but active and respectful attention?

I write about women who refuse to disappear. Women who continue to show up when history, culture, or circumstance would prefer their silence.

Real grace is a gift from God.

When I first began writing What Remains After, I did so for practical reasons. I imagined it as a short piece, something that might introduce readers to my work and invite them into my broader writing life. That may not sound particularly inspired, but it’s honest. Still, once I sat down to write, something shifted. A quiet certainty settled in. This story needed to be told. Not dramatically or urgently, but insistently. It refused to remain small.

When I say I write from moral curiosity, I mean that I ask, What did it really feel like to live there, then? Nostalgia smooths edges and softens harm. Memory, when handled honestly, does the opposite. Jesus tells us that “the truth will set you free” (John 8:32), and that includes the truth of our own histories. Healing begins when we stop rewriting the past to make it comfortable.

Our God is paradoxical. He speaks through thunder and storms, earthquakes and fire, yet He also speaks through stillness and quiet. Scripture shows a God who parts seas and stills hearts, who roars in whirlwinds and whispers in caves. In 1 Kings 19, the prophet Elijah is weary, afraid, and ready to abandon his calling. God comes to him first in a powerful wind, then an earthquake, then fire. Yet Scripture tells us that “the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper” (v.12). God reveals that, despite His immense power, He often meets us most personally in quietness, in still moments of prayer, reflection, and listening.

That experience taught me something important: fiction can speak truths to us that headlines cannot. Storytelling creates encounter, not argument. It reaches us on a visceral, emotional level rather than a purely intellectual one. Narrative allows readers to inhabit another life from the inside.

Writing about my characters’ pain and trials isn’t always easy. I often find it difficult to separate my own emotions and struggles from theirs. While writing can be cathartic, there are seasons when exploring grief or injustice feels like carrying someone else’s cross. I become weary and depleted, and I need time to rest, reflect, and heal.

The geography of our lives and stories is deeply intertwined. People are shaped by the soil beneath their feet.