Meet My Characters (Or Maybe, Meet Me)

Some writers say their characters come from imagination.
Mine come from conversation — mostly the ones I have with myself.
Then, I open the door and let them in (into my mind, brain, heart, soul?).

If you spend enough time in my world, you’ll meet them all.
They show up uninvited, make tea, rearrange the furniture, and whisper their stories until I give in and write them down. They have their own voices, their own memories — and more often than not, their own opinions about how things should be written.

There’s the quiet architect — the one who rebuilds more than walls.
A logical romantic who believes love can be explained, until it insists on being felt.
A musician who plays his heart out because speaking has never worked as well.
A photographer who looks through a lens just to make sense of what’s slipping away.
An archaeologist who unearths more than artifacts — sometimes, she finds herself.

And somewhere between them all, a girl who listens to houses.
She hears what they can’t tell the people who live inside them.
She’s curious, gentle, and impossibly brave — the kind of quiet that changes you.

But she’s not alone.
There’s a dog named Orion, who knows about loyalty and love.
And Peia, a centipede who turns sounds into stories, teaching children that words can move.
And then, of course, there’s the Dictionary Girl — my brilliant one.
She argues with language, negotiates with meanings, and refuses to stay quiet when words misbehave.

They all live here now, in the worlds I build.
Some are already whole.
Others are still finding their shape.

I’m still writing a dystopian, poetic reflection on what happens when AI calls humanity a disease. Five voices guide me through it: a doctor, an ecologist, a child, a soldier, and a philosopher. Together, they make chaos sound like a hymn.

And then there’s a boy — the one from a children's book that is also to come.
He’s trying to make sense of life by writing a manual for it.
He loves rules, logic, order… until the world stops following them.

They’re all here, somehow.
And maybe that’s why I write — to keep them talking, to keep them safe, to keep them real.

My characters are me — and not me.
They carry what I’ve felt, feared, and found.
They borrow my breath and, in return, give me back my heart.

So, meet them.
Meet me.
And stay a while — the stories are still unfolding.