Characters that won't let go. How real life creeps into my fiction.

Some characters refuse to stay on the page.

I’ve written five novels—each rooted in the Pacific Northwest, each shaped by mystery, memory, and emotional reckoning. Still, I’m surprised by how certain characters sneak back into my life long after I’ve typed “The End.”

They show up in everyday moments. At a red light. On a quiet hike along the Rogue River. When I see a certain color of Jeep driving down the freeway in the Rogue Valley, thanks Mitch Wilde. Taking down an old majestic pine tree overcome by pine-beetle fatigue. In the middle of a conversation with my son. Like they’re all tapping me on the shoulder, whispering, “We’re not done yet.”

Sky wouldn’t let go—and neither would Chief.

Take Sky, one of the main protagonists from Memories of an Ash Covered Sky. I thought I’d told her story. I’d written the final sentence, closed the file, and hit send to my editor. Done. Or so I thought. But weeks later, she lingered—more than a whisper, more than a memory. She was still there, shadowing my days. I’d catch myself wondering what she’d say in a given moment, how she’d respond to things unfolding around me. Her voice didn’t fade. If anything, it grew louder. More stubborn. More alive than I ever expected.

And then there’s Chief—Sky’s father. He wasn’t supposed to take up so much space on the page. At first, he was the backdrop. A steady presence. A supporting role. But scene by scene, he kept showing up with more to say. More to feel. His quiet grief crept in. His regrets took root. His unspoken love swelled between the lines. He became something bigger than I planned.

What I didn’t expect? Chief reminded me of me. Not in his title or uniform—I’ve never fought fires. Well, unless you count the ones I accidentally started as a mischievous little hooligan, racing to stamp them out before I burned my parents’ house down. But in the way he struggled to connect, to say the right thing, to fix what couldn’t be fixed—that hit close. He reminded me what it feels like to be a father. To hold on, even when you don’t know how to reach across the silence.

Writing from both sides of the relationship.

Memories of an Ash Covered Sky turned into something more personal than I planned. It wasn’t just a story of a daughter coming home—it became a mirror reflecting both sides of the parent-child relationship. I found myself writing not just as Sky, the daughter, but as Chief, the father. I was both at once.

That duality pushed me into deeper territory. It made me reflect on missed opportunities, on the silences that build between people, on the way love can look like distance if you’re not careful.

When fiction and real life blur.

No one tells you that when you write fiction, you’re often writing pieces of yourself. Not directly. Not in a memoir sort of way. But real life creeps in.

Sky’s guilt? I’ve felt it. Her anger? I carried it longer than I’d like to admit. Chief’s restraint? That quiet, tight-lipped love? Yeah, I know that too. I lived it.

And maybe that’s why they wouldn’t leave me alone. Because they were carrying truths I hadn’t said out loud.

When your characters live in your head rent-free.

If you’ve ever read one of my novels and thought, “This character feels real,” it might be because they’re still hanging around. I’m still arguing with them as I clean up my deceased father's shop. Still learning from them. Still haunted—in the best way—by their presence.

Because once a character starts living in my head…they never seem to leave quietly.

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