People often ask me how I write my books, as if there’s a secret ritual involving candles, moonlight, and a muse named Greg. Sadly, the truth is far less glamorous and far more caffeinated. My process is less “disciplined artist at work” and more “gremlin trying to meet a deadline with crumbs on their keyboard.”

First, I start with a brilliant idea. At least, it seems brilliant at 2 a.m. when I’m staring at the ceiling and convincing myself I’ve just discovered the next literary masterpiece. I jot it down in a notebook, on my phone, or occasionally on the back of receipts, because inspiration strikes wherever it pleases, especially in inconvenient places like the supermarket queue.

Then comes the writing. This is the part where real authors say things like “I let the characters speak through me.” I, on the other hand, mostly mutter at my laptop and plead with the blinking cursor to cooperate. Every session begins the same. I open my document, reread the last paragraph, decide it’s utter rubbish, rewrite it, and then reward myself with coffee for all that emotional labour.

Of course, writing isn’t just about words, it’s about procrastination techniques disguised as productivity. I’ll spend an entire afternoon “researching” (i.e., Googling medieval architecture or how fast a person can run from a bear), and somehow end up watching videos of squirrels instead. But I tell myself it’s all part of the creative process.

Eventually, through a mysterious blend of panic, snacks, and stubbornness, a book emerges. It’s chaotic, imperfect, and entirely mine. Finishing it feels like both a triumph and a mild hallucination. Then I promise myself I’ll be more organised next time. I never am.

Writing a book is equal parts passion and nonsense, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.