Where do my stories begin?

How I Discover Ideas and Create Characters That Stick with You

People often ask me, “Where do your ideas come from?” As if I have a secret drawer full of gripping plots and dangerous characters just waiting to leap onto the page. The truth is… I kind of do. But it’s not a drawer—it’s more like a messy, mysterious place in my head, where stray thoughts, emotions, and observations take root and grow.

Most of my ideas start as whispers. A phrase I overhear in a coffee shop. A woman standing alone at a crosswalk, shoulders tight, eyes scanning the crowd. A headline that makes me tilt my head and say, “Now, that’s odd.” I collect these little sparks and carry them around with me—sometimes for days, sometimes for years—until they start humming with energy. When I can’t stop thinking about something, I know it’s time to chase it down.

The Birth of a Story

For me, stories begin with tension. I’m drawn to that delicious friction between what seems perfect and what’s hiding underneath. Living on Hilton Head Island, I’m surrounded by beauty—lush greenery, pristine beaches, genteel porches—but beneath that charm can lurk secrets, dysfunction, and drama. That contrast is what propelled me to begin my new manuscript, Runway Girls.

Often, I start with a question. What if the past isn’t dead after all? What if the person you trust most is lying? Scheming? From there, a character emerges underneath my hands, as if stepping out of the mist and becoming increasingly clear. That’s how Olivia Callahan came to be. She began as someone I met who'd had a similar experience, and soon became a full-blown presence in my mind. A woman with trauma in her rearview mirror, grit in her veins, and no idea how strong she really was. She didn’t come out swinging—she came out surviving. And I loved her for it. She surprised me at every turn.

Letting Characters Take the Lead

I’ve never been a fan of “perfect” protagonists. I want real, messy, layered people. I want readers to wonder if they’d make the same choices—or if they’d run screaming in the opposite direction. I love when my characters resist me, when they do something outrageous I didn’t plan. That’s when I know they’ve taken on a life of their own. Sometimes I start with a voice. A tone. Sarcastic. Cautious. Desperate. That voice starts to shape everything: how the character talks, what they fear, what they long for. My background in advertising helps—I spent years channeling other people’s voices, stepping into their shoes. Now, I use that skill to bring my characters to life. Each one has their own rhythm, their own quirks, their own lens on the world.

Building a World That Breathes

While my books are character-driven, I believe setting should feel alive—like a character in its own right. I use the environment to mirror my protagonist’s internal world. If she’s unraveling, the sky might darken. If she’s on the brink of clarity, the air might still. I want readers to feel the mood in their bones. The South, especially the Lowcountry, has a special hold on me. There’s something about its blend of grace and grit that draws out the stories I want to tell. The moss-draped oaks, the oppressive summer heat, the creak of a rocking chair on a quiet porch—all of it adds texture and tension.

The Writing Process: Beautiful Chaos

Once I have the bones of an idea, I sketch a loose outline—not a rigid roadmap, but more of a trail of breadcrumbs. I write quickly, knowing the first draft is just me telling the story to myself. Then comes the part I secretly love: revising, deepening, cutting away the fluff until only the sharp, necessary pieces remain. I rely on feedback—trusted beta readers and my editor—to help me polish and tighten. I want my stories to crackle with tension, to keep readers turning pages long into the night. But I also want them to feel something. That’s the goal, always: emotional truth wrapped in suspense.

Inspiration in the Wild

At the end of the day, I see the world through a storyteller’s lens. I wonder what’s going on behind the smile, what someone isn’t saying, what’s buried under the surface. I don’t need the full story to get started—just a crack in the door. Once I spot that crack, I do what writers do best: pry it open, slip inside, and start taking notes.