If you’d told me a few years ago that I’d be 225,000 words into a fantasy trilogy, I would’ve laughed. Politely. Then changed the subject. Because fiction, especially fantasy, was never my plan.

I didn’t grow up dreaming of elves or magic systems. My brothers did. I can’t even count the number of table and car ride discussions where they dissected the latest fantasy series with passionate analysis. My book loves leaned more toward mystery and detective fiction. And while I always enjoyed a great fantasy read when it came along, I never saw myself writing one. I’ve always loved storytelling. But most of my creative energy went elsewhere—teaching, documenting, reflecting, analyzing. Trying to figure things out.

Somewhere around the middle of 2023, a new question started to form. It wasn’t “What do I want to write?” It was “What could I create if I stayed with it long enough?” After half a year of exercising every single day, I had built an unexpected level of trust in my own discipline. That consistency made me curious. Could I channel that same daily commitment into something creative?

I let the question sit in the back of my mind. What kind of story would I write? I didn’t know. Not even a spark. I read more fantasy books to see if something might click. I stayed open. Still nothing.

Then in October 2023, during the final days of a trip to Italy with my best friend Chandra and her husband, we were touring the Roman Forum. I wasn’t listening closely to the guide—I was too busy taking photos—until I heard her say, while pointing below, “Here is where the Vestal Virgins lived…”

And there it was.

I don’t know if I said it out loud or just thought it, but the sentence came fully formed: “My main character is a Vestal Virgin.”

Only, in my version, her flame is magical.

It felt like the idea dropped in from nowhere. Whole. Sharp. Real. Once I had that first image, everything else began to unfold. The idea wasn’t just a character. It was a world.

Elizabeth Gilbert describes creativity this way: “The work wants to be made, and it wants to be made through you.”

That’s exactly how it felt. I had been searching for a story for months. And in a single moment, I knew the waiting hadn’t been wasted.

Inspired by Rome’s grandeur and decay, the story started to take shape—questions of power, duty, collapse, silence, and survival. What does it mean to serve a system you no longer believe in? What if the divine isn’t listening? What happens when truth and loyalty collide?

The more I explored those questions, the more the story built itself. I wasn’t chasing a plot. I was following a feeling. Heavy. Complicated. Rooted in identity and betrayal. Once it started, I couldn’t stop it.

I set the goal: write the book in 2024. By July, I had.

A trusted friend read the manuscript and said something that changed everything. “This isn’t one book. It’s three.” The pacing needed room. The characters needed breath. So I went back to the beginning.

I thought I was creatively drained. But as soon as I started again, the story returned. Stronger.

At the beginning of this process, I told a coworker about my writing goal. She smiled and said, “That’s great—as long as you enjoy it.”

I remember thinking, “I’m not doing this to enjoy it. I’m doing it as an act of discipline.”

But I’ve come to love it in a way I never saw coming.

As Gilbert also writes: “Creativity is a gift to the creator, not just a gift to the audience.”

I didn’t choose fantasy because it was my favorite. I chose it because I wanted freedom. I didn’t want to check dates or cross-reference battles. I wanted to build a world that served the story, not the other way around. A world where I could ask hard questions without needing clean answers.

This is the first in a series of posts about writing my first novel.

I’ll share what worked. What didn’t. And what kept me going.

If you’re new here, welcome. If you’ve followed my journey as a “wannabe,” you know this is just another bend in the road. One I didn’t expect, but one I’m walking with curiosity, clarity, and maybe even a little wonder.

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Writing a Fantasy Novel Was Never the Plan—Until It Was