Some writers outline plot arcs. Others draft character questionnaires. And then there’s me, sitting in front of my laptop at 2:17 in the morning, debating whether Amy—my chaotic CFO heroine of Distorted Beat—would prefer blueberry pancakes or a croissant on a cold Tuesday in May. Not because it will ever appear on the page. Not because readers demanded a comprehensive audit of her breakfast tendencies. No. Because I needed to know.

Possibly both.

Probably both.

Almost definitely both.

The Sock Drawer of Questionable Sanity

Amy owns twenty-six pairs of socks, each more revealing than a diary entry. Six striped attempts at order, a handful of plain and polka-dot optimists, one pair of tiny storm clouds silently judging her, one skull-print bought during a post-breakup rebellion, and one aggressively impractical gift from Katya that she pretends to love.

Does this level of detail ever make it into the novel? Of course not.

But could I sleep at night without knowing? Also no.

Amy’s House and My Descent into Detail

When I say I built Amy’s house, I don’t mean imagined it. I mean I went full interior-designer-possessed-by-a-poltergeist of colour theory. I conjured every room, every textile, every flamboyant cushion with the seriousness of someone applying for a PhD in Bohemian Maximalism.

I know the exact shade of fuchsia in her bedroom. I know which plants she has killed (three) and which have mysteriously survived (one particularly resilient pothos). I know which cupboard the dog treats are in and how the light falls in her attic at 3 PM on a winter day.

Tomasz: Blueprints of a Brooder

Did you think the brooding decathlete next door escaped my obsessive deep-dive? Let me explain:

I created Tomasz’s entire flat, too. Every book on his shelf. Every mug in his kitchen. Every questionable piece of gym equipment he pretends is “totally necessary”. I even mapped out which windows catch the sunrise, because apparently I’ve decided my characters deserve the attention I don’t give my real-life laundry.

I also know what kind of mattress he sleeps on. Please do not ask me why. There is no way to answer that without sounding unwell.

The Question No Therapist Has Asked Me Yet: Why Do I Know All This?

It is because writing requires me to know my characters down to the mosquito bite on their left ankle. If I don’t know where the mosquito bit them, how can I possibly understand the psychological arc of chapter seventeen?

Is this also a strange writerly quirk that suggests I may need more hobbies? Also yes. (In my defence, I have been working on that – it turns out that riding an Arabian stallion through the desert and up and down the sand dunes is heaven. Also good inspiration – I'm thinking book three ...)

This work often looks excessive from the outside. It is, in some ways, the literary equivalent of compiling Unnecessary Lore Files (Now expanding into Book Two). But it is this hidden architecture that transforms a character from a device into a person with impulses, flaws, and private logic.

And if this makes me a little weird? Fine.

But my characters are real enough to argue with.