Helyna L. Clove

I didn’t really think I was going to write and publish another book, after my debut.

Skylark in the Fog, my space opera where a bunch of losers get their arses kicked in space while they try to find themselves, their home in each other, and possibly stop the universe from imploding as well, lived and grew with me for ten years. And although I’ve been writing stories since I first discovered that it’s a thing one can do, I didn’t have a lot of luck finishing them or being able to polish them to a state where I’d have been secure in presenting them to other people. Completing Skylark felt like a miracle, back in 2020, and it was the product of not just me but several others who took the time and effort to support, comment on, advise, or simply have belief in my journey. And when it was all done, and I stood there, happy and exhausted, doubt and fear also reared their ugly heads.

It had taken so much. Would I be able to write anything like that again? Should I even try?

But…I love writing. It’s been always there for me. The urge is natural, elemental. And I wanted to show my stories off; I liked knowing that others could find them, enjoy them, receive something of value through them. So, where was that anxiety coming from? Well, expectations, obviously. Mostly mine, some internal, some external. It’s something I continue to struggle with, learn from, and stand up against. But it didn’t take long for me to start writing again, after that first complete draft of Skylark was done and I decided I was going to publish. I wrote a novella first—that was very new, because I don’t usually think in shorter form. It helped, too, because, behold, I finished something again, and it didn’t even take ten more years!

But could I write a proper book again? I don’t know, let’s try! Let’s try something fun, I said, something completely risk-free—then I immediately toppled head-first into a months-long fever dream that was Imbued, definitely not “fun” in the sense I was hoping for but a time period I now think of fondly, wistful, and slightly terrified.

The book started out very self-indulgent. I told myself, this is for me. I tried to ignore what I believed anyone else would think about it and just…wrote. It was going to be full of magic. There would be a love story. It would be so damn melodramatic I’d have to cut myself out from under all those layers of saccharine pathos! And so it started, and so it quickly became much more serious than I intended. Apparently, I wasn’t finished with opening my veins and bleeding out onto the page. I always say Imbued (and its oncoming sequel, watch out!) is me at my most unhinged so far, and you might be thinking “um, but this book is not even unhinged, I’ve read way weirder stuff!” but then, my friend, you’ll also have to consider who I am as a person. I’m normally so far from everything that this book is that you wouldn’t believe!

Well, not anymore. Because this book turned me inside out, swallowed and chewed me up, then spat me back out into the world, shivering and shocked. Yes, that dramatic. And I loved every second of it.

If Skylark in the Fog made me accept and acknowledge a lot of things about myself and gave me hope for the future, then Calla’s story taught me that there are things I don’t have to accept. That I can be angry and think awful things, and that peace can come from that, too. It’s been the hardest thing I’ve written so far, but I’m so glad for what it became. And I hope others can find a similar catharsis through it; maybe a community, a connection. It’s not a happy story, but it’s an honest one. It’s been a long and difficult road, trying to understand who I am and where I’d come from, but I’m starting to think it’s been worth it.

And as always, I didn’t do it alone.

First of all, I’d like to thank my sister, eternal plotting partner, inspiration, and best friend. I couldn’t do this *gestures in the general direction of everything* without you, and that’s a fact. I’m also very grateful to my partner for his endless support and patience, and for always ensuring I can eff off and submerge into my little world when necessary.

I’d like to thank my editor, Charlie Knight. Working together for the second time was just as fulfilling as the first. You seem to know what my stories need, communicate it kindly and effectively, and I always feel better about my writing and my goals after consulting with you. You’re also just a super person, and I’m glad to know you. My thanks also go out to my cover artist, Harkalé Linaï, who created the images from my dreams for these books once again. It’s the best, to have a cover that also inspires me.

This is only half a joke, but I’d also like to thank my therapist. Or rather, therapy, in general. What a thing. What a marvelous, horrible, brain-twisting thing.

I’d like to thank the different, smaller or larger, mostly indie and self-published writer communities I’m part of—fully or tangentially. I’ve made so many cool author friends and acquaintances through the last 2-3 years, and it’s been amazing to be able to share successes and sorrows. It wouldn’t be the same without you. It’s been such an important learning opportunity for me, and a chance to meet lots of awesome people and read their works. It started with Wattpad (hi, guys!) because that’s where Imbued was born, heck yeah, then transferred over to mostly Twitter and some Discord servers (like the HuNo Discord, thanks so much for listening to my ramblings!), but no matter where or how we manage to connect, I’m so glad to know y’all. I can’t believe all the talent that’s out there.

My special thanks go to the wonderful Cat Rector and L. E. Harper, two indie authors I really look up to, and who were gracious enough to read and blurb Imbued. I will always hold your words close to my heart, and your support means the most. Thank you to my beta readers/reviewers/supporters as well: Cheyenne, Kim, KGB, Jo, Julie, Eagle, Doom, Natalie, Azalea, GEM, Marie, Jamedi, Kriti, Tessa, and many more of you who read and/or enjoyed my stuff, tried to get the word out, or just had a nice convo with me. I remember you all. I’m serious. Keep writing, keep reading, we got this.

I’m grateful to Mom and Dad who gifted me the love of words. It’s my solace, these days, in many ways.

And thank you, dear reader, if you got this far (and even if you didn’t). Thank you for being here, thank you for reading. This has been special for me, and I hope it’s been that for you, too.

Until the next time.