Some people get stories that arrive neatly. Those stories know what they are, where they're going, and how they're supposed to end. They follow the rules. They stay in their lanes. They behave.
Mine rarely do.
I know I'm absolutely dating myself with this, but who remembers song fics of the nineties? Raise your hand! I see you over there! ;)
I never really set out to write unruly stories on purpose. I remember quite clearly jotting down notes to a science-fiction story in English class after finishing my essay. It's one of those "Publish this after I die..." stories. We all have those.
I noticed that over time, whenever I tried to force my works into some shape that felt "acceptable" something went quiet. The spark I once had dimmed. The characters became stiff. The story became polite and deeply uninterested in being alive. I often described this as "painting myself into a corner."
Stories, like people, don’t thrive under constant correction.
From an early age, I found myself drawn to the strange corners of storytelling. History is full of contradictions, science fiction that asked the uncomfortable questions, fantasy that refused to let itself just be decorative. I enjoyed stories where people were complicated, where motivations were conflicted, and where endings felt earned instead of neat and tidy inside a box. I liked the sense that anything might happen and that not everything would be explained away.
I don't feel that taste has ever really left me.
My stories tend to mix humor with grief. They let morally rigid people collide with chaos. They linger in moments that don't advance the plot but say something important about being human. They're interested in survival and the quiet decisions people make when no one is watching. Sometimes they're funny in places they "shouldn't" be. Sometimes they refuse to offer simple answers.
That refusal isn't accidental.
One time I even had someone tell me I "write with all the skill of a fermented pumpkin."
It would've been easy to shrink and to hide. Instead, I burst out laughing at the claim. I took it and ran with it.
Pumpkins don't grow where you tell them to. Instead, they choose to spread and survive. They show up unexpectedly and if you underestimate them, they have a way of sticking around anyway. Stories can be like that too. Especially the ones that matter the most.
I write stories that don't behave because behaving isn't what saved me. What saved me were stories that felt honest, even when they were messy. Stories that admitted people can be contradictory. Growth isn't linear. (Though, it would be so much easier if it were!) Love doesn't always arrive wrapped in clarity. Humor can coexist with pain, and it often does.
One of my most recent pieces, that I'll introduce you to shortly, is a romantic comedy involving an assassin with strict rules and a thief who treats said rules as suggestions. It's funny. It's dramatic,. It's inconvenient. It refuses to smooth its characters down into something easier to digest. And it works because of that friction, not in spite of it.
When I write, I'm less interested in telling perfect stories than I am in telling true ones. True doesn't mean autobiographical but it means emotionally honest. It's letting the characters make choices that feel right for them, even when those choices complicate the narrative. Especially then.
Stories that don't behave tend to linger.
They stay with you because they feel like life: unresolved in places, sharp at the edges, and funny when you least expect it. They don't ask permission to exist. They don't apologize for being strange. They insist on being heard.
That’s the kind of mischief I believe in.
If you’re interested in stories that survive being underestimated. Stories that grow in odd soil and refuse to stay decorative then you’re in the right place.
The pumpkins are unruly.
The quill is sharp.
And the stories will continue to misbehave.
