When I Knew…

Every story starts quietly.

Mine began the way a lot of things do—with a flicker of a thought I didn’t take seriously. A line of dialogue. A face. A woman I couldn’t name yet, staring into a mirror and not liking what stared back. I didn’t know her then. I just knew she was angry, but trying very hard not to be.

The book was soft at first. Careful. But something didn’t sit right. The scenes felt too clean. The emotions too polite. Like I was writing around something instead of through it.

And then came the scene.

The imagery, the prose, the feeling… It was transformative. That’s what made me see…

“Oh. So that’s who you are.”

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t structured. But in that moment, it stopped being just a simple idea I was creating and became a real world, real people with their own pulse—and sharp edges I had to learn how to write without flinching.

That’s when I knew the story had teeth.

It wasn’t just about what happened to them. It was about what they did with it. The control, the unraveling, the unapologetic need to protect oneself or others, by any means necessary. (Shout out to Malcolm X) The ends necessitated the means—it all snapped into place. I wasn’t writing redemption. I was writing reclamation.

And I wasn’t in charge anymore.

So if you’re wondering how Broken Glass came to life, it wasn’t simply through careful outlines or tidy arcs. It was born in that moment of raw clarity—when my protagonist looked me dead in the eye and decided she was done asking for permission.

I just followed her lead. And she helped me create. Nessira, Rhia, Nadia. They are you and me and all of us… if we let loose and are being honest.

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