“The writer is both a sadist and a masochist. We create people we love, then we torture them. The more we love them, and the more cleverly we torture them along the lines of their greatest vulnerability and fear, the better the story.”
— Janet Fitch
Writing The Valkyries has been an incredible experience—flying high on the thrill of creation, building a fantasy world and molding the brave souls who lived within it.
I loved drafting the fight scenes—blasting BFG Division from the Doom Eternal soundtrack while Kaelva carved her path across the battlefield.
Other times, Astrid took the lead, either strategizing a plan of attack or delivering heartfelt words of encouragement to inspire those around her—myself included.
And Freyna’s journey would mirror my own—her doubting whether she could serve as a Valkyrie beside Kaelva and Astrid, while I doubted if I could carry The Valkyries through to publication. But Freyna and I would find our confidence together, as she would lead the charge into battle herself and I would submit my first wave of queries to agents.
From their lives as mortals, through their ascensions as Valkyries, and until the three became one—the journey of creating three characters overflowing with life brought a joy I had never expected.
Happy, hopeful, together—the Valkyries were ready to defend the realms until the end of time.
But The Valkyries is a story of redemption…
And there could be no rise without the fall.
The Valkyries is my first book. Kaelva, Astrid, and Freyna are my first characters. They will always have a special place in my heart, so I resolved to orchestrate the greatest redemption I could—knowing that the greater the redemption, the greater the fall.
I resolved to write the most heartbreaking descent I could. The scenes needed to first strike a sense of unease, then slowly grow stronger and stronger—until everything shattered. I wanted the reader to mourn what was lost, while utterly hating the one who tore them apart.
I knew the aftermath awaiting Kaelva, Astrid, and Freyna, but I never fathomed what awaited me.
The same heartache I hoped to cut into the Valkyries and into the reader I plunged into myself.
Every moment of pain, grief, and heartache I set upon the Valkyries I set upon myself as well.
But I condemned myself to something more. Something I never expected.
Guilt.
Kaelva, Astrid, Freyna—they were just characters on a page. So why should I feel so guilty for writing the story the way I did?
Because they were my characters.
Because I spent over half the length of the book—literal months—with them.
Because I brought them happiness, hope, and each other.
And then I ripped it all away.
In my mind, I understood this was all simply the price to pay for writing a story like this—but even still, there were times I simply had to walk away, or jump ahead to another scene, or write something completely unrelated. I couldn’t bear putting my beloved character through so much misery.
Then, things got worse…
Not only was I the one tormenting the Valkyries, but the Valkyries on the page were no longer the same ones I once knew.
Their warmth, their strength, their heart—smothered.
Kaelva, Astrid, Freyna—shadows of the souls I once knew.
I found myself longing for the brave heroes I once wrote for—but now they were gone.
I’ve endured six drafts of The Valkyries—and analyzed each chapter far more times than that, yet my heart still aches for them at certain points of their journey.
I started to unravel, questioning what led me here.
Where did all this pain come from?
Why am I putting them through all this?
Why am I putting myself through this?
I thought about walking away. In the first draft, no one knew I was writing a book, so no one would know I stopped. I could close the book unfinished, freeing myself from their pain.
But that would mean leaving the Valkyries in the same pit of misery I cast them into—and that was something I could never forgive myself for. I needed to press forward through the misery so that we could find the light at the other side.
I found a way to overcome the guilt, following a simple technique used by many other writers throughout time: asking my characters—Kaelva, Astrid, and Freyna—for forgiveness.
From the beginning, I knew forgiveness would be a key theme in The Valkyries.
I never thought I would seek it out myself as the story bloomed into creation.
I stepped away from The Valkyries, taking time to speak directly to Kaelva, Astrid, and Freyna. I begged them for forgiveness for all the pain and suffering I put them through, and vowed to make it all worth it in the end.
I kept my promise.
The imaginary conversation was cathartic to say the least, and became something I could always return to in moments of uncertainty.
The sixth and final draft is complete, and the first wave of agents has received my query letter, I can say I fulfilled my oath—I balanced their descent with their redemption, finishing the first installment of their epic journey.
Now, we press onward—to land an agent, secure a publisher, and share Kaelva, Astrid, and Freyna’s story with the world.
But even when The Valkyries hits the shelves, their saga will have only begun…
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