How I turn the story in my head into an actual book
It starts with a list. Or rather: a collection of things that absolutely have to be in this book. Non-negotiable. Some have been on that list since Book one, others are new—because Space Time suddenly opened doors that hadn’t even existed before. And then there’s everything that at least needs to be prepared—for later books, trilogies, ideas.
I know the first scene—the opening, the point of view, the first sentence. I know what happens in it, where it leads. I also know what’s at stake—for the characters, and for the big picture. That’s my anchor. That’s where I start telling the story.
And still: that’s not a plot. Not yet.
What I have in my head is more like a pulsing space filled with ideas, fragments, hints, relationships, and twists. There are lines—but they’re not connected yet. There’s the story—but I can’t get it onto the page just yet.
What comes next is the part that always changes everything for me. Always has: I tell the story.
And like every storyteller, I need someone to tell it to—because that’s what a story is for: it has to be told, and it has to be heard. And the person who hears mine is my wife.
She knows the world. She knows the characters. And she knows me well enough to hear when I start skipping things or leave something unexplained that only makes sense in my head. She asks questions, gives feedback—but it’s not brainstorming. It’s about telling the story, the way it already exists in my mind.
I have my list in front of me. I know what has to be in there. And I also know that somewhere between the beginning and the end, new threads will appear—new connections, new conflicts, new possibilities. And as I tell the story, it grows.
These conversations always take several hours. And we record them—because at the end of it, I don’t have a fully written outline, but I know how the book is going to feel. I know the core. I know what absolutely can’t be missing. And I know which new ideas only became visible in the telling.
This time, it was the hardest plot conversation I’ve ever had.
Because Continuum isn’t just another volume. It’s the conclusion of my first trilogy.
Which means: The book has to wrap up a story that’s been unfolding for three volumes. It needs to deliver answers, complete arcs, provide payoff.
At the same time, Continuum is also the starting point for something bigger: the next trilogy.
So I wasn’t just making sure this book works. I had to think ahead. And still craft a complete, compelling, self-contained story.
The No Brainer trilogy is the heart of the Space World. Or maybe the roots? But in Continuum, I also need to plant the seeds for what’s coming next. Two more trilogies are already planned. Other projects are in preparation. And Space Time brought certain things to the surface—hidden organizations, covert alliances, big questions—that now need to be carried forward, deepened, or reinterpreted.
Oh, and then there’s the actual story of Book three itself, in which all the threads from Book one and two come together and trigger a chain reaction—with familiar and not-so-familiar characters, decisions, threats.
So: I tell the story. I keep going until everything’s there. And when I notice I’m getting tangled up, I just keep talking. I talk my way through it.
We record those conversations. Not so I can listen back later—but so we can build a structure from them while it’s all still fresh in my mind.
Because the next step is the crucial one: everything that’s been “told” now gets sorted. By theme, by arc, by tension curve, by place in the book.
Only then does the actual plot take shape. Not as a checklist—but as a structure in which everything I want to tell makes sense, feels strong, and rings true. At first, it feels like putting together a puzzle upside down.
Start with the edges—just by shape, by feel, whatever fits. Then a few pieces stand out—they’re unique, they clearly go somewhere, and their relation to each other becomes obvious. Then some pieces around them. And gradually, I stop noticing that I’m only seeing the backs of the pieces. Each one finds its place because it just belongs there—and by the end, I have a sense of what picture the puzzle will show once I flip it over.
Right now, I have nearly four hours of puzzle pieces for Continuum.
How much of that will make it into the final book? Almost all of it. But often in a completely different shape than what was on the original list.
Because that’s the point: not just to tick boxes—but to bring it to life.
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