It’s strange, isn’t it, the way protagonists creep into our lives? One day they’re nothing more than a spark of an idea, the faintest whisper of a voice in the distance, and the next—they’re practically living and breathing. They develop quirks, histories, secrets. They take up residence in your head, uninvited but entirely welcome, and you find yourself adjusting your life around them.

I sometimes think of them like unexpected houseguests. They arrive with a suitcase you didn’t see them pack. Inside: a childhood they half-remember, the habits they don’t want you to notice, the longings they’ll never confess. And as a writer, you unpack it all with them, one layer at a time. By the end, you know them better than most of the people you’ve met in real life.

Of mine, only two have escaped into the wild so far. Norah, the fractured heart of Composite Creatures, and David, whose presence still lingers long after I wrote the last line of his story, in Mothtown. I visit bookshops and see them sitting there on the shelves, waiting quietly for strangers to pick them up and meet them for the first time. And every time, it feels like introducing an old friend at a party. “This is Norah. This is David. Be kind to them—they’ve been through a lot.”

But here’s the curious thing: not all characters stay with you in the same way. Some burn bright and then fade, once their story is told. Others nestle into the quiet corners of your life and refuse to leave. I think it’s because certain characters change you in the writing of them. They force you to see the world differently, or to look at yourself more closely. David, for me, is one of those. He made me ask questions I hadn’t thought to ask before. He pulled me into darker rooms, then handed me a light, pointed to the shadowy corners he knew so well.

But the thing about writers is that we’re never done building people. My head is full of voices still waiting their turn in the readers’ spotlight. Young Maudie, with her watchful eyes and full heart. The Ritualkeeper, who knows too much and carries it anyway. Violine, whose song threads through my current ‘work-in-progress’, even when she isn’t on the page. They’re all half-formed now, lingering in that strange liminal space between nothing and someone. But one day, they’ll find their way to you too.

I love the thought that our characters don’t just live inside us—they live inside you, too, once you’ve read them. They move in, unpack, and keep whispering long after you’ve closed the book. They sit at the edge of your thoughts while you’re driving or washing dishes, just as they do in mine. That’s the magic of stories: they’re not confined to the pages. They’re shared landscapes, built between us.

So yes—David will always have a place in my heart. But I hope, in time, you’ll meet the rest of the household. There are so many more stories to tell.