Writing in the Dark: Uncovering a Hidden Voice

The novel I’ve been writing is all about self-discovery. I didn’t intend it that way, but most of the themes emerged from thoughts I’ve carried through my life. The initial spark came from a dream I had ten years ago.

Some of my early drafts stayed close to that dream—more fantastical in tone—but over time, the story shifted. The worldbuilding and story bible took on a life of their own. I can’t fully explain how a dream featuring a Russian octopus princess, a talking television, and a locked-away ego evolved into a story about the daughter of an ordinary (but deeply sensitive) family setting off on a once-in-a-lifetime journey.

But the story moved on its own. It flowed.

Whenever I can, I just try to listen to their voices. That’s all I’ve been doing lately.

Most of my characters have revealed themselves. They speak to me clearly. They want to tell me their stories. But there’s one I still haven’t met properly.

I couldn’t even name him for a while. The others came easily—they felt obvious, right. But this one? Nothing. No voice. No face. I designed him to be someone who hides, who doesn’t want a voice in the world. But I never imagined how hard it would be to find him.

After three days of consideration (others took me minutes), I barely managed to give him a name: Casiel Nethersen. Even now, as I write this, I just mistyped it as “Neathersen.” It still doesn’t sit fully in my hands.

For a while, he was just “C-something” in the story bible. I’d have to scroll up every time I mentioned him. “C-something” eventually became Casiel, and nearly a month later, I still get “Nethersen” wrong.

He has trauma. He doesn’t want to be seen. He stays silent in the back. He would do anything to avoid attention. And I understand that. But I hadn’t realised he would refuse to show up this much.

I’m not someone who outlines every detail before writing. Once I know the general flow and emotional thread, I begin. The story often stretches, meanders, or surprises me—but it always returns to the right place.

That’s why it’s okay that I don’t fully understand Casiel yet. I can still write. I have Aether. Her story is the dominant thread for now.

But she will need to meet him eventually. All the characters are connected. And I still can’t see how Casiel fits.

It’s been almost a month, and he hasn’t arrived.

Writing this novel has been full of surprises. Now I truly understand when people say, “the characters speak.” They do. Aether. Her father. Her best friend. They speak to me while I’m working, during town halls, lunchtime walks, and just before sleep.

There’s no schedule. Just sudden voices. And I’m the only one who hears them.

Even though they appear during corporate hours, they don’t disrupt my work. I hold them until evening—until I sit in the attic to write. I’ve never loved this in-between life, but I’ve learned to carry both sides. I think my characters understand it, too. They speak gently, as if to say, I know you’re busy, but here’s something about me—remember this later. And I do. Thank you, my folks.

Some speak loudly. One always starts with, “I’ll tell you a secret.” Others prefer writing to speaking, especially Aether’s mother. Her story unfolds in the quiet of the evening. My fingers dance, and she whispers.

And Casiel? He’s still waiting. I respect that.

All I can do now is knock on the door sometimes and see if he’s ready to speak. I don’t know if he prefers words or silence. I don’t know how much he wants to reveal. I don’t even know how he and Aether will meet.

But I’m not rushing. I believe everything has its time. And my only rule is: don’t give up. As long as I keep trying to listen, he will speak.

And if he never does? Well… maybe that’s another story—one where Aether and Casiel never meet.