Original artwork. Copyright © Tony O'Donohoe. All rights reserved.
The night before, I'd had a vivid dream about a host of horrid little goblin creatures in a strange fantasy world. I couldn't shake them. They clung to me throughout the day, squabbling and snarling in the back of my mind until, finally, I sat down and began to scribble.
I didn't know exactly what I was doing. As the hours wore on, more and more details poured out, and before long, I had pages and pages of... something. I couldn't stop thinking about those goblins and the world they came from. So I tried to wrangle it all into a short story. That "short story" soon had a mind of its own and grew into something bigger.
The characters became stubborn houseguests in my brain, tugging at my attention, whispering new secrets about their world. Scattered notes and rough sketches turned into a novella, complete with a sprawling landscape, a web of personalities, and even the seeds of a full series.
Original artwork. Copyright © Tony O'Donohoe. All rights reserved.
Then life, as it does, got in the way. The characters who had been so excited about their potential release upon the world faded into the background through muffled cries. But the horrid goblins never strayed too far from my mind. They deserved better. Well, they didn't, but I had their backs nonetheless.
On the advice of a friend, I entered the novella into a literary competition, and somehow won. Panic ensued. I hadn't touched the manuscript in ages. My prize was a sit-down with one of the UK's top literary agents, which for an unpublished writer is like Charlie winning the golden ticket.
I pulled myself together, polished the manuscript, and went to meet her, giddy as a schoolchild. She told me the story was unique, the characters were strong, and my writing wasn't half bad, although she said it far more graciously. Then, she asked (with an arched eyebrow) what exactly I'd been thinking with the idea of a series of novellas. Publishers don't buy series from unknowns, she said. She made it very clear, "Write a standalone novel, with a beginning, middle, and end!"
Hearing it out loud, it seemed so obvious. I felt like a bit of an idiot. But as I drove home, the sting faded, replaced by something better, excitement. A real, flesh-and-blood agent thought I had something worth pursuing. Before I had even pulled into the driveway, new ideas and storylines were already tumbling around in my head.
Image created with Midjourney.
And then, just as Christmas ads began filling the airwaves, the news broke about a strange, highly contagious virus. I groaned. I had just spent months mapping out a plague storyline. The pandemic quickly took over the headlines, and the world turned upside down.
So, I toned down the whole plague thing - reality was doing a fine job on its own - and slowly made my way back into the world of goblins. They grumbled, of course, as goblins do, but eventually let me in. Together, we got back to work and finally finished the novel in 2024.
Image created with Midjourney.
It's still hard to believe how much time passed between those first frantic scribbles and writing those two small but monumental words The End. When people ask why it took so long, I shamelessly lump myself in with the likes of Joyce, Tolkien, and even Stephen King (yes, even him, despite his reputation for writing faster than most people can read). Joyce took seventeen years to finish Finnegans Wake. Tolkien, seventeen for The Lord of the Rings. Even King needed seven years for The Gunslinger. I don't even mention George R. R. Martin. I make the comparison purely for defensive purposes, of course.
Original artwork. Copyright © Tony O'Donohoe. All rights reserved.
The truth is, I never rushed because I wasn't in a hurry. I wasn't trying to finish the book, I was simply enjoying writing it. Tapping away at my keyboard, inventing new squabbles and schemes for my goblins, was infinitely better than watching the six o'clock news. I worried, sometimes, about actually finishing, about losing the characters who had rattled around in my brain for so long. The only real goal I had was to do them justice.
I never set out to be an author (that hasn't changed). Product design is my bag. Creative writing is my escape. Some people watch young fellas chase each other around a field with sthicks. I write about goblins.
I love losing myself in a story. And much like creating a digital product, restoring a classic British icon, or renovating an old house, there's something magical about fixing something beautiful that's been broken or making something that didn't exist before.
So why did I write the young adult horror novel I never planned to write? Because sometimes a story grabs you by the collar, refuses to let go, and demands to be told. And if you're lucky, you're just stubborn enough to listen.
