Although Ami is the second book in the Guardians of Dawn series, I actually had the seed for the story before I started writing Zhara. BAUTHOR'S NOTE:
Although Ami is the second book in the Guardians of Dawn series, I actually had the seed for the story before I started writing Zhara. Beauty and the Beast is my favorite western fairytale, and I have always wanted to write a book that draws inspiration from the story. The first character that ever came into my head from the entire series was the Beast, someone living in a remote mountain fortress with a world-changing secret. Who were they? What was the secret? It was the process of trying to figure out this secret that actually formed the basis for the entire system of magic and the conflict of entire series.
The setting of Ami was also part of the writing process. At the end of Zhara, I knew the characters would be headed toward the outermost west, toward a Beast in a remote castle (even if they weren’t aware of it). In 2018, I went on a research trip to China and Tibet in order to gain a better understanding of the culture, the food, the feel of the thinness of the air, and other small sensory details that I tried my best to infuse into the narrative. The slight animal tang of the yak butter candles in the monasteries. The air so clean and sere as to dry out the lining of the nostrils and throat. The way the beauty of the landscape revealed itself in its utter remoteness.
Another big inspiration of the series was the philosophy of the Way, or Tao. The dance between order and chaos that runs throughout the series is heavily influenced by the concept of yin and yang—the drop of light in darkness, and the drop of darkness in the light. There is balance to the universe, and finding that balance both in the Morning Realms and in our real world is something I think about a lot. Because Zhara was written from a place of joy, I knew that Ami would have to explore some of the darker implications of the world I had created. What does it mean to have a great power? How does one wield it ethically and with good judgment? What does consent mean in an environment of power manipulation?
I don’t have answers to any of these questions; I only set out to explore what they meant to the characters, and by extension, to me. I hope Ami will also lead you to think about these ideas, and what they mean in the real world.
All books are mirrors of the author in some way or another, and Liesl’s journey to the Underground and back perhaps reveals more about mAUTHOR'S NOTE:
All books are mirrors of the author in some way or another, and Liesl’s journey to the Underground and back perhaps reveals more about me than I first realized. If Wintersong was my bright mirror, reflecting all my wish-fulfillment dreams about having my voice recognized and valued, then Shadowsong is my dark one, showing me how all the monstrous parts of the Underground were really another facet of me.
I would like to offer up a content note: Shadowsong contains characters who deal with self-harm, addiction, reckless behaviors, and suicidal ideation. If these subjects are triggering or otherwise upsetting to you, please proceed with caution. If you are struggling with suicidal thoughts, please know that there are resources and people who can assist you at the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, 1-800-273-8255. Please call. You are not alone.
In many ways, Shadowsong is a far more personal work than its predecessor. I have been open and candid about writing Liesl as a person with bipolar disorder—much like her creator—but in Wintersong, I kept her diagnosis at arm’s length. Part of that is due to the fact that bipolar disorder as a diagnosis wasn’t really understood during the time in which she lived, and part of it is due to the fact that I did not want to face her—and therefore my—particular sort of madness.
Madness is a strange word. It encompasses any sort of behavior or thought pattern that deviates from the norm, not just mental illness. I, like Liesl, am a functioning member of society, but our mental illnesses make us mad. They make us arrogant, moody, selfish, and reckless. They make us destructive, to both ourselves and to those we love. We are not easy to love, Liesl and I, and I did not want to face that ugly truth.
And the truth is ugly. Liesl and Josef reflect both the manic and melancholic parts of myself, and they are dark, grotesque, messy, and painful. And while there are books that offer up prettier pictures, windows into a world in which things are healthy and whole, Shadowsong is not one of them. I kept the monster at bay in my first book; I would claim it as my own for my second.
Again I leave you with the phone number for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, 1-800-273-8255. There is no need to suffer alone. I see your monstrosity. I am not afraid. I have faced my own demons, but not alone. I had help.
To be fair, I was far from the only one undergoing a mental health crisis in the early months of AUTHOR'S NOTE:
In the summer of 2020, my brain broke.
To be fair, I was far from the only one undergoing a mental health crisis in the early months of the COVID-19 pandemic lockdowns, but on the day my brain broke two things happened:
1. I checked myself into a local crisis center. 2. I was supposed to deliver the first book in the Guardians of Dawn series.
Madness, mania, melancholy, music, and finding the drive and desire to create when the world was literally falling apart—both within and without you—was something I had written about in my previous duology, but I hadn’t expected these themes to escape the very bounds of my books to haunt me in real life. Although I had written acceptance of my mental illness monster into the pages of Wintersong and Shadowsong, I hadn’t yet understood how to live with bipolar disorder. How to work. How to write. I knew how survive, but I did not know how to thrive.
And then the world ground to a halt.
When I first pitched Guardians of Dawn to my publisher, I had wanted to work on something a bit more light-hearted than Wintersong, something inspired by the magical girl manga and anime of my youth—full of action, adventure, romance…and joy.
It turns out that finding joy—much less delivering on it—is a lot harder during a pandemic.
By the time my brain broke, I had been working on the first book in the Guardians of Dawn series for several years, writing draft after draft after draft in an effort to get it right. Not good—right. I had the premise, the characters, and the plot, and yet some ineffable, intangible quality was missing. The book lived and breathed, yet somehow the spirit—the soul—remained elusive.
In the weeks after I returned from the crisis center, I had some time to consider what it was I truly wanted. From my writing, my art, and myself. I took a lot of baths, watched a lot of BTS content, read a lot of webtoons, played a lot of otome games on my phone, and tried to remember the way joy felt. The way I felt when I was fourteen, reading print-outs of Sailor Moon fanfiction while luxuriating in a Victoria’s Secret Enchanted Apple bubble bath. The way I felt going over to my friend Abby’s on weekends in high school to binge-watch The Vision of Escaflowne with her and Jenna. The way I felt when I was teen: girlish and innocent and full of delight.
It turns out that joy is not just discovered, but made. Created. Nurtured. Built.
I have over 800,000 words on various drafts of Zhara�811,810, to be exact—and each of them are links on the chain that I built of joy. It was over the course of these 800,000 words that I discovered joy is made of so many more things than happiness or fun; joy is light, joy is dark, joy is labor, and joy is play. I wrote all that and more into this first book, and I hope you will find as much joy in Zhara as I did....more
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