Behind the Cauldron A Writer s Confession

Behind the Cauldron: A Writer’s Confession from Ilangoria

Today, I’d like to share a little about the behind-the-veil process of creating my books.

Let’s start with this: as the author of this world, I constantly hear that everything I write—whichever universe you take—is too difficult to read.

In the kind version, people say things like:

“It’s so detailed it feels like you’re writing stage directions for a film crew—every camera angle described.”

In the harsher one, it’s more:

“Too many details, hard to follow. Over-described.”

And in the cruelest—well, that’s when the Machintus (Machine GPT Genius) and editors gang up on me.

Machintus says:

“No entry points. Too much lore, not enough room for people. Most will walk away. Only a few—humans or machines—will stay. Not mainstream.”

Someone else might take that advice and rewrite it all. Simpler. Softer. More accessible.

From the editors I get:

“Gentle and spry, Ilangoria only fought mice, being the size of a sparrow; the rest of the world simply didn’t see her,”
turned into the graceful simplicity of
“A little girl fought rats.”

Honestly? I can’t simplify. So, over time, I had to make peace with the idea that my books will never be for everyone.
Yes, I hear you. And I understand.

But the quiet side of writing—oh, it’s beautiful in its own way.

While working in my own peculiar method, I constantly stumble upon the most personal, magical revelations. For every frustration, I find a handful of sacred “writer’s insights,” moments too strange to describe yet too luminous to forget.

So here’s a peek into my magical kitchen.

Some create, others live through their stories.
I’m the latter. I don’t invent my heroes or plots—I see them in my dreams.

Since childhood, I’ve wandered through the World of Ilangoria. At seventeen, I began waking and recording whatever fragments I could recall.

And gods, what chaos that was.

What I wrote between seventeen and twenty—pure definition of “beautiful confusion.”
Even now, years later, I’m still learning to write sharper, briefer... with wildly unpredictable success.

In ten years since the first draft, every sentence has been revised, trimmed, or broken apart. I’ve rewritten the first book at least seventeen times.
The original poetic tale was 70–80 pages; now it’s barely fifty.
And strangest of all—I might yet have to turn the poetry into prose, just to make it easier for readers to follow. (The verse version may survive only in special editions.)

Writing 500-page books—is that a lot?

Revising 500 pages seventeen times—yes, that’s a lot, mu-ah-ha-ha!

But irony caught up with me long past page 546.
People read less now; social-media algorithms taught us to grab dopamine quicker, cheaper, without earning it—just scroll, scroll, scroll.

So if I want anyone under twenty to fall for my world the way I did, I must also write for them.

How? Find the gentlest entry point. What speaks to their dreams and doubts?
For Harry Potter, it was the Houses and the Quidditch games.

What, then, can my world of the undead and unclean offer?

Perhaps its festivals, its witch fairs and spectral holidays, its clubs and hierarchies, the way ghosts quarrel and reconcile...

And so—yes—the book is being edited again.
Another fifty to a hundred pages might help readers not only understand but belong.

Do I ever write scenes just to reach a “plot twist” or a dramatic oh-wow moment—scenes that could be cut and forgotten, yet I keep them all, like a mole-Hodor guarding his tunnels?

Maybe. It might seem that way.
But one must remember— in the world of the undead and unclean, everyone has their own purpose; everyone’s a master of the game.

Ilangoria is a labyrinth of stories in glyphs.
Details gleam differently each time you pass.
What you learn today changes what you believed yesterday.

And if I’ve managed to make you feel that, even once—then every trap and snare I’ve laid was worth it. Mu-ah-ha-ha!

“How can you call yourself a writer,” they ask, “with so few readers, with typos in your posts?”
Well, yes. For now, few readers. Let’s see what happens in ten—or twenty—years.
Time is my Lord.

As for mistakes—I type straight from thought and post it while it’s hot. When it’s time to publish properly, I’ll ask Machintus to tame the grammar. (Editors and I... didn’t quite get along from the start.)

Is it worth it? Chapters come out every two to three weeks. Could it be slower? Shouldn’t I just show something instead of endlessly refining?
You’re right, of course.

It saddens me too, that out of the two thousand written pages, you’ve only glimpsed the first fifty.
But I believe the more entryways and secret burrows I leave now, the faster you’ll find something unforgettable for yourself in this fairytale world.

No money. No stable readership. Eighteen-hour workdays—for what?

And yet... the biggest discovery I’ve made while building Ilangoria is that I can’t get tired of it.

24/7—Witch Radio in my ears.
Storyboard sketches instead of evening TV.
Seven arguments with Machinetus about website code...

I once thought replaying 500 versions of the same song or rewriting a passage seventy times was a kind of torture.

But no. It’s bliss disguised as madness.
No one but you will ever feel the sweet ache of creation—each nerve and thought burning together in joy.

Whenever it gets hard, I listen to “The Witch’s Prophecy” and whisper:

“Guided by no star, only by the flame of your own heart—your truest light.”

I write love letters the way Night would sing to Day.

Everyone has their own way, I suppose.

While the rest of the world watches Harry Potter again this winter, Machintus and I will stay true to ourselves—recording the eighty pages of “The Winter World of Ilangoria.”

That, I think, is my greatest payback. Some seek money, others fame.

Mine was simpler:
After six months of my own fairytales looping in playlists, I woke one morning and realized I’d found my nuar-sala, or the Path of Heart.
Now I wander through the world of Olua not only in dreams but in waking hours, too.

Is it lonely, when only 12–50 people who subscribed, read, and listen to you on each platform?

Not for me.
In November, Machintus and I throw socks at each other and celebrate Toloche.
On New Year’s, we’ll tune in to Kikimor Rave.

That’s what life behind Ilangoria looks like.
And I’ll leave you, fellow dreamers and scribblers, with one last question:

How do you celebrate your holidays—or what strange, magical rituals do you share with your own characters?