As a writer, I’ve always been a plotter. I thrive on structure—knowing where my story is going before I dive into the prose. Outlines are my roadmap, and my characters don’t take a single step without me knowing where they’ll end up. But every once in a while, something unexpected happens: a single image, a visual spark, stops me dead in my tracks. And in that instant, I know—this isn’t just inspiration; it’s a story waiting to be told. It’s not planned, it’s not part of my current series, and it might not even be a genre I’m comfortable with, but I feel it so deeply that I can’t ignore it. That’s when I set aside my carefully plotted plans and let intuition take the wheel.
That’s exactly how Winter Zero began.
I remember the moment vividly. It was early April 2022, and I was scrolling through a site full of pre-made book covers, as I often do when I need a little inspiration. Most of the time, I browse for hours, rejecting hundreds—sometimes thousands—of covers because they don’t quite fit my vision or my genre. But then I saw her. She was standing in a tunnel, her leather jacket torn and frayed, a lace collar peeking out—a strange but striking contrast. Her green hair fell messily around her face, which was covered in cybernetic plates revealing intricate digital circuitry beneath. The tunnel walls were cracked and damaged, hinting at a world that had seen better days. I instantly knew that her name was going to be Snow Southbridge. That intuition was very strong.
She wasn’t just a striking image; she was a character. A story. Someone who had survived something, someone caught between worlds—human and machine, corporate and rebel, past and present. And in that moment, I knew. This wasn’t just a cover. It was her story, and I was going to tell it.
I could feel the weight of her journey even before I had a plot. Who was she? Why was she in that tunnel? Was she trapped in some underground corporate facility? What was her mission? Her torn jacket and the damaged tunnel screamed of a world far removed from the sleek, neon-lit cyberpunk settings I’d seen before. It wasn’t just cyberpunk; it was post-apocalyptic too. A cross-genre story. Something grittier, harsher. I didn’t have all the answers yet, but the questions were alive in my mind.
The title came quickly—Winter Zero. It felt perfect: a blend of cyberpunk grit and the cold, relentless emptiness of a post-apocalyptic world. I didn’t know if “winter” referred to a nuclear winter, the fallout of climate collapse, or something more symbolic, but I liked the ambiguity. And “Zero” had that sharp, edgy cyberpunk flavor I love. It was a title that left room for the story to grow.
Within a few days, I reached out to the artist, Juan J. Padrón, who runs jcovers.com Not only did he deliver that stunning cover, but he also offered me two additional covers in the same trade dress, creating a cohesive look for an entire trilogy. I bought all three on the spot, knowing that this wasn’t just a one-off story—it was a world waiting to be explored.
But even with the covers in hand, the story itself took time. A lot of time. It’s been 2 years and 7 months since I saw that cover for the first time, and now Winter Zero is finally in its first draft, moving into edits. There were entire seasons where I didn’t write a single word on it. Not because I didn’t love the idea, but because I couldn’t quite pin it down. The protagonist wasn’t just a tool of corporate power or a rogue cyborg; she was a survivor with a mission of her own. The world wasn’t just a backdrop—it was a character in itself, shaped by climate collapse, technological decay, and humanity’s mistakes. These ideas took time to take shape, and I had to be patient.
Sometimes, I think stories need to simmer. They wait for the right moment, for the right pieces to click into place. That’s how it was with Winter Zero. Eventually, I found the connections that made the story work—the balance between her cybernetic nature and her humanity, the blend of cyberpunk aesthetic with post-apocalyptic grit, and the deeply personal stakes driving her journey. And once those pieces clicked, the story began to flow. It wasn’t just about her escape; it was about her fight to reclaim herself and her world.
Now, as I work through the edits, I look back on this journey with a sense of awe. It’s incredible to think how far the story has come—from a single image to a living, breathing narrative. Writing it has reminded me how much of my process, even as a plotter, relies on trusting my intuition. That spark of inspiration is rare and precious, and when it strikes, I’ve learned to listen. Even when the path forward isn’t clear, even when it takes years, I’ve learned to trust that the story will find its way.
Not every spark turns into a book. Some ideas fade or lead me down dead ends, and that’s okay. But when I see something and feel that deep pull, that knowing that I need to tell this story, I listen. Because sometimes, the stories that choose you are the ones that end up meaning the most.
If you’ve ever had a moment like this—whether you’re a writer, artist, or creator—I’d love to hear about it. What inspires you?
How do you know when a story, a painting, or a project is yours, despite conventional wisdom?
Let’s talk about the sparks that keep us creating.
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