Writing Evaline

Duke Rhime of the Spire is struggling, and I’m not entirely sure why.

None of my books explode off the shelves. I’ve always been more of a drip, trickle, stream kind of author — the kind who builds slowly, book by book, with readers who find me in the quiet corners.

But this one doesn’t even drip, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s because the main character is female… and I’m not. I’m probably wrong about that (I usually am), maybe it just doesn’t resonate, or I’ve angered the jungle gods, but it leads me to a good post, so I’m going to follow it.

There’s a persistent belief that writers shouldn’t write outside their own experience. That if you haven’t lived it, you can’t represent it. And, if you miraculously manage to do it well, it’s treated as a surprise. Especially if you’re a man writing a woman. It is a comment I have seen in hundreds of book reviews.

I don’t think that belief holds up. Not in fantasy. Not in fiction. Not in life.

I write dark medieval fantasy — and 90% of my world is unlived and unlivable. It’s not drawn from my memories and experiences. It’s imagined: cities ruled by silence, castles built into cliffs, magic that takes from the fourth dimension, salt that kills gods. So when people question whether I can write a woman because I’ve never been one, I find it strange that gender is the part we’ve decided imagination can’t reach. I’ve never ridden a horse or fought with a sword either, yet no one has ever questioned that.

That’s not to say lived experience doesn’t matter. It absolutely does. What I am saying is that if you approach a character — any character — with empathy, humility, and a willingness to listen to what they have to say, you can write them honestly.

When I sat down to write Duke Rhime of the Spire, I didn’t want to write another man’s story. I’d just come out of The Novice of Thanatos — a book steeped in a fraternal order of monks. Cloisters. Confession. Obedience. That isn’t to say there are no women in the book, but my main character is ensconced in a male-dominated world where distance from physical temptations is a vow they take. That world was tight and cold, and I needed something different. Something that breathed.

Rhime of Eldenspire is a mythic figure in the history of my main series, mentioned several times in passing to add depth to the world. As the second uniter of Lucardia and the transition point between the Five and Twelve Kingdom Periods, I wanted to tell his story. He’s a turning point in my Lucardian History, the linchpin that created so much of the world that breaths life into the Absolution of the Morning Star series. But I just didn’t have the stomach to write another male lead, especially one in a position of power. Something about our current world just made that taste bitter. Plus, if you’ve read the AMS series, you know that Rhime has a tragic end and a bit about how that comes about. I needed a different vantage point, a story not known.

So Evaline Lysena was born, and she blossomed indeed. I suddenly realized it was never Rhime who was the linchpin; it was Evaline, always Evaline.

Evaline doesn’t begin her story in a place of power. She starts where so many women in patriarchal systems have begun: as an object. She is bartered into marriage to pay off a debt between men. And one of those men is her own father. Her agency is stripped before the end of the first chapter. She enters Eldenspire not as a partner, but as a spoil of male dominance. I don’t take that lightly. It is terrible, but a lived, historical truth. One that would exist in this kind of world — and one I took joy in opposing on the page.

Evaline isn’t defined by what was taken from her. Her arc isn’t about vengeance or spectacle. It’s about survival. Endurance. Adaptation. She moves from being a transaction to becoming a pillar of Rhime’s rule — his ballast, his equal, his quiet conscience.

And eventually, she rises beyond even that- the planned sequels will make that even more evident.

Evaline doesn’t just help Rhime become who he needs to be in Lucardian history. She reclaims her voice, her story, and her space. She steps out of his shadow and writes her own legacy. She doesn’t do it with a blade — well, not intentionally, anyway. She does it with clarity, resolve, and the kind of strength that doesn’t need to announce itself.

That’s the kind of story I needed to write.

I didn’t write Evaline because I “understand what it’s like to be a woman.” I don’t. And I won’t pretend I do. That would be presumptuous — and frankly, insulting.

But I do know what it’s like to feel powerless. To observe quietly. To be underestimated. I know what it’s like to want to matter without having to shout. And I’ve known, listened to, lived beside, and learned from women my entire life.

That doesn’t make me an authority. But it gives me something to build from — something human. And that’s what fiction is for.

Characters — all characters — are how we explore the human condition. That’s the entire point of writing.

Evaline gave me more than a new perspective. She eventually gave me the confidence to write Jezelle, a woman who has even more grit, fire, and ambition. If Evaline is the lioness, Jezelle is the roar. Evaline taught me how to hold silence, how to carry dignity, and how to let a character speak in a voice not my own — which, frankly, was a joy.

Duke Rhime of the Spire may carry a man’s name on the cover — but it’s Evaline’s story. It always was. As so often happens in life, the man steals the glory, but really, the substance is in the woman behind the cover.

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If you’re drawn to stories where quiet strength rewrites legacy, Evaline is waiting.
Read Duke Rhime of the Spire here.

Cheers!