This didn’t start as a novel. It started as a brain worm.
I listened to Devil of Dublin by B.B. Easton, and one tiny detail in that book lodged itself in my brain. That was all it took to birth Ralph.
At first, it wasn’t a story. No plot arc. No characters. Nowhere to go.
Just… a thought.
Until I couldn’t think about anything else.
I found myself staring at walls, a story slowly taking shape. The more it formed, the more distracting it became—like it was demanding to be written down.
The Friday before Thanksgiving, I gave in.
I sat down to draft for one reason and one reason only: I expected my severe, unmedicated ADHD to save me from Ralph.
Because here’s how that usually goes—
I start writing, hit awkward dialogue, a plot hole, a timeline inconsistency… and suddenly my brilliant idea becomes tedious.
And tedious is the nemesis of ADHD.
My brain abandons it faster than a toddler melts down in Target.
Except… that didn’t happen.
Less than two weeks later, I had an entire draft.
So much for relying on ADHD superpowers.
I’ve hit plot holes. Timeline issues. Awkward dialogue. All the usual suspects.
And my brain still refuses to let go.
I’m over halfway through my first rewrite, and I’m still absolutely feral for this story.
Ralph is fat and happy, chewing through my grey matter and leaving better ideas in his wake.
So… this is a thing now.
Ralph made me write a novel.