Inside the Mind - JF Hopper

I think it began with listening—truly listening—to the stories told around me. My grandfather would spin tales by lamplight, and they always felt more real than the world outside the window. Later, I discovered Celtic mythology and realized that myths weren’t just old—they were alive, still whispering through song, memory, and silence. I started writing because I felt those stories didn’t want to stay forgotten. I wanted to catch what was fading and give it voice again.

My latest book is The Fianna Chronicles: Awakening, the first in an epic fantasy series rooted in Celtic myth and the power of memory. It follows Aisling, a quiet village girl whose life is forever changed when a haunted medallion chooses her as the bearer of an ancient legacy. Alongside three others—each broken in their own way—she becomes part of the rebirth of the Fianna, legendary guardians long thought lost to time. But this isn’t a simple tale of chosen heroes. The medallion whispers. Shadows remember. And not all who walk beside you are what they seem. At its heart, the book is about finding strength in the parts of ourselves we try to bury—and realizing that even forgotten songs still carry power.

They usually arrive as fragments—an image, a voice, a wound. I don’t start with who they are, but what haunts them. I ask: what memory do they carry that won’t let them rest? What have they lost, and what would they risk to feel whole again? From there, I build outward. Their mannerisms, magic, loyalties, and fears often come from that core ache. I write fantasy, but the emotions are deeply human. For instance, Calla—one of the Fianna—is a fire-wielder burdened by a tragic accident in her past. Her story didn’t begin with her power, but with her guilt. I don’t want perfect heroes. I want people who rise even when they’re unsure they deserve to. That’s where character lives—in the fault lines.

There’s no strict routine, but there is a rhythm. I write when the world is quiet—early mornings before work or late nights when the house has settled into stillness. A candle lit, a strong cup of tea, a notebook or open document, and I listen for the voice of the story. Some days, I manage only a paragraph; others, whole scenes pour out like floodwaters. If I’m between chapters, I’ll sketch character notes, rewrite dialogue, or walk while imagining how a bard might tell the tale around a fire. I’ve written in airports, on lunch breaks, and in the car while waiting for my kids to finish dance class. The key for me isn’t time—it’s presence. When I show up, the story usually does too.

The most rewarding part has been the direct connection with readers—hearing from someone who saw themselves in a character, or who messaged me to say a single line stayed with them long after the story ended. There’s something sacred about that kind of exchange. No middlemen. Just story and soul. As an indie author, I also have the freedom to shape the work exactly as it was meant to be—voice, tone, structure, myth. I get to create something deeply personal and then offer it honestly. The path isn’t easy, but it’s mine—and that makes the moments of resonance all the more meaningful.

Silencing the doubt. Not just the doubt of “Is this good enough?” but the deeper whisper: “Does this matter?” There’s a vulnerability that comes with putting your words into the world, especially when you’re writing something mythic, lyrical, or different from the mainstream. It’s easy to wonder if your voice will ever be heard through all the noise. The challenge has been learning to write anyway—to trust that the stories I carry are worth telling, even if only a few readers hear them. And more often than not, when I stay true to that voice, the right readers do find it.

My work begins in a notebook—pen on paper—where the voice feels raw and closer to the fire. I also keep a notes app filled with stray lines, character names, and story sparks gathered throughout the day. There’s something sacred in the feel of the words moving from brain to hand to page. That’s where the characters begin to stir—where they come alive. They talk with me as I write… once they learn to trust me.

Guard the spark. This path is full of noise—algorithms, sales stats, advice that pulls you in a dozen directions. But none of that matters if you lose the reason you started. Write the story only you can tell, even if it feels strange or quiet or not like anything else out there. Find your voice, trust it, and finish the work. Don’t wait for permission. You don’t need a massive following to matter to someone—you just need to reach one reader well. That’s where it begins. Also: revise more than you think you should. But don’t revise the soul out of it.

With patience—and a long view. As an indie author, you’re not just writing the story. You’re carrying it into the world, one reader at a time. I’ve learned to treat promotion like a form of storytelling in itself. I use my Substack, social media, and author site not to push sales, but to invite readers into the myth—through flash fiction, lore, and glimpses behind the scenes. I also believe in relationships over reach. A single genuine connection with a reader, bookseller, or fellow author matters more than a hundred empty clicks. The process is slow, but it’s meaningful. You don’t need to shout. You just need to sing the right song—and trust that it will be heard.

Yes—the next chapter of The Fianna Chronicles is already stirring. I’m currently working on Shadows and Myth, the sequel to Awakening. It begins in the silence after the war—where grief, memory, and hidden truths rise again. The four surviving Fianna will face the Seven Trials, ancient challenges meant to test not only their strength, but their hearts, their doubts, and their loyalty to each other. The past isn’t finished with them… and not all voices that whisper in the dark are gone. Beyond that, I’m continuing to write standalone stories from Mórradún in my bardic voice, Lirian Ever-Weaver. Those tales will eventually be gathered into an illustrated anthology titled Tales from the Ever-Weaver Ledger. There’s still so much to remember—and so many stories yet to be sung.