Inside the Mind - Marina Koulouris

I've been creating stories in my mind since I was a child, finding a rare kind of freedom in the ability to live other lives and feel things beyond my own. At fifteen, I started putting those worlds on paper, a private act of liberation that was, for a long time, enough. But as the stories grew, so did a new, more profound need: the desire to share them. To see if the worlds I built in my head could find a home in someone else’s. Now, decades later, I still write for that same sense of creative freedom, but also because I want to put those parts of myself to the test of being communicated, and even judged. First, it's a process that's purely mine. Then, it's about connecting and sharing that piece of me with others.

I'm an incurable romantic, but not just for the heart-pounding kind of love. I'm searching for something enduring in a world constantly in turmoil. Whether it’s a global conflict or a personal crisis, I want to explore how we find our footing when the ground beneath us is shifting. I believe the truth of people and their choices is never black or white. It's found in the gray areas of identity, morality, and perception. It's here, in the moral ambiguity of life, that I explore how love—not just a love between two people, but a love and acceptance of ourselves and others—becomes a sustaining power. World War II is the perfect backdrop for this. It's close enough to resonate with our modern crises, but distant enough to be explored with a clearer vision. In that world of turmoil, I want to show how love, in its many forms, is the truest act of resilience.

My stories don't start with an outline; they begin with a single, powerful image. A scene that feels as though it's playing out in a film, so striking it demands exploration. This cinematic moment almost always contains a character—or a few—and as the scene unfolds, they reveal themselves to me. From there, it becomes a dance between feeling, reason, and necessity. Some characters emerge organically from the story's needs, while others appear out of inspiration—a muse, as some would say. They arrive to challenge the main characters, to lend their voice to the era, or simply because their presence is essential. In the end, my characters are born from this mix: a flash of inspiration, the careful logic of plot, and the emotional necessity to give life to a world.

My muse is not a person or a place; it's a particular way of seeing the world. It’s a crack in reality—a fleeting image from a film, a detail in a historical photo, a line in a book, or even a specific smell—that hints at a larger, hidden story. It’s what lies underneath the surface of things, the truth that isn't immediately visible. My inspiration comes from that moment of intrigue, the impulse to peel back the layers and explore the untold. Whether it's the unsaid feeling between two people or the quiet resilience in a turbulent time, I'm drawn to the human truths that reveal themselves only when you are willing to look a little closer. In the end, my muse is that ever-present whisper, inviting me to delve deeper into the beautiful and complex gray areas of life.

Absolutely, they are present. In a world with a defined "good" and "bad" side, the reality of day-to-day survival was far from black and white. WWII Paris, with its layers of collaborators and resistors, citizens and invaders, provides the perfect canvas for exploring this gray. Winter's journey is a microcosm of that, and her story challenges preconceived notions about good and evil in that morally ambiguous setting. Winter isn't a clear-cut hero—many would say she’s the opposite. But that’s what makes her real: a woman who wants to live, caught between two impossibly difficult choices. On one side, there is René, a Resistance fighter so unbending in his convictions whose obsession for her to join his battles collides with her survival instict. On the other, a German Major offers her a surprising and unexpected humanity—a shared connection that opens a path of acceptance she desperately needs. The city itself becomes a character, with its own secrets and dualities. While the world sees Paris under occupation, the book explores a city that is quietly, defiantly, still Paris. It's in its shadows, in the small acts of kindness and cruelty she faces, and the moral compromises that upturn stereotypes, where Winter finds both her love and her identity. My goal was to show that in the most tumultuous of times, the truest battles are often fought not with guns, but within the human heart.

When I first wrote "Winter Pale", I was a new author, and the story was born in a single, emotionally charged burst of creativity. It was the purest version of the story I could tell at the time. Over the years, however, as I've grown and as the story has lived in my mind, I've seen opportunities to expand its world. This second edition gave me the chance to breathe more deeply into the characters and the setting. I was able to build out scenes that were previously hinted at, to give characters more voice, and to create an even more immersive experience for both new and returning readers. It's the most comprehensive version of her story and the most true expression of her world.

For me, the greatest advantage of independent publishing is the freedom to be the captain of my own ship. While traditional houses offer incredible expertise in editing, design, and marketing, they can also come with a loss of creative control. As an indie author, I get to make all the decisions, ensuring the final book is a true reflection of my vision—from the cover to the interior. But that creative freedom comes with significant challenges. The business side of publishing—the marketing, the publicity, the budget—all fall squarely on my shoulders. It often takes time away from the writing itself. However, that challenge is also a gift. It forges a deeper, more personal bond with my work. You go through the thick and thin together, and that makes a book feel less like a project and more like a child you are raising and preparing for the world. It’s a hell of a bond, and it’s one that I wouldn't trade.

To readers everywhere, I would like to say that you’re offering this world that’s consumed by rapid images and fleeting attention, a powerful message and a gift that sustains us all. The time you give to a book is not only sacred but a quiet act of resistance—a choice to slow down, to feel deeply, and to connect with a human story on a page. To my readers specifically, I would add: thank you for taking a chance on my stories and for allowing them to live in your imagination. Reading is an act of trust, a leap of faith into a world you did not create. Without you, the story is a precious stone in my personal jewelry box, valuable but lonely. You take it out into the world and give it a life of its own. And to aspiring writers, I would say this: write the stories that demand to be told. The ones that keep you up at night, the ones that whisper to you in quiet moments. You are the only person who can write them exactly as they are in your mind. Don't be afraid to take the leap. The process can feel terrifying, but the reward—the freedom of creation and the chance to connect with others—is worth every moment. Trust your story, and it will sooner or later find its place in the world.