There's this one moment while writing where the characters suddenly become more than just text. Not more of my tools—they start leading me instead. That's especially true in "Die Knochen der Mondgöttin."
Elsa von Voss, for example: I designed her as a scientist, someone who wanted to measure and explain the world. But then she started to suffer. Not just physically—the scar is there, clear as day. But the psychological stuff: that break in her when she realizes the truth isn't so easily exposed. That magic might not be a lie, but something... else.
And then that encounter in the forest: "Elsa felt something break inside her. Not the scar. Her." That sentence completely overwhelmed me while writing it. It's not about losing integrity, but about the loss of the Scholar. The woman who knew she had everything under control. And then she stands there and realizes: No, I have no idea.
The world in this book is so dense – Prussia in the 18th century, but with those crooked angles of magical realism. It's as if I opened a door to another world and now don't know how to close it anymore. The characters stay in my head because they challenged me: What happens when science meets something immeasurable?
I've written many books, but "The Bones of the Moon Goddess" feels like a book that lived me. Not I wrote it – the characters settled into my hands and forced me to listen to them. And now they won't let go anymore.