If you don’t know what a pantser is, you probably aren’t a storyteller. Here’s a hint: You can be a plotter, a pantser, or somewhere in between.

I start out as a plotter and ended up a hopeless pantser. I outline, plan, and plot, positive I know where this story is going, certain I understand the characters, and fervently dedicated to crafting an irresistible opening, an exciting middle full of cliffs and ledges, and a satisfying ending that leaves my reader saying “That was a fun romp, glad I took a chance.”

Not long into book 1, I turned into a spineless pantser.

I blame my characters.

I had no idea they would rebel and demand autonomy. I feel like a shaken rat. Apparently, I wrote them too flat or something. They wanted more. They wanted glittery shoes and wild hair. Only shoulder pads as big as turkeys would suffice. They wanted to make magic, control magic, paddle around in magic until they got all pruney.

Frak, the fashion designer and hero of the story, turned out to be a good-hearted but clumsy detective wannabe with a magical persona she didn’t know she had when I met her in book 1. I learned she was a Phoenix at the same time she did.

I couldn’t figure out who the villains were or why they were wreaking havoc. From book to book, the villains revealed themselves to me. Turns out nobody is really a villain. Like so much in life, turns out it was all about friends and family.

Total pantser. When a character jumps off the page, who am I to say, no, please stay within the lines? I’m as delighted as the characters are when they discover they have secret powers.

I started writing this trilogy in 2022. I cranked out the first book while I was living in Tucson, Arizona. I’d been in the desert for a year and still hadn’t admitted to myself that Tucson was not the right place for me. Wherever I went, the Saguaros gave me the middle finger, but I ignored them. In fact, cacti in general are just disgruntled sentinels standing along the bike paths, waiting to poke you as you walk by.

A year later, I published the second book, still in Tucson, still laboring under the illusion that my move from Oregon to Arizona had been a wise, thoughtful decision and that I just needed the right housing situation, and then I’d make friends with the pricklies and come to call the place home.

Then I realized besides being a blazing inferno in the summer, Tucson was too expensive for an aging person living on a fixed income. Big decisions had to be made. No time to lollygag. My prudent reserve dwindled daily. My teeth and my car took big gulps out of my checkbook. I could see my future, and it wasn’t looking financially stable.

So, given I’m not roommate material, I made the only decision I could make: I moved out of the roommate situation into my Dodge Grand Caravan.

Fast forward, what year is it? 2025, and I’m still not done with the third book. In my defense, I can say I’ve been busy learning how to be a nomad-slash-vanlifer-slash-homeless person. However, the truth is, my pantsering caught up with me.

As I said, I was certain I knew where this story was going, but now I know I was clueless. I’ve been one of those especially annoying ignoramuses who is positive they are right and can’t conceive of the possibility they could be wrong. I hate people like that.

Dang it. I’m one of those people.

In the first book, I established a magical world without knowing the rules. As I went along, the characters schooled me but good. But I still didn’t know what I was in for. In the second book, I wrote myself off cliffs and down manholes. I planted Easter eggs without a thought to what they meant or how I would resolve them. I wrote goofy jokes and silly dialog because I thought they were funny.

Now, here I am, trying to wrap up a gazillion loose ends. It’s been a humbling process. Probably if I were a better writer, this would not have happened. If I were a plotter, I would not have written myself into every corner conceivable. But I’m a diehard pantser. I know this now. Chagrined, perhaps, but not apologetic.

I’ve been reading the first two books to make a list of all the loose ends that need tying up in book 3. They are legion. I’ve become reacquainted with characters, motivations, and places I’d forgotten. I shake my head at the Ideas I’d included in book 1 that went nowhere in book 2. Now what do I do with them? Pretend like they never happened? La la la.

Rereading my work from three years ago has shown me a few things. One good thing: I still laugh at some of the funny situations, possibly because they more or less really happened to me in my past life as a fashion designer. Few things are funnier than bridesmaids who hate their dresses enough to write you a bad check.

On the other hand, I’m finding all the typos, misspellings, grammar errors, continuity blunders, and brainless mistakes I failed to see before I published. This is what happens when you are broke and can’t hire an editor. Not that I would anyway. Still, I’m sure a little polishing would have gone a long way toward making the first two books more readable. Fair warning, don’t be surprised at the typos, errors, and mistakes you will find in book 3 when it finally hits my Amazon page.

Any day now. Seriously. I’m almost done. Said the pantser.

Gratitude to the few fans who forged through the mistakes to find the humor and adventure of Frak’s magical fashion world. I hope the third book resolves enough of the loose ends to leave you smiling.

For me, no more trilogies.