Inside the quiet corner where three novels—and the mountain town called Radiant—were born.
Nestled under the exposed beams of our mountain home, my writing space is both sanctuary and launch pad—a quiet corner where stories take shape between night shifts and moments of stillness.
The desk is small, but the work it holds is big: two iMacs (one new, one loyal), a spiral-bound draft of A Hundred Ways to Say I Love You, and whatever notebook or red pen I’ve most recently pressed into service.
Above the desk, a warm amber lamp glows beside shelves of writing craft books—dog-eared, underlined, and revisited. Sticky notes with character arcs. A mug of pens. A sticker that says pantala naga pampa—because when you know, you know.
This is where I read, research, revise. Where I waste time in the best possible ways: scrolling through old names, historical court transcripts, Appalachian folktales. Where playlists shift with the seasons—string quartets, rain sounds, sad country songs. I light a candle sometimes. I dream about lines that might not come for chapters. I get up to refill my tea. Then I come back.
Most of my drafting happens elsewhere—on my iPad, often during breaks in a quiet hospital corridor or in the lull between emergencies. But this room is where the story takes shape. It’s not fancy. But it’s mine.
This is where Radiant was born—A Hundred Ways to Say I Love You, A Thousand Ways to Say I’m Sorry, and now, One Way Home—scene by scene, word by word.
This is the room where I stay with the work when it’s hard. And celebrate it when it’s not.
The Radiant Novels
EMILY GIRARD | FICTION WRITER
All photos © Emily Bump Girard, taken in the Shenandoah Valley