I make things.
Stories, loaves, messes.
Some of it grows in notebooks. Some of it grows in soil.
All of it magic. Most of it stubborn.
Welcome. I’m Ryn.
I write stories for the ones who feel everything and still keep going.
For the curious, the cautious, and the ones who question the map.
This space is part garden journal, part book forge—where fantasy, folklore, and a little post-apocalyptic dirt-under-the-nails magic all converge.
Here you’ll find updates on my debut novel Crescentborne, reflections on the writing life, and bits of everyday wonder—gardening notes, wild observations, maybe even a recipe or two (if I don’t burn them first.)
It's messy. It's growing. It's real. I'm glad you're here.
Some magic grows low to the ground.
In quiet places. In wild ones.
Where no one’s looking—except maybe the gnomes.
It roots itself in decay, pushes through soil,
and shows up just when you think everything’s gone still.
Some fires don’t roar. They simmer.
Beneath the surface, beneath the noise,
beneath all the pressure to be smaller,
I found something steadier.
Not perfect. Not easy.
But real.
I stopped trying to outgrow who I was
and started growing with her.
Toward the wild. Toward the wonder.
Toward the work that’s mine to do
What I’m Growing Right Now
Stories that don’t flinch.
A blog that follows the roots.
A debut novel stitched from real people, wild magic, chaos, and a little bit of hope.
This isn’t just a space for polished pages or perfect posts.
It’s for the messy middle. The myth beneath the mulch.
The quiet belief that maybe—just maybe—you’re not the only one making something out of what was left behind.
So stick around. Stay awhile.
The journey’s just getting started.
—R