As I’m sure you’ve noticed, Things Are Looking Up has been on hiatus due to my continued health struggles and my need to focus on the final Freedom Through Fire Saga book. But today, I’m back with a special hiatus post and exciting news…

Things Are Looking Up has hit 100 subscribers! To celebrate, today’s post is our very first Author Q&A, with questions submitted by Things Are Looking Up subscribers. Everyone asked fantastic questions, and I had a blast answering them!

Prepare yourself for fandom heaven, because this post is packed with Freedom Through Fire Saga backstory and character facts. (Yes, you will finally learn what Claire and Lance Green look like—along with Sky’s favorite song, if FTF could ever be a movie, and why fractured fairy tales are related to relknish.) If Freedom Through Fire isn’t your jam, I answer multiple writing-related and personal questions as well.

Before we begin, I want to give a shoutout to our two 100th subscribers—Sage and Mystery Subscriber! (Someone unsubscribed right after we hit 100, which is why we have two awesome 100th subscribers 😂) And a huge thanks to everyone who is subscribed to Things Are Looking Up—your support means so much!

Now, let’s dive in…

Author Q&A

Q: What’s Lance’s favorite weapon?

A: I’d say plastic light saber. He’d say his laptop.

Q: Do you like tea?

A: I love iced tea—and sweet tea, if it’s made with cane sugar! It’s one of my go-to writing treats. (And boba tea. If that counts.)

Q: If you could make a new creature for FTF, what would it be?

A: If I created a non-intelligent species—another type of dinosaur monster, or a monkey-like creature. If I created an intelligent species—I have no idea, but I’d probably redesign one of the talking mountain lions or pythons from the first draft. (Who knows? Maybe they’ll show up in a different book series.)

Q: How did Sky, Jay, and Luke meet?

A: Sky’s, Jay’s, and Luke’s parents were all close friends. So, 18-month-old Jay and nearly two-year-old Luke were buddies when they went to meet newborn Sky together. Jay was fascinated. Luke gave Sky a very wary stare, then quickly lost interest and tried to pull Jay away to go play with him.

Q: Why did Sky cut her hair? (She looks really pretty with short hair, just curious :)

A: SPOILER ALERT: SKIP THIS ANSWER IF YOU HAVEN’T READ THE FUGITIVES’ FILES!

I’ve always wanted to tell this story!

Sky didn’t like having brown hair, so after she dyed it in Book 4, she let her blonde hair start growing back in. One day, when her roots were long enough, she drove herself to a hair salon—and then tramped back into the Ohio farmhouse that night with a pixie cut. (Without telling any of her friends, naturally, who absolutely freaked out, naturally.)

By Operation Druka, Sky’s hair has grown out into a bob!

Q: What’s your favorite weather?

A: Rain and fog! I love watching storms sweep down through the mountains.

Q: If Claire could travel anywhere in Europe, where would she go?

A: Italy, and then on a train tour to hit a few other countries afterward.

Q: What’s Fang’s embarrassing secret interest, color, song, etc?

A: Not what—who. And alas… that’s up to you guys to figure out.

(Though I will say, Fang does secretly pride himself in having the most followers on relknish and crickcrawk social media. While friending no one, of course.)

Q: Would you ever write or draw your characters wearing their own merchandise? Specifically picturing Kyren in a FTF beanie?

A: Usually, I would reply to this with a drawing of Kyren in a FTF beanie (though I doubt Kyren has ever heard of a beanie). Since my drawing arm is injured: yes, I will draw my characters in FTF merch in the future.

But for some reason, I sense that wasn’t your true question, …

So, for now, here’s an FTF beanie for you guys instead! 😂

FTF Beanie

Q: Do you have a dream media format for FTF? (Animatics, TV, film, fully illustrated book, etc.)

A: My dream would be for Freedom Through Fire to someday become a live-action TV series. But for cost reasons (imagine the CGI that would require!), I could also see it as an animated series.

However, the movie industry is very risky for authors—and I won’t sell rights until I’m certain Sky’s story is in the right hands. So, even as FTF continues to grow, it may be a very long time before a film adaptation becomes a possibility.

But other types of adaptations could come sooner, and some may possibly be in the pipeline…

Q: Would you ever write a prequel to The Rebels’ Daughter?

A: Yes! I have ideas for multiple prequels—including one that’s already in early development, geared toward older readers.

Q: How do you write books? I’m stuck right now….

A: This is a really hard question to answer—mainly because I could answer in a dozen different ways! I can’t dive into everything in only one post, but I’ll summarize the step-by-step process that I use to write a book.

First, I get the spark—the beginning of my new story idea. After that initial idea, I brainstorm for anywhere between a few months and many years. I make sure to write down all my ideas for the book. (Most of my favorite ideas come from daydreaming about the book and characters as much as possible!)

Once I feel like I have enough ideas to get started, I collect them into one place. I organize them into a timeline of events. This is a very rough outline—just enough to give me an idea of where I’m headed in each chapter, but vague enough to give me a lot of creative freedom. (For example, I know that Sky and Jay are going to have a conversation in the village, and then they will go camping with Luke. But I don’t know how they get to the camp—I can make it up while writing!)

Then, I write my first draft! I try to write as often as possible, so that I don’t accidentally leave the project behind. Sometimes, I set daily goals for myself or monthly goals. When I’m stuck, I do my best to allow myself to write badly, since I can always edit later. But, most of all, I try to have fun! If I’m bored with my draft, then usually, something is wrong. And it’s not because the story idea is bad—I just need to get reengaged. So… I throw in M&M pancakes! Or something bigger, like a few chapters dedicated to a huge Turkey Trot race, or maybe even a whole new subplot! Staying engaged helps keep me on track, which helps me finish my project.

Usually, my first draft isn’t my final. I often let the book sit for a couple of years before coming back to rewrite or deeply edit it. (But, on your first book, I wouldn’t necessarily worry about rewriting. With The Rebel’s Daughter, I focused simply on finishing the book. And, many years later, I still love how it turned out!) I talk about one of my rewriting/editing processes in these blog posts:

If I don’t do a rewrite (like The Rebels’ Daughter, for example), I do one of two things: I print out my book and go through it with a pencil, editing my grammar and weird sentences while making note of any plot holes I find; or I read it out loud to myself and do the same thing on the computer. After that, I usually give it to someone I trust for another round of edits. Ahead of time, I always clarify what types of edits I want—because sometimes, I don’t want someone coming through with a red pen and marking anything they find; I just want their thoughts on a specific character arc or a proofread.

Altogether, my process can take anywhere from a few months to 10+ years. Currently, I’ve been working on the Freedom Through Fire Saga for nearly nine years. It took me four years to write the first book (though the final draft only took me a couple of months), whereas the second book only took me two years. Unless I have a deadline to meet, I don’t worry about how fast or slow writing each book takes. What matters most is that I stay true to the story and have fun.

Everyone writes books differently, so the things that work for me might not work for you—but I hope this helps!

Q: What are Sky’s, Claire’s, Lance’s, and Jay’s favorite songs?

A: Sky — Spirit, by Judah & the Lion

Claire — Honestly, I have no idea what her favorite songs are. Don’t quote me on this, but I could see her loving songs like Don’t Count Me Out by Amanda Nolan and I Made It by CAIN.

Lance — He has one for every mood. This Is Not A Test by TobyMac and Capital Kings, Whisper and the Wind by bodie, and One Last Chance by Vroom (He dares you to listen to all seven minutes. No skipping.) top his list.

Jay — Burn the Ships by for KING & COUNTRY or See You Again (No Rap) by Sami Jebari.

Q: What is your favorite song/music/band/singer?

A: My favorite song fluctuates, but some all-time favorites are Color by Ellie Holcomb, Can’t Hold Us by Macklemore and Ryan Lewis (some language, heads up for younger listeners), and It’s Time by Imagine Dragons. My favorite band is Judah & the Lion! (Just like Sky, since her story was largely inspired by their songs!)

Q: What would Sky name her kids?

A: Oh, man, this is a great question! I could see Sky naming them after a type of bird, like Robin or Sparrow, or after family members, like Willow and Jake. Or picking some really cool name that had deep meaning to her.

Q: How many people lived on the island? It seemed like there weren’t many. Also, could we get portraits of them?

A: SPOILER ALERT: SKIP THIS ANSWER IF YOU HAVEN’T READ THE REBELS’ DAUGHTER!

In 2000, there were about a hundred humans shipwrecked on the island. At the beginning of The Rebels’ Daughter, there were somewhere between 140 and 200 Rebels. At the end of Book 1, there are (tragically) around sixty humans left on the island.

Someday, I would love to do portraits of the main island Rebels—such as Elijah, Lizzie, Jessie, Asher, and the main characters’ parents. But there definitely won’t be portraits of all of 100+ Rebels! 😂

Q: What is Fang’s biggest insecurity?

A: I know the answer to this—but since Book 7 isn’t out yet, I’m going to hold off on replying. And I think this is more a question for the reader than for me. What would you each say Fang’s deepest insecurity is?

Q: How did you come up with the relknish and crickcrawks?

A: (Multiple people asked this, and then deleted their question—but not before I saw! Since it’s a fantastic question, I decided to include it.)

The Rebel’s Daughter began as a loose Little Red Riding Hood fractured fairytale. I was obsessed with Little Red since I was a toddler, and when I began writing in fourth grade, I knew that wolves would be the bad guys of my first book.

The relknish started as talking wolves that walked upright—but quickly, it became very clear to me that they were not actually wolves. By the time I finished the final draft of The Rebel’s Daughter, I’d named the relknish. The rest of the species’ worldbuilding fell into place when I was plotting books two and three, and I needed a way for them to take over the military bases without any resistance. That was when I came up with the main plot of the series…

As for crickcrawks: To my fourth-grade self, the story didn’t feel complete with only the wolves. So, I added a canyon full of parrots, just big enough for a nine-year-old Sky to ride on—the Brocks. I liked them so much that I continued the concept, and added a much meaner, larger species a few chapters later, Crick-Crocs.

Over the years, the Crick-Crocs took multiple forms (in one draft, they were even dragon-lizard-flying-monsters—that’s where I got the arms, scales, and prehensile tails) before I finally landed on the convertible-bird-ape-thing design. I didn’t want to confuse Crick-Crocs with the shoes, Crocs, so I changed the spelling to crick-crocks, and finally, to crickcrawks (like hawks).

The rest is history. Well, alternate U.S. history.

Q: What happens when it’s all over? Will Sky die?

A: You all are awesome—but I still can’t tell you that! You’ll just have to wait to find out how Sky’s story ends.

Q: What do Lance and Claire look like?

A: This may be the #1 asked question about Freedom Through Fire! 😂 Drumroll, please…

Lance and Claire both have dirty blonde hair. Claire’s hair is darker and somewhat wavy. They’re the tallest human Rebels (for their gender)—Claire is probably around 5’8”, and Lance is around 5’10”.

Q: And finally, the second-most asked FTF question… When is Book 7 coming out?

A: Book 7 should be coming out in late summer of 2026. I had to push out the publishing date because of my health issues, which have prevented me from writing. As of this week, I’m halfway done with edits, and I’m about to start working on the cover with Laura Hollingsworth!

Wrap Up

That brings us to the end of our first Author Q&A! Thank you to everyone who participated and submitted questions.

If you’re not a subscriber, but would like to partake in future Q&As, you can subscribe below! When we do this again, you’ll be notified beforehand so that you can submit your questions.

Subscribe now

Things Are Looking Up will be remaining on hiatus while I focus on my health and getting Book 7 into your hands. Speaking of, I’m off to write about hacker rubber ducks and spray paint…

Have a great week, you guys!

—India

Freedom Through Fire Saga

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Storytelling Versus Social Commentary

At the first college illustration program we visited, I realized that I didn’t want to use my art for social commentary.

During our tour, I noticed that the entire program was focused on making personal statements. The illustrations were more abstract. Each of the students and professors was concentrated on expressing themselves and their opinions. Though there was nothing wrong with others pursuing that, I had no desire to create that kind of art. In fact, walking through the studios—crammed into a college attic—even made me feel uncomfortable. Grotesque faces and distorted bodies leered out at me from the canvases and carved metal prints.

The majority of the art felt hopeless. And I’m a strong believer in a hope-based mindset.

After the tour, my family and I headed to the empty chapel to look around. As I stared up at the stained glass windows, the words finally hit me.

I turned to my mom. “I want to use my illustrations for storytelling.” My whisper bounced through the chamber and off the carved wooden pews. “I want to bring my own stories to life, and bring other authors’ stories to life. I don’t want to use my art to make a single statement.”

As we walked off campus, I knew I wouldn’t be coming back.

The Animation Program

I had no intentions of attending the second college we visited.

This college didn’t have an illustration major. In fact, I’d only added the university to the list since one of my favorite illustrators had gone through the animation program.

Since I was little, I’d hated the idea of animation. Who the heck would want to spend years drawing the same character over and over, with the differences between the poses within fractions of an inch?!

After the last college visit, my expectations were zero to none as we parked and made our way to the welcome center. Plus, the temperature was nearly a hundred degrees. Which, with POTS, didn’t help.

Until I stepped into the air-conditioned animation building.

Unlike the first college, the animation building was one of the coolest buildings on campus. The lobby was filled with tables, chairs, and couches, and the classrooms included a mini movie theater and a room filled with drawing tablets. When I walked inside, I was amazed. This art department hadn’t been minimized.

We talked with one of the professors in his office—which, by far, was one of the coolest rooms I’d ever been in. Neon signs lit the entire room with a soft glow, without any overhead lighting. Drawing computers sat at his desk, the screens showing examples of portfolio work.

Like before, I was nervous asking my questions and discussing the program with the professor. But, unlike at the last college, I really enjoyed talking with him and the other animation professors I met.

Since it was the first week of the semester, freshmen were gathered in the animation foyer, chatting. The professor paused his tour with us to shoo them out the door. Apparently, the freshman couldn’t stop talking about animation long enough to participate in the first week’s activities.

I bit back a smile. At the last college, I had only seen a few students—and they’d all been working separately, sectioned off and silent. The warm atmosphere here felt amazing.

My heart began to beat faster. The muscles in my hands began to cramp, like they did whenever I wanted to write.

Or draw.

Because this program was overflowing with storytelling.

Everywhere I looked, there was story. There were Disney characters burned into the table in the corner. On the walls, dozens of classic movie posters hung. One glass wall displayed a vibrant mural of a TV show that some of the students had recently worked on. In the professor’s office, dozens of drawings were pinned to the corkboard—caricatures and comics drawn by the students late at night.

The realization had begun to dawn on me. Illustration could mean a lot of things, depending on who you talk to.

But animation focused on storytelling.

On our road trip to the West Coast, to visit the final two colleges, I spent the nine-hour car rides thinking about that. The more I thought about animation, the less of a waste of time it seemed.

Because wasn’t 2-D animation just a more intensive version of drawing… graphic novels?

The realizations began to hit me. If I spent four years animating, I would learn to draw the same characters over and over with ease. I’d learn to storyboard. I’d learn the sequence of storytelling in a film—which would directly transfer to graphic novels and single illustrations. Not only that, but I would be fast. And I wanted to be fast, since I had so many stories I wanted to tell. I’d be diverse. With animation, you have to be able to draw in any style for the unique commissions. After working for my dad, I wanted to be able to draw anything.

I didn’t want to spend my entire life animating. But the training could be invaluable.

That was worth spending four years of my life learning. That was worth the money.

I’d found my college.

Cementing My Love of Art (Practice, Practice, Practice)

I wanted to go to college for animation.

There was just one small issue. I’d been planning to major in illustration—which, though students needed to submit an art portfolio, didn’t require a high skill level for program admission. I knew that all the colleges I’d looked at would admit me, no matter what.

But the animation program was incredibly competitive. I had one year to prepare my portfolio. And I was nowhere near the skill set I needed to be at.

But, I realized, I had nothing to lose. Worst-case scenario, I didn’t get into the animation program, and I resubmitted a portfolio the next year.

So, I gave it everything I had.

Over my junior year, I spent at least a thousand hours preparing my animation portfolio.

Beforehand, I’d focused on drawing whatever I fancied, copying artwork, and taking a couple of illustration classes. I switched directions, turning my focus to figure drawing and drawing from life. I began carrying a sketchbook everywhere I went.

Once, my artworks had been focused on rough comic panels and characters.

Now, my sketchbook pages overflowed with the human figure. A little boy catching a football. A man with a messy bun gazing out at the ocean, tattoos sprawling down his back. A girl, tilting her head as she listened to her headphones, kicked up sand. A pregnant woman with a baby swaddled across her chest, staring at her phone in the Costco line. Then, I started adding ketchup bottles. Coke cups. Forks. Napkins. Restaurants. Streets. Windows. Light fixtures. Hats. Mountain ranges.

I took dozens of classes on figure drawing. Illustrating. Character design. Rendering. Digital art. I purchased the majority of the classes through my mom’s Domestika account, building an enormous library of resources. I took multiple classes at a time, balancing fun courses with more difficult courses that reinforced the basics of drawing.

When Andrea Yenne, the “Momerator” behind the S.E. Collaborative Guild of Authors and Artists, announced that we were doing a short story anthology, I reached out and asked if I could be one of the illustrators.

On the Guild’s Substack, I already discussed the illustration process for Firefly Tales with Joshua Myers and Lily Smith, so I’ll skip over most of the details of the process in this post. But if you want to check that out, we go in-depth on what the full process looked like in this interview!:

S.E. Collaborative Guild of Authors and Artists

Artist Panel Interview: Joshua Myers, India Johnson & Lily Smith

Lily N. Smith is a writer, an avid reader, a digital artist, and a Child of the One True King. She loves tea, chocolate, anything Japanese, and cats. Lily wants to touch hearts with her writing, while telling engaging and wholesome tales full of adventure. She occasionally blogs or posts art videos at…

Read more

7 months ago · 29 likes · 4 comments · Andrea Yenne

This wasn’t my first time doing commissions. But Firefly Tales was my first opportunity to illustrate a full scene—and my first opportunity to publicly use my art as a form of storytelling.

I spent months working with the short story authors, trying to capture their stories to the best of my ability. Because I value style diversity, I let each of the three authors pick a different style for the artworks. Altogether, I spent over a hundred—likely hundreds—of hours working on Firefly Tales.

During the illustration process, I was terrified that I was going to burn myself out.

The entire time I was illustrating and taking art classes, I felt like I was holding my breath. I was afraid that, any second, the love I’d discovered for telling stories through art would wink out. Whenever I found myself in tears over the Guild illustrations, trying to find a balance between the shading and colors, part of me was scared that I was overworking myself.

But the hard work only cemented my love for art.

I adapted to illustrating on an iPad, until my emotional capacity no longer tanked from looking at the screen. I grew to love the boring parts of the process—enjoying the actual act of practicing the basics, versus only the result.

I used to think animation was only for the insane. And, even when I decided to pursue animation, I was still terrified. The concept of drawing that much—every day—for four years, bent over a drawing tablet, sounded exhausting. Maybe even impossible.

But the more I practiced… and practiced, and practiced, and practiced… the more I realized I didn’t need to be afraid.

Was it exhausting? Yes. Impossible? Not at all. In fact, the more time I poured into my art, the more that repetition sounded exciting. Even elating.

Now, I knew for certain—I loved being an artist.

Which upped the stakes… because I still had to get into the program.

My Portfolio

When August rolled around, I still felt behind.

Over a final class this past summer—this one run by the very animation professor we had first met with—I finalized my animation portfolio. There were dozens of days when I spent 7+ hours at my drafting table, drawing and reiterating my character designs, figure drawings, and digital paintings.

By the end of the class, I still wasn’t confident that I would get into the program.

Each week, our professor took the time to voice-over our illustrations, drawing over our artwork to give us feedback and tips. His feedback was invaluable, and I made sure to implement everything he said during the class.

I’ll never forget the last video, where he was looking over my final assignment.

In a previous assignment, we had each created a character, their pet, and an environment. For our final assignment, we had to combine them into a scene, communicating a story moment through the composition.

Naturally, there were edits to be made. I was struggling with atmospheric perspective, so my professor pointed out that the lines in the background needed to be much thinner. He suggested I make the minor character in the foreground darker, to pull the attention away from his face. To my delight, my professor liked the composition of the artwork and thought the story moment was easy to understand.

And then he said something that sent a jolt through my nervous system.

“Looking forward to seeing you on campus,” he said.

Four months later, I got my acceptance letter into the BFA animation program.

Storytelling Through Art

When I graduate, I plan to use my animation degree to become a part-time freelance illustrator, working with other authors to bring their stories to life. And, of course, I plan to illustrate for my own stories—a lot. When I was younger, I always loved it when my favorite series had a strong art following, and I want to create that for my readers.

Will I illustrate graphic novels in the future? I sure hope so. I mean, that’s the reason why I’m headed to college—to gain the skills I need to do that. It’s a plan, if not a promise. Do I plan to keep writing books? Heck, yeah. That’s a plan and a promise. I wrote another one this past week!

But even though illustrating graphic novels is still my plan, I realized something this past fall, while waiting for the results of my animation portfolio:

I don’t have to illustrate an entire comic to tell a story. Because a single illustration can carry just as much weight.

I’ve always designed my own book covers—which means that I choose the story scene and layout, often making a rough sketch for my illustrator to reference. Before I design a cover, I look through dozens of other book covers for inspiration. As I was designing the book cover for Operation Druka this past fall, I picked back up Edge of Extinction, since both covers depict prehistoric monsters and have the same target audience.

That’s when it hit me.

A single illustration can tell an entire story.

Just like that, a core memory—made and forgotten at nine years old—came rushing back to me. My jaw dropped.

When I first read Edge of Extinction, I stared at that cover for hours. Absorbed in every detail of the character’s uniforms, from the texture of the striped leggings down to the tiny red button on the girl’s shoulder. Captivated by the movement, shown by the way her red hair billows back, her compass swings outward, and her friend thrusts back his arms to make the precarious leap. Awed by the vibrancy of the forest and spinosaurus, and the character’s realistic, relatable expressions.

That was the first time I remember thinking, “I want to write and publish a book.”

Not because of the story inside Edge of Extinction. But because of the story on the cover.

I want to use my art to tell stories like that. Stories that would send my nine-year-old-self sprinting toward her writing corner.

Next fall, I head to college to make that happen.

Rocky Mountain Coloring Book

Check Out Firefly Tales!

Check out Edge of Extinction here!

Golden stars and sparkles glittered across the black cardboard. The aerosol spray had adhered days ago, giving the front a glossy sheen. I’d pasted three drawings—a jaguar, a book, and a beehive—under the corresponding poetry and story segments. At the top, my full name stood out in a bold, adventurous font.

But my favorite part lay on the table below the display: my green binder, with the white puppy on the front. I’d flipped the notebook paper open to Chapter 1 of my unfinished book—The Sky is the Limit.

I’d been waiting for the talent show for weeks. Most of the elementary students had videotaped their talents beforehand or chosen to do them onstage in the theater. But, unlike the other fourth-grade girls, my talent wasn’t singing renditions of popular songs. My skill wasn’t running up a Ninja course warped wall (not yet, at least), fracturing boards with my bare hands, or tap-dancing.

For my talent display, I’d chosen writing and art.

To my disappointment, the adults who passed my table were more interested in the art and poetry samples than they were in my binder. Which… made sense, I realized, because it was easier to scan a display than read fifty pages.

But I cared more about Sky and General Fang than I did about a drawing of a jaguar. Sure, I liked art. Since I was little, I’d spend hours copying pictures and following along with step-by-step drawings.

But art wasn’t like storytelling. With storytelling, I could be inside another world. I could place other people inside another world.

Art couldn’t do that… right?

My nine-year-old self didn’t realize the irony in that thought. Because an artwork had inspired Sky and General Fang, and the entire book in that binder, which I later renamed The Rebels’ Daughter.

When I was eight or nine, I read Edge of Extinction for the first time. To clarify, I loved the name Sky long before reading about Sky Mundy. I spent my childhood in the treetops, and the majority of my young years were dedicated to thorough research on how to become a paleontologist. Though I love the series, the story didn’t inspire The Sky Is the Limit.

The cover did.

But I hadn’t realized it yet—and I wouldn’t until nearly eight years later.

My Art Journey

Since I was a toddler, my parents encouraged my sister and me to do art. We spent hours following along with Art For Kids Hub videos and exploring our how-to-draw books. In elementary, I’d doodle fairies and swings in the margins of my notebooks.

I knew I was good at art—which is why I chose to add it to my talent show presentation. When I did art by myself, I enjoyed it.

But actual art class was boring for me.

I had dreams of sketching daring battles and forest escapades. My teachers had dreams of using watercolors to create a single sea creature (why not three or four?), sprinkling salt across the wet paper (why not arrange it in the shape of bigger bubbles?), and if you finished first, then you could start on another paper craft collage (why not a dinosaur-sizing chart?).

In fifth grade, my last year of private school, I even went so far as to do a poor job on art assignments—in a secret act of rebellion. Since my teachers limited my creativity in art, I conserved my creative energy and spent it daydreaming about future writing. My experience only served to reinforce my belief:

Art wasn’t like writing.

That didn’t mean art couldn’t be fun when I was in control. Once I returned to homeschool—and after a few years of space, to recover from the “art-is-boring-schoolwork” phase—I began to dabble in sketching again. More often than not, I’d spend hours copying illustrations I loved. It was easy for me to copy what I saw by breaking the artwork down into geometric shapes. That was when I had an amazing idea.

I checked out dozens of graphic novels from the library to copy their illustrations.

And I ran into a problem.

Of the dozens, I could only read a handful of the graphic novels because of my sensitivities and OCD. Of that handful, only a couple aligned with my personal beliefs. Of that small grouping, none of the illustrations caught my interest. They were all bland, minimalistic, and drawn in a color scheme I despised.

And, most importantly, none of the graphic novels told a story I wanted to read. Like the illustrations, the stories were all simple and bland. They had no subplots. No strong character dynamics. No delightful dialogue. There was no complexity.

When I was in middle school, there wasn’t anything on the graphic novel market for me. Not that I had access to, at very least. (It would be years before I discovered Space Boy.)

Disappointed, I turned my attention to my favorite illustrations over the years, copying them instead.

Jana Christy’s illustrations in The Never Girls.

Zack Franzen’s illustrations in The Green Ember.

Now, as a published author, I saw them in a new light. While I copied the lines on my separate paper, I drank in every detail of the artworks. Jealousy flowed through me as I looked at the illustrations, wishing I had the money to hire someone to illustrate my own stories like that.

Todd Harris’s illustrations in The Map to Everywhere.

Aedan Peterson’s illustrations in Wingfeather Tales.

Laura Hollingsworth’s illustrations in Keeper of the Lost Cities.

I didn’t have the funding to hire anyone to illustrate my books, and I was nowhere near the skill level to illustrate my own (I had tried many times). But, as I looked at those illustrations, something hit me. Why weren’t there graphic novels with illustrations like these? With content like these books?

There weren’t any graphic novels for me. So what if I illustrated my own comic strip?

I dusted off my sketchbooks. I opened the page. I wrote multiple outlines for four-panel comics. I planned out characters. I fleshed out an entire world. I chose a title. And then, energized, I—

Crashed and burned.

Though the dream stuck with me, I only managed to sketch a few panels before I relapsed into, “This takes forever, I’m not drawing anything like what’s in my head, and I’d rather be writing.” Altogether, between eighth and eleventh grade, I finished two comic strips. I didn’t have the skills to illustrate in the style I wanted to, and I had no idea how to get there.

My artwork era could have ended there.

But then, the National Park Mystery Series began climbing the Amazon bestseller charts.

My First Commission

My dad is Aaron Johnson, the author of the National Park Mystery Series. Each of his books is packed with accurate illustrations of real places, objects, and animals. The illustrations are done in a crossover between digital pencil and watercolor.

My dad illustrated all of the illustrations in the first three books. It was his idea, and an incredibly cool one. But, as time went on, it was no longer viable. The more that NPMS grew, the more my dad’s time for illustrating shrank. Since he’s self-published, he runs the entire business side of the series, in addition to writing the books.

So, my dad came up with a creative solution. Since I could draw, he asked me if I’d be willing to train as a secondary illustrator. Naturally, I agreed—because what creative high school student wouldn’t want to make money drawing for hours and illustrate a bestselling series?

Though I was excited about the job… illustrating Danger in Zion National Park was exhausting.

I had never spent more than an hour or two doing back-to-back art. Additionally, we illustrate on Adobe Fresco—and, at that point, screens completely drained my emotional capacity. Worst of all, my chronic pain issues had me squirming against pinched nerves during the entire illustrating process.

But, despite that, the experience was invaluable. I went in first on most of the artworks, laying down the basic pencil lines, flat values, texture, and shading. Then, my dad would come over the top and rework the illustration to match his style. I learned how to receive feedback from my dad and the humility of watching my artworks disappear under someone else’s brushstrokes.

I began growing a deep admiration for style fluidity. By the time we started on book five, I was able to match my dad’s style near perfectly, and I began taking over the majority of the core illustrations.

The process went so well that my dad had a new idea: what if he and I worked together to create an activity book for his series? I could illustrate the coloring pages, and he could create the activities.

And all the profits would go toward my college tuition.

I’ve always loved having a game plan for the future. In fact, by the time I was in eighth grade, I’d planned out exactly what college I wanted to go to and what degree I wanted. Naturally, having a passive-income coloring book pay for part of my college tuition was impossible to turn down.

Ironically, I had just started to consider throwing all those college plans out the window.

Switching Gears: College

By tenth grade, I knew I was going to be a full-time author one day. And I knew I wasn’t going to get an English or Creative Writing degree.

For years, I’d pushed back against writing within an academic context. Since writing was my escape from reality, turning writing into schoolwork felt like a threat—especially after those bad creative experiences in fifth grade.

In middle school, I planned to go to college for the humanities. But the closer I got to college, the plan deteriorated. I was still struggling with my OCD triggers… and when I looked at the college classes and the reading material, I began to realize I may not be able to take humanities courses.

Plus… was it really worth hundreds of thousands of dollars to spend four years learning things that I could teach myself?

Just like that, a humanities major was whisked off the table.

But I still wanted to go to college. For me, the social experience was well worth the money—but I didn’t want to spend four years pursuing a career that didn’t matter, given that I planned to be a full-time author.

I explained my process to my mom, and she agreed with me. Which begged the question:

What would be a degree worth four years of my life, worth a small fortune, and worth investing in?

My mind went multiple directions. Entrepreneurship? Business? Though important, I felt I could learn those better from experience and at home, so those went out the window. My mind kept coming back to creativity.

That was when the idea hit me.

What if my daydreams about comics and graphic novels… didn’t have to be daydreams?

My mind rushed back to my disappointment when I had discovered that there weren’t graphic novels I could read. My younger self had wanted graphic novels with clean content, good illustrations, and most of all, real storylines. Not flat stories. Complex, beautiful stories. There was a gap in the market.

I was an author. What if I learned to illustrate… and I was the one to fill that gap?

“Do colleges have illustration majors?” I asked my mom.

We looked it up. There were exactly three Christian colleges with illustration majors in the United States. That summer and fall, we had multiple national park visits and road trips to see extended family planned.

My parents added all three colleges to our itinerary.

For the first time in years, when we pulled onto the road, I packed my sketchbook.

This week’s post is going to be a bit different.

I’m having a blast writing blog posts and personal essays about mental health, writing, and chronic illness. But the thing is, sometimes those blog posts and personal essays can make it sound like I’ve got everything nailed down. I don’t. The past few months have been a bit of a physical and mental train wreck for me. However, I firmly believe in everything I’ve written here, and every day, I strive to live with a mindset rooted in hope and joy.

In Things Are Looking Up, I want to give you guys a fully-rounded frame of reference, not just a montage of my edited thoughts and processes. Life is nitty-gritty, and I want to be honest with where I’m at—because, even in the hardest times, things can be looking up.

And, according to my new reader survey, a lot of you also want to hear more about my story. Which, I’ll be honest, is a really strange feeling—I have yet to get used to the fact that I’m a professional author and illustrator, and that people actually want to know who I am and how I’m doing!

So, every couple of months, I’ll write and send out a personal update in place of a blog post. Each personal update will cover multiple sections: a general life update—including an update on my continued mental/physical health journey—and updates on my writing, illustration, and the Freedom Through Fire Saga. These past few months have been a roller coaster, so this first update ended up being a bit longer than most of my usual posts.

Life Update

I always imagined that my senior year would look like the climax of a book series—where I made groundbreaking advances against OCD and dysautonomia, prepared to tackle college head-on with a grin, and, even if there were minor setbacks, 2025 became the best year yet.

Instead, I’ve been reworking my outlines for future graphic novel memoirs, because that was not how 2025 went.

I haven’t written any blog posts specifically about chronic illness yet, but I’ve suffered from dysautonomia my entire life. As previously mentioned in my post about depression, I had a really bad POTS flare this summer, which set off the worst chronic pain, health issues, migraines, and depression I’ve experienced. The past half year has been incredibly difficult and painful. I still haven’t recovered, and right now, I’m just trying to take it one day at a time.

Then, we learned that my Grammy has cancer. The diagnosis was very sudden, and threw all our plans into the air. Over the past two months, my mom has been traveling back and forth between Colorado and New Jersey to take care of her. While my mom has been gone, my health issues have continued with weight loss and severe migraines multiple times a week, leading us to having multiple doctor and naturopath appointments.

Though I have a positive outlook on OCD, it still limits my life. By now, I expected the OCD to have eased—but, over this year, there hasn’t been the improvement I need for college. Because of that, I started seeing an OCD therapist in December. She’s been absolutely incredible so far—I love speaking to someone who understands neuroscience and can advocate for me with other doctors. Right now, we’re pursuing getting me college disability accommodations for both OCD and dysautonomia.

Earlier this year, we made an unexpected move to the house of our dreams, 9,000 feet up in the mountains. With winter setting in, we’ve started to get the full rural experience. We were completely snowed in a few days back (the wind created a snow drift as tall as me), with 75+ mph winds that kept slamming snowballs into my windows. (Every time I walked outside, all I could think about was Sky in Hurricane Zero and Operation Druka, hah!)

During the Christmas season, work ramps up for the National Park Mystery Series. In addition to being an illustrator, I’m an employee for my dad. Since we moved, we spent the last few weeks packaging thousands of books and fulfilling orders in our barn-turned-warehouse, instead of our basement. Due to my health, I wasn’t able to work as much as I’d liked—but my dad got a new employee just in time, and when my mom was home, she stepped in to help ease the load.

At one point, there was a chance of my mom not being home for the holidays—but with the grace of God, both she and my Grammy were able to fly out to be with us over Christmas. And thank goodness…

Because on Christmas Eve, I nearly went to the ER for the worst migraine I’ve ever had. By evening, my eyes were nearly swollen shut, I was throwing up, and I was so inflamed that any slight touch felt like knives being drawn across my skin. The migraine itself was nearly unbearable; I’ve never experienced pain anything like it. But God gave us a Christmas miracle—right as we got prepared to head to the ER, which was over an hour away, I finally fell asleep and slept off the migraine.

On top of my exhaustion and migraine hangover, I spent the majority of Christmas day on the couch with the continued dysautonomia flare. There were points where I was in too much pain to open presents. Despite that, I was able to enjoy the day by leaning into the comfort of family. I was even able to partake of our traditional pumpkin bread, which was the first food besides smoothies, sweet potatoes, and broth that I’d had in nearly a week! I got delightful presents (including Brandon Sanderson novels for my nearly-adult heart, the next City Spies books for my middle-grade author self, and the second book in the Mo and Dale Mystery series for my inner eleven-year-old!) but, by far, the best present of all was spending time with my family.

Also, our beloved cat (Rainier, who frequents the National Park Mystery Series social media pages) and I now have matching pajamas. Which makes everything better.

Unfortunately, my dysautonomia flare continued after Christmas, and I spent most of the last week bedridden. On top of everything, my entire family got the flu right after Christmas. Though we were all miserable, my parents took me to a long-awaited doctor appointment on the 29th…only to learn that my doctor had also gotten sick, and my appointment had been rescheduled for two weeks from now. Since my dysautonomia flare is ongoing, I’m not sure what these next two weeks will look like. Right now, I’m just praying for God’s strength through the pain, that the migraines will stay at bay (no ER visits!!!), and that my tachycardia will calm down.

Despite the chaotic, painful nature of these past months, I’m very hopeful for 2026. I have an appointment with a dysautonomia specialist next October—the soonest we could get in—which should give us some answers and point us toward the next steps. Before then, I still believe that my health and OCD will improve enough for me to head to college, though I’m unsure what my physical and mental capacity will look like.

At this point, I have no idea how to keep moving forward in so much pain. But God has always sustained me in the past, so I believe that no matter what’s coming, He’ll hold me through it until the pain passes. Every time, I’ve ended up way stronger for it—so I’m very willing to be in pain, because, let’s face it: the Enemy is incredibly bad at long-term plans.

Between my health and my Grammy’s cancer, these next few months still look very uncertain for all of us—but I’m choosing to look forward to the things that we do know for certain, like our New Year’s Eve traditions, finishing up Freedom Through Fire, and the time we do get with my mom.

One of my favorite Christmas presents was a custom-made sweatshirt that my mom made for our matching Christmas Eve pajamas. Mine had a photo of the redwoods on the front, with our family’s 2025 motto, “Expect Good Things,” beneath it.

I can’t wait to wear it into the new year.

Writing

On the creative front, amazing things happened over these past months…

Freedom Through Fire

This fall, I published both The Fugitives Files and Operation Druka, books four and five in the Freedom Through Fire Saga! I broke my personal record, bringing me up to three books published this year.

Over the past months, I’ve been toiling away at the final two FTF books. My goal is to publish them before my eighteenth birthday—or, at very least, before my high school graduation. I’ll be fine if I miss that goal, but I still love striving for it!

Currently, I’m finishing up my beta team for Book Six. I started developmental edits on Book Seven two weeks ago. With my health issues, I’m a month behind schedule, but I’m hoping to get the ball rolling and get this book to the beta team as soon as I can as well. I’m continuously pulling my family aside to tell them all of Lance’s new jokes and ramble about my deep research on gum production and abdominal surgeries.

Meanwhile, Laura Hollingsworth is working on another beautiful cover for Book Six. If all goes to plan, we should have another FTF book at the end of January…!

Over these past few months, the number of fan emails I’ve gotten has taken me by surprise! I’ve been working so hard on the FTF books that I haven’t had a chance to get back to everyone yet, but I’ve been so blessed and amazed by hearing from readers who enjoy my series. You guys are absolutely wonderful, hilarious, and so very kind!

On a similar note: the FTF audience is steadily growing!!! For most of December, The Rebels’ Daughter has been ranking within the top 85,000 books on Amazon, and we more than quadrupled last year’s sales. Now, Google summarizes the series as “gaining popularity and well-regarded in middle grade fantasy,” as opposed to “may have a small following in a niche category.” That’s all you guys—thank you for making a twelve-year-old girl’s dream come true!

As I’m drawing near the end of FTF, writing and editing are becoming much harder. Sky and her story have been with me for eight years, so I’ve been grieving as I approach the finish line. Since I want these last months of FTF to be delightful, not stressful, I’ve started doing emotional awareness and grief processing exercises before I write. I’m hoping that taking good care of myself, my emotions, and my younger self’s heart through this change will allow me to complete my goals and have a blast.

Firefly Tales

Earlier this fall, my first short story was published in Firefly Tales, an anthology written and illustrated by the young authors and artists of the S.E. Collaborative Guild! I’m also one of the illustrators for the anthology—and, since these are my first commissions with characters in them, it was an incredible feeling to hold the book in my hands.

My short story, The Aspen Bride, is an original YA fairy tale—and what readers have described as a “modern spin on Greek and Norse mythology,” “rather tragic,” and “unexpected.” I’ve been surprised and delighted by how much readers have enjoyed the story, since for me, it was more of a side project and an experiment. If you’re interested in checking it out, it’s the first story in the anthology, so there’s a sample available on Amazon! (And you can see Evie Warnemuende’s incredible illustration for the story—the artwork is so beautiful that it nearly brings me to tears!)

Online Store

With the growth of the FTF fandom, I started my own online store! Since I was little, I’ve loved book merch—and I wanted to provide that for other tweens and teens. I priced all the items low to make them affordable, so I only make a dollar or two off of each purchase. But since the money isn’t the point, I’m happy as a clam.

In December, I did a reader poll for FTF fans and let them vote for the merch! Now, there are multiple stickers, phone cases, t-shirts, and even a hoodie in the store. (Gotta say, I’m partial to the Dang It, Steve! sticker myself…) In addition, I illustrated a sticker for The Aspen Bride!

To celebrate my first year on Substack, I’ve also added a new sticker to my store—my author brand logo! Earlier this year, I hired Laura Hollingsworth to illustrate the logo. Now, I have a symbol that represents all of my current projects—FTF, The Aspen Bride, and Things Are Looking Up—alongside all the future ones. I plan to continue using this logo for decades to come!

(The Sticker)

Illustrating

This past month, I got accepted into my dream animation program! I spent the past year and a half drawing every day, working on my portfolio. It’s a very competitive program, so I didn’t know whether I would get in this year. So, when I received my acceptance letter, I was so excited that I skipped around giggling for an entire evening. Not only did I get into the program, but I also got into the BFA—the more intense (and way cooler) course!

Between work, FTF, and my health, I haven’t been able to draw as much as I’d like this month. But recently, I’ve been testing out ink and alcohol markers. I’ve been very pleased with the results, and I especially like this concept art I did for the sixth FTF book. (Even though the perspective is inaccurate.)

This month, I also tried out digital painting for the first time. Up until this point, I’ve only ever illustrated using lined art—so I was shocked when my first attempt went really well! In the middle of painting the character portrait, I broke down in tears, because it was such an amazing experience to see my character’s face come to life for the first time.

Emboldened by my sudden success, I also tried painting Sky. Unfortunately, unlike the first portrait, the details of Sky’s portrait didn’t exactly work out. But it passes the squint test (when artists squint to check visual design, contrast, and shape) so you guys get the blurry version! Someday, I’ll come back and finish this portrait.

I can’t believe I’ve shared so little FTF art with the public! I’m planning on adding a fan art gallery to my website sometime soon, complete with a small section of my own work over the years.

I’ve gone back and forth on whether I should post more of my art on Substack. As an illustrator, I’d love to share more of my work with you guys, but as someone who was raised fairly internet-free, I’m still not quite used to the concept of social media. I’m walking the fine line between keeping myself free from the “how many likes and views does my art have” craze, yet also trying to be a professional illustrator/author and connect with you guys. Let me know in the comments if you have any thoughts!

Wrap Up

That brings us to the end of my first personal update! Come the New Year, I’m planning to dive back in with more posts about writing, creativity, and chronic illness. I have some ideas that I’m looking forward to; I hope you’ll enjoy them.

Happy New Year, everyone! I’m hoping and praying that this is your best year yet!

—India

The program was for rising seniors, and we had a blast rocking the gold and purple, raiding the snack room with our awesome professor, and battling it out between our teams (Red Team may not have won, but we dominated the Olympics and team flag design). Despite my laptop kicking the bucket, I managed to get an A+ in my Communications class.

Though the week was fun… the insane heat wasn’t. The other students were able to survive on five hours of sleep in 105-degree weather, but with my chronic illness, I wasn’t. After nearly passing out in downtown Nashville, my health took a nose-dive.

My POTS flare—the worst I’ve ever had—continued for months after the program. On top of the miserable muscle weakness and severe chest pain, it set off a prolonged period of severe anxiety.

And then, just like that, depression decided to lurch in.

I’ve struggled with depression the majority of my life. My longest episode lasted from fourth to eighth grade—and, after that, it has settled into a routine of popping up every December. (That is, every December so far—here’s to believing that seasonal depression will kick the bucket!) On my neurofeedback scans, you can see the trauma entrenched in my brain signals.

Like this case, health flares can also trigger depression for me. I’m pretty certain this is because my health issues are all nervous-system related, and thus, interwoven with my preexisting mental health conditions.

But this time around, my experience with depression was different.

Because this time, I was able to crack a smile.

Discounting Depression

“Am I depressed?”

From my ninth birthday on, that question would sneak into my head. Usually, I could tell that I wasn’t depressed—it was just a bad day, and my mind was simply trying to find a reason to vindicate the negative emotions I was feeling.

In middle school, I watched my friends use depression as a lighthearted term—but, as someone who had experienced depression, I took it seriously.

So seriously that I stopped allowing myself to ask the question.

I went through so much internal pain in my childhood that it takes hitting rock bottom for me to admit that I’m struggling. I constantly compare my pain to my younger self. “My OCD is bad, but it’s nothing like fifth grade.” “I’m chronically exhausted, and I can barely move, but it’s nothing like eighth grade.” “Yeah, I can’t go to work because of my muscle cramps, but it’s nothing like a couple of years ago.”

The thing is, I don’t actually know that. It’s been nearly a decade since some of those events—the memories of that pain have gathered dust. But considering that my past pain might be less severe than I remember? To my younger self, that feels like betrayal. My sweet, depressed younger self experienced so much pain… and no one knew.

How scary would it be if her older self discounted her pain, too?

In trying to validate my younger self’s pain, I had shut down my current experience.

My younger self’s fear of being discounted is valid. But, at the same time, it’s based on the false construct our culture gave me.

Turns out—that wavelength is the wrong one.

Pain Is a Globe

Have you read The Greenglass House?

(If not, go and read it, right now. It’s a delightful, festive, ghostly mystery. Don’t worry, I won’t spoil anything in this post.)

The Greenglass House takes place in a cozy hotel, set near an ever-changing quay. Hundreds of cartographers have attempted to map the quay, and all have failed. The quay is so volatile that it can’t be captured on a two-dimensional map.

But legend tells of a map that can adapt and measure the quay.

The very concept of a waterfront that can’t be mapped? Genius. What a fantastic plot element for a mystery novel—naturally, everyone wants the legendary map, since it would make them rich.

But what does this have to do with depression and pain?

Our culture teaches us that pain is a linear scale. It’s not.

Pain is a globe.

Pain is not two-dimensional. It is influenced by everything—our sensitivity levels, our mood, what we’ve eaten, the air pressure, other health problems, mental health problems, pre-disposed genetics, hormones, personal beliefs, age, medication, social interactions, sleep, exercise, reading, art, creating, hearing, emotional guardians, environment, family systems… the list goes on and on. Because pain is so multifaceted and ever-changing, it can’t be measured by a two-dimensional construct.

It’s like trying to use a regular map for the quay in The Greenglass House. You can try—but the landscape is so irregular that it can’t be mapped in two dimensions.

I have felt thousands of different types of pain. Every week, I discover a new form it can take. At the beginning of my severe POTS flare, I was trying to describe the pain. I discovered that using numbers… just wasn’t working. I was experiencing so many different types of pain, and the majority of them fell between a seven and a nine on the pain scale.

So, when friends asked how I was doing, I would often say, “A lot better!” Really, I meant that all my joints were swollen, my muscles ached so badly that I couldn’t get off the couch, and I had stabbing, burning heart palpitations that would send most people rushing to the ER. But it was much better than the day before, when I hadn’t even been able to pick up a pencil because it was too exhausting.

The same thing proves true for my depression. And, after my recent health episode and emotional nosedive, I had to face it:

I could no longer fit my experience onto our culture’s two-dimensional map. Not only was it impossible, but it was proving to be detrimental. I was so afraid of my past pain not being validated that I was ignoring my current pain.

The linear scale doesn’t work.

So, I created a new construct for myself: a globe.

Instead of describing my pain level on a number scale, I started thinking about its place on the globe. Five different types of pain might all be a seven—but they’re all scattered in different places on the globe. Often, I prefer chest pain that’s an eight on the pain scale to a migraine that’s a five or a six.

The globe was revolutionary for me. It validated all of my pain—and gave me a grid to better describe it.

And it allowed me to recognize, finally… that I was depressed.

Recognizing I Was Depressed

Until I found the globe, depression wasn’t even on my radar.

Realizing I was depressed was like a smack to the face. In reality, I had been struggling with depression for over two months—but I hadn’t allowed myself to see it. It was hard to admit that I was depressed. Not to mention that depression, in and of itself, is scary—and the last thing I wanted was to go through another hard mental health season, on top of my POTS flare.

Using the globe, though, helped me allow myself to be depressed. It was still pretty crappy. But it allowed me to be not-okay.

And, for the first time, my pain wasn’t black or white. My depression was allowed to fluctuate.

Enjoying Depression’s Benefits

Hold your numbed, exhausted horses—am I claiming that depression has benefits?

In itself, no; depression doesn’t have benefits. It’s just a boatload of downsides, insomnia, and invisible concrete in your lungs. But guess what? Those downsides can cause beneficial things. This was (maybe) the biggest thing I realized in my 2025 depressive episode:

When I’m depressed, I can do things I couldn’t normally do.

This epiphany came to me when I was sprawled on my bed, at 6:00 pm, with no will to ever stand up again. Immediately, I started to list all the things that I can do during depression that I normally can’t do.

When I’m depressed, I can…

• Lie down and listen to music for hours.

I’m very picky with my music, and I have a routine for how often I listen to songs to keep from getting tired of them. But I felt sick at the thought of my normal upbeat music. So, I created a Depression Relief playlist. It has a grand total of eight songs—mainly from Judah & the Lion’s Revival album and the Stargirl soundtrack. When I’m depressed, I can listen to it on repeat, multiple times in a row, without getting bored with it.

• Not think.

As a storyteller, I am constantly thinking. If I’m not doing schoolwork or engaging with people, I’m brainstorming silly scenarios with characters, plotting out entire novels, and planning out complex publishing schedules. My life is never boring because of it—but it can get exhausting. When depression comes along, it numbs my mind and wipes away my desire to fix character arcs or face those tricky plot holes. It’s too difficult to think, so my mind goes silent. Finally.

• Enjoy nature.

I love getting outside, but with how packed my schedule is, it usually takes time from my deadline projects. When I’m depressed, I suddenly need a lot more breaks from my work. And when everything is miserable, I’m indifferent to trying the outdoor remedy—and since I’m desperate for some type of relief, I go ahead and do it.

My family went on multiple hikes while I was depressed, followed by a two-week road trip to Glacier National Park, Yellowstone, and the Grand Tetons. Because my emotions were already scraping rock bottom, I was able to launch myself into a frigid glacial lake without a second thought. I was able to sit for twenty minutes on top of a mountain peak without getting bored, taking in the snowfields and scanning for wolverines.

On a similar note: depression used to partner with my OCD—but now, depression often numbs it. Which means I can go pet 27 donkeys for an hour, have them slobber all over me, and live to tell the tale without panicking that we have no hand sanitizer on the drive home.

• Enjoy long hugs.

I have a very hard time with physical touch (unless I am initiating the hug). But when I’m dealing with depression, I often need five times as many hugs in a day—and they usually need to last way more than ten seconds.

• Eat healthier foods.

When I’m depressed and my health is bad, I suddenly stop caring about eating and lose my appetite. When all I want to eat are mocha frappes from the local coffee shop, Pepsi Colas, and jerky, I don’t care about the difference between veggies and candy. Both sound horrible, so I might as well just eat the healthy stuff, right? I don’t really care about anything anymore, so I might as well not care and try to help myself.

• Enjoy fuzzy blankets and pillows.

When I’m doing well mentally, they’re fun concepts—but, in reality, they get in the way when I’m hopping between my drafting table and my desk, trying to be a full-time author and submit a college animation portfolio at once. But when I’m depressed, I can truly appreciate the wonder of a silky soft throw blanket, or a perfectly plumped pillow. I could sit for hours snuggling with them.

All the things on this list can be extremely enjoyable. Once I allowed them to be, my depression didn’t change—but my mindset did.

I found myself laughing at jokes. Cracking a smile at the smallest things, like a burst of aspen leaves changing color. My emotions were still numbed, and my entire chest ached with concrete sadness.

But I was able to hold the good and the bad at the same time.

My Go-To Tips for Alleviating Depression

1. Assess your symptoms. Consider your past experiences with depression (or lack of). Are you having a bad day, or could this really be depression?

2. If you realize you really are dealing with depression, accept that you are depressed.

3. Allow yourself to be not-okay.

4. Recognize that your capacity will be much lower, and give yourself permission to take care of yourself.

5. When things get hard, allow yourself to rest. (For example, I wanted to keep working on FTF Sixth, but knew I had blown through my capacity in half my usual time. So, I headed downstairs and watched multiple Parks and Rec episodes with my mom.)

6. Take joy in the small things. Figure out what your depression superpowers are.

7. If you allow yourself to simply be where you’re at and allow it to fluctuate, it makes it so you can also have good moments. Depression isn’t black or white. It doesn’t have to be completely terrible or completely amazing. Remember, pain is a globe, not a linear scale.

8. Allow yourself to smile and laugh. It’s scientifically proven that both release mood-boosting neurotransmitters. When I’m depressed, I try to smile at my family more often. My smile may look mournful—but over time, I begin to feel the benefits.

These methods aren’t tried and true. Depression is pretty crappy, and, in the end, all you can do is wait it out. But if you allow yourself to be where you are at, instead of constantly comparing your pain to yourself and others, I guarantee:

Your depression will be more manageable.

And you will crack a smile a lot more often.

Also… I’m now the author of five books!!!

Last month, I released Operation Druka, the fifth book in the Freedom Through Fire Saga! If you’re looking for a last-minute Christmas present for a loved one, a friend, or a young writer—or you would simply like to support me—all of the books are available to purchase through Amazon, and will arrive in time for Christmas! (The fourth book, The Fugitives Files, is also a winter/holidays/Christmas story!)

The Freedom Through Fire Saga contains wholesome, uplifting themes, healthy family and friend dynamics, and even some mental health topics in an age-appropriate, fantastical way.

Buy Now!

When I began writing this series, I was Sky’s age—and I was discovering how to live a healthy, wholesome life. That’s one of my favorite parts of this series: instead of staying a static character, Sky grows into herself with each book. As she becomes more mature, emotionally aware, and noble, all the character dynamics in the series become richer.

And, I have to say: I think her snark gets better with each book, too.

Merry Christmas, and Happy Holidays!

—India

If I Were a Rich Man was blasting past the curtains, and the audience was laughing at the high-school Tevye’s dance. (They had good taste—he later went on to perform on Broadway.)

Ghost costumes shuffled around me as my fellow actors prepared for Tevye’s Dream. The stairwell was at least ten degrees hotter than the stage, but by now, we’d all given in to the heavy smell of body odor. Fruma-Sarah was yanking on her tattered white dress over her tan street clothes, and Golde was helping her button it. Multiple actors were nursing bruised toes, and others were pretending to light each other’s hair on fire with the fake candles.

I had managed to procure a seat on a step and was massaging my swollen calves. I didn’t come in until after the dream sequence, so I was taking the time to recover from our earlier show—in which I had forgotten my line and sprinted off stage crying. By some miracle, I was getting over the embarrassment and was beginning to find it hilarious.

Then my ears locked onto the conversation between Fruma-Sarah and Golde.

“One moment,” Golde whispered, as she stepped past Fruma-Sarah to adjust the table of items. One of the crystals on the lamp was caught on the lampshade. Golde flicked it down, with a nervous laugh. “Sorry, I’m just so OCD.”

My head snapped up. Excitement leaped through my chest. “Wait,” I said, covering my mic, “you have OCD?”

Golde stepped on her nightgown as she turned. Confusion—along with a trace of embarrassment—flashed across her face. “No.”

Instantly, I felt my face go even redder than hers. With a crash, Tevye’s song finished, and the audience’s applause echoed through the stairwell. “Oh,” I stammered, getting up to let the actors through, “sorry, I have OCD, and I thought—”

But Golde had already rushed up the steps and to the stage, alongside Fruma Sarah.

I balled up my hands, trying to ignore how hot my face felt. I pressed my cheek against the beige wall. Besides embarrassed…

I felt shaken. Scared. And angry.

I knew that people used OCD as a slang term.

But that was the first time I’d heard it.

OCD Stigmas

The chances are, the first time you heard the acronym “OCD,” it was used as a slang term.

This is a stigma.

When most people use the term “OCD”, they use it as an adjective to describe people who are neat, organized, or have a preference for order and symmetry. These can be symptoms of OCD, but they are not the full disorder. And there’s one big difference: people with OCD cannot control their symptoms the way neurotypical people can.

Using OCD as a slang term isn’t just misleading—it’s dangerous. For two main reasons.

1. It prevents our society from helping people who have real OCD.

The popularity of the phrase “I’m so OCD” has created a false understanding of the disorder. Every time people use it, they are promoting an inaccurate depiction of the disorder. People with real OCD may never know they have OCD—because they’ve been taught the disorder is simply a slang term.

I believe that a much larger percentage of our population has OCD than current statistics show. And I think they’re hidden because of these stigmas.

When I was in middle school, I didn’t realize that something was wrong with my brain. It wasn’t until eighth grade that we discovered I had OCD—and if we hadn’t, I believe it would have destroyed (or later taken) my life.

In fact, studies show that people with OCD are 82% more likely to die prematurely from unnatural cause than people without OCD. And they are five times more likely to die from suicide.

Somewhere, a teenager is suffering with OCD… but they have no idea what OCD is. It’s just a phrase they and their friends use, not a mental disorder. Day and night, they are barraged with horrifying ruminations and panic-inducing compulsions. But they don’t speak up, because they don’t realize those brain loops aren’t normal.

What happens when those ruminations hit a point… where the world is too terrifying to live in anymore?

I hate writing about that. But, right now, it’s a reality. I need to convey the weight of this topic.

To clarify, the majority of people using OCD as a slang term have no idea that OCD is a true disorder. People simply don’t know, which isn’t their fault. If you’ve used OCD as a slang term before, you have no need to be ashamed, since you haven’t done anything wrong.

But, because of how destructive the stigma can be, we can’t ignore it.

2. Not only is the phrase misleading, but it’s hurtful.

Since OCD is a real disability, these stigmas are unintentionally embarrassing and wounding for people with diagnosed OCD.

OCD stigmas cram the OCD community into a box. It hurts so much when people can’t hear me because they have a pre-formed box about OCD—or, worse, when they tell me flat-out that I’m simply dramatic, and that OCD isn’t a big deal.

Usually, those people are amazing, and they mean well. But since they have a preconceived notion of OCD that is incorrect, it throws them through a loop when I try to explain. And, unintentionally, I become the enemy.

Why is that?

Humanity’s Defense Loop

Whenever I meet people who can’t listen to my explanation of OCD, it drives me insane. But I still feel compassion for them. Because, usually, they really are trying.

Their survival instincts are taking over.

The brain naturally perceives new concepts as a threat. Our brains compare existing information to new information and rely on existing patterns to make quick decisions for survival.

But when I break their box for OCD, people can’t use those pre-made patterns to store the information away—they have to create a new box for it. This throws the brain through a loop. Instead of creating a new box, the majority of people try even harder to force this new definition of OCD into their old box.

It makes sense. Our brains don’t realize that they are safe. Instead, they’re stuck in survival mode.

Hold on—because it gets even trickier. Add on top of it that OCD is an uncomfortable topic!

When I explain my OCD, people feel uncomfortable—for good reason! I mean, look at what I covered in my OCD blog post!

People don’t want me to be hurting, and they don’t want there to be that kind of mental threat in the world. Naturally, people want to avoid discomfort—creating another layer to why it’s hard for them to hear me.

Now, let’s bring in another problem:

The majority of people, when I explain my OCD, are resistant. So, I start expecting that people won’t believe me.

And I get defensive.

This destroys any chance of us hearing each other. When I start getting defensive when explaining my OCD, it only amps up the other person’s defensiveness! When both sides are feeling threatened, neither side can hear the other. In fact, when you feel threatened, you have a harder time retaining memories—including what the other person is trying to tell you.

This proves true for any conversation, relaying of information, or argument.

This miscommunication doesn’t just happen in conversations about OCD.

It happens every single day. In our households. Over text. In the store. On the news. In school. Even the book characters you read about are struggling with this!

It happens when…

• Your mom asks you to unload the dishwasher, but you really need to get that essay done—and you don’t want to admit that you procrastinated.

• You’re really annoyed with your spouse for leaving their towel on the floor again, and you want them to actually hear you this time and stop doing it.

• Your roommate keeps putting on the news, and can’t seem to understand your sensitivity to certain current events.

• Your friends keep trying to plan activities that, with your chronic illness, you can’t do.

• Basically, any threatening conversation you can imagine where you want to be heard.

I bet that you were part of a conversation like this in the past twenty-four hours. It’s a normal part of human experience. And a frustrating one, right?

But… hang on.

Isn’t this supposed to be about OCD? What do personal conversations that make me feel threatened have to do with OCD awareness?

Everything.

What We Can Learn from OCD Awareness

When you learn to speak from a place of peace, not defense, you will be heard better. When the other person realizes that you aren’t attacking them, they’ll feel less defensive. And, in turn, the people around them become less defensive.

If we were all able to speak from a place of peace, not defense, the battle for OCD awareness wouldn’t be a battle. If people didn’t feel defensive, they would be less likely to cram it into their pre-formed box. Even if they couldn’t fully understand, they would still retain the new information. The next time they come across the phrase, the person will feel uncomfortable and likely say something.

I’ve watched this be true with everyone willing to let down their defenses and listen to my experience with OCD. They’ve become advocates for OCD at school and work, working to open up others’ boxes.

Not only that, but when we learn to recognize when we feel threatened… our quality of social life improves. I’m serious. In conversations, I often speak from a place of defense, even when I have no need to feel threatened. Over the past years, I’ve worked hard to speak from a place of peace instead. The better I’ve gotten at releasing my defensiveness, the easier conversations have become. I have fewer arguments. It’s much easier to repair conflicts with my friends. My social anxiety has come down. People actually listen to what I have to say. I’ve even watched the people around me become happier because of the effect my peace has on them.

Sounds amazing, right?

And… sounds like idealistic therapy, right?

I have amazing news for you: It’s not idealistic. It’s very possible. You can find peace in threatening conversations.

I have some bad news for you: It’s not idealistic. It’s very possible. You can find peace in threatening conversations. But you’ll have to choose to value it.

How to Prevent Defensive-Based Miscommunication

How do we prevent these defensive miscommunications?

As Lance Green once said in the Freedom Through Fire Saga:

“Sometimes, when I’m mad, my mom tells me to list everything I’m feeling—and see if maybe it isn’t anger. And... maybe you could try that?”

- Rogue

(Yes. I secretly included this topic in a middle-grade novel. Good news—if a thirteen-year-old can do it, you can, too!)

If you are being presented with a conversation that makes you defensive, you can…

1. Recognize that you are uncomfortable with the new information.

2. Take a quick pause to process other emotions you may be feeling.

3. Internally, recognize what you are afraid of. Are you afraid that this new information means you’ve done something wrong? Are you afraid that you won’t understand? Are you afraid that the person may not hear you?

4. Be curious. Ask curious and clarifying questions—not defensive questions or passive-aggressive questions.

5. If you are still struggling to understand, admit it. Say that you need some time to process it. (And, later, make sure to actually process it—avoidance doesn’t count!)

If you are trying to offer a new concept to someone, you can…

1. Recognize that you are uncomfortable.

2. Take a quick pause to process other emotions you may be feeling and your fears.

3. Internally, recognize that you are afraid the person may not hear you.

4. Imagine that they will hear you.

5. Explain the concept as if you know the other person will believe you.

6. If they don’t hear you, then move on from the topic. Your conversation may plant a seed in them for later. Even if they can’t accept it now, you just gave them important information—and the next time they hear something similar, they will likely be less defensive, since it will be familiar.

Practicing this isn’t easy. It goes against the survival loop in our brains. But, guess what? We aren’t cavemen. We live in the modern world, where many of us are blessed to live safe lives.

This survival loop is outdated—and it’s preventing you from communicating to your fullest.

Implementing this into your life will be hard. Very hard. And it won’t change overnight. In fact, before I wrote this blog post, I forced myself to sit down and go through these lists, since I was nervous that I wouldn’t be heard. I had to edit multiple times to ensure I was speaking from a place of peace.

But, I promise you, the benefits are worth it. The more you practice staying at peace and releasing your defensiveness, the easier it becomes. If you choose to implement this when you are feeling threatened, I guarantee that you are more likely to be heard. You’re way more likely to hear the other person.

And you will be building a better world—for yourself, your family, your friends, and every other person on earth.

OCD and Understanding

Overall, these OCD stigmas create a conundrum that is unfair to both the diagnosed and undiagnosed OCD community. We can’t change the culture-wide slang overnight.

But, over time, we can change it together.

If you’re willing, please consider dropping the term “I’m so OCD.” When you hear others using it, instead of feeling angry, be delighted—because they just gave you an easy entrance. Kindly explain what OCD actually is. It’s up to the other person whether to receive the new information or not. But, no matter what, it will plant a seed of change.

Education doesn’t foster change. Understanding fosters change. In order to create understanding, whether that be for OCD awareness or our personal lives, we need to learn to approach conversation without defense.

Wouldn’t that be an amazing world? One where people were willing to let down their defenses and actually hear each other?

I hope that, someday soon, there will be a revolution that brings OCD awareness to our culture. For everyone out there with OCD—undiagnosed or diagnosed—you are not alone. You are seen. You are valued.

And we’re coming for you—one conversation at a time.

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Maybe you hope to publish—or maybe not. But, no matter your plan, you wish you could be recognized for your hard work.

Guess what? There’s a program for that. It’s called the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards.

The Scholastic Art and Writing Awards are the United States’ most prestigious recognition program for young writers and artists. Teenagers in ninth through twelfth grade can submit their writing and artwork for a chance to be recognized with awards on both regional and national levels.

I’ve been submitting novels to the Scholastic Awards for the past three years. I’ve won a Scholastic Gold Key (for The Rebels’ Daughter), a Silver Key (for Hurricane Zero), and an Honorable Mention for a young adult novel. It’s been an invaluable experience—

But not for the reasons I originally thought.

Over the years, I stumbled into invisible barriers and unexpected revelations with my submissions. I began to collect my experiences into a basic “cheat sheet” that I wish my freshman-year self had known.

My Scholastic Cheat Sheet

Scholastic Art and Writing Awards are judged anonymously on originality, skill, and emergence of voice. In my experience, they value certain aspects above others.

This is collected from my personal experience in my region (Region-at-Large-West Writing) and from previous years. Each region is operated by different people, so not all of this cheat sheet may apply to other regions. Similarly, jurors fluctuate year to year and can change the culture of the Awards.

The Cheat Sheet

1. Your award outcome can depend on which jurors read your novel. There are many jurors, and each one is coming to your work with a unique perspective.

2. The jurors like mental health topics.

3. The jurors like social commentary.

4. The jurors like political commentary.

5. The jurors prefer traditional, proven story structures.

6. The jurors prefer shorter novels.

7. The jurors prefer stand-alone novels.

8. The jurors aren’t always on the same page. Once, I got a question answered by a juror who wasn’t in the novel category, which, later, turned out to be incorrect information.

9. The jurors care more about you than your work. This can be an incredible thing, but when it comes to writing novels (especially fantasy), it can limit you.

Can these general rules of thumb be broken? Of course! And none of the things on this list are bad!

Despite that, I wish I’d known them going in. I’m someone who avoids social/political commentary. I love breaking boxes with story structure, and nearly all my novels are 300+ pages and part of a series. And I write fantasy—so, though I have a personal voice and expression, it may not be as clear as someone writing realistic fiction.

Which led me to discover these in the first place.

How Did I Learn This?

When I was in eighth grade, I submitted The Rebels’ Daughter to the Scholastic Awards. I won a Gold Key. I was over the moon—and when my sophomore year came, I submitted multiple novels. One of those novels was my favorite: a 100,000+ word YA novel that had been professionally edited and beloved by beta readers. I was confident it would receive a Gold Key and maybe even a national award.

To my shock, my YA novel got an Honorable Mention.

I was baffled by how my 27,000-word novel (that I wrote when I was twelve, and it shows) received gold, while my character-rich, developmentally-edited YA novel that took me years to write received an honorable mention. And I wasn’t the only one. My parents, my writing mentor, and my beta readers were shocked.

What happened? I thought, again and again.

After that, I began paying attention to what novels of mine won, what ones didn’t. I attended a Scholastic Zoom meeting to ask them category questions, and read all their emails and advertisements. As I did, I began to realize something: the Scholastic Awards are run by Scholastic—a huge traditional publisher. Naturally, the Awards will carry over the publishers’ values, interests, and (to some extent) criteria.

Again, that isn’t a bad thing. And it helped change my view of the Awards—so, when Rogue got a Participation Award, I was able to laugh it off.

Before that, though, I learned another important lesson. There was one other thing I didn’t expect going into the Scholastic Awards—

And it ended up being the most valuable writing lesson I’ve learned.

Rejection: The Pros… and the Pros

The majority of teen writers haven’t experienced rejection. That’s something that comes later on—when you get that devastating letter from a publisher.

At least, that’s what I thought. Then I opened my dashboard on the regional announcements day, and found that my YA novel—the book I had poured my blood, sweat, tears, and all of my heart into… had only gotten an Honorable Mention.

The pain was Harry Potter’s first rejection level. I sprinted for my bedroom. I made it up five stairs before I collapsed, sobbing.

An Honorable Mention is still incredible—and I knew that. I wasn’t being ungrateful. I was just shocked. Hurt. Confused. And scared. Scared that these jurors—these professionals—had decided it wasn’t worthy as my very first novel. Scared that my book wasn’t as good as I thought. Scared that I’d built an illusion for myself.

Scared, because it felt like the jurors were attacking me.

My story was my life. My characters were part of me. They breathed inside me every minute of every day. They were based on my life and who I was.

Was I worth only an Honorable Mention?

After that day, my writing crashed and burned. I’d lost all my self-confidence in my YA novel, and consequently, in the rest of the series. I couldn’t read my book, or even look at it. Not because I didn’t love it—I did. But every time, I felt the rejection all over again, and that same doubt.

Finally, I had to make a decision. Option one: I could continue chasing external affirmation, like from the jurors, and lose my love for my book. Option two: I could choose to let go of external affirmation because I loved my story.

I chose the second one.

Change didn’t happen overnight. In fact, it took me two years to recover. But whenever I got a rejection after that… I was okay.

Which, since I plan to be a full-time author, is like a superpower.

There’s a chance you could win a Scholastic Award. There’s a chance you may not.

But why not start acclimating to rejection now? If you do, you’ll be a step ahead. Because when you make it to the big league, that devastating letter from a publisher… won’t be that devastating.

How To Enter the Scholastic Awards

Want to enter your novel in the Scholastic Awards? Here’s how!

Step 1: Set up your dashboard

Go to How to Enter | Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. Click on “Create Your Account,” and then click “I am a teen.”

Fill out the account questions. These include your full name, date of birth, grade, school name (there’s a homeschool option), your email address, and your parent/teacher/guardian’s email address. (They will also be required to create an educator account.) You may be required to provide your home address so that the Scholastic Awards can mail awards to you.

Once you submit the information, your guardian will receive a confirmation email. Use this to activate and verify your account. You will be assigned a region based on your school’s (or homeschool’s) location.

Step 2: Choose the Category

If you are submitting a novel, you will choose the Writing category, and under that, “Novel Writing.”

Before you continue, make sure to double-check that your novel fits the Novel Writing Category requirements on the category page. The rules can change year to year. (Over the past four years, the rules have changed every single fall. In fact, when I went to double-check the website just now, they had changed again!)

Please note: No AI work, fan fiction, or plagiarism is allowed to be submitted to the Scholastic Awards. You may only enter completely original work. Otherwise, you will be disqualified.

Step 3: Upload Your Excerpt

Upload your excerpt from your novel. Currently, the Scholastic Awards website says to choose a sample that “showcases your writing and story set-up.”* Make sure you choose a scene that you (and others) love, and that showcases what your book is about.

Make sure the excerpt is well-edited, the grammar is correct, and that it has good formatting. The formatting is limited, but you can still make your work shine.

*I’ve broken this rule before. Most of my books are part of a series, so they don’t have the same first-chapter hook for new readers. For example, the first chapter of Rogue starts off pretty slow: a car ride through the mountains, and then cousins hanging out at a cabin. Instead of submitting the first chapter, I wish I had submitted a scene that better described the overall feel of the book: for example, Sky finding the wolf and crickcrawk base, or biking through the flaming downtown.

Step 4: Upload Your Synopsis

(Gotta say—the Scholastic Awards have made the synopsis instructions a lot clearer this year. In past years, they have been very vague—but now, there is no doubt about what they are looking for!)

In the appointed section, copy and paste your synopsis. The synopsis is a 250-word summary of your book. This counts toward your overall word count of 3,000 words.

In your synopsis, you should summarize your overall plot, character arcs, and themes. It’s a bit like the back cover blurb, except it gives all the spoilers. It can be hard to simplify a novel into 250 words! When in doubt, leave details out and stick to the main premise. Highlight what makes your book unique.

Step 5: Pay for Your Submission

As of today, it costs ten dollars per submission to the Scholastic Awards. If the fee is a barrier for you, select “fee waiver.” (You can also choose to donate an extra ten dollars, which will pay for a teen with financial barriers to enter!)

Step 6: Time to Wait…

The Scholastic Awards announce winners in January and February. On the appointed day, open your dashboard to find out if you won an award. If you earn a Gold Key, your work will automatically move on to national judging!

Why Enter the Scholastic Awards?

Alright—we’ve discussed what the Scholastic Awards are. I’ve given you my senior year cheat sheet. You’re prepared for rejection, or for elation. You know how to enter. At this point, I hope you’re convinced that entering your novel is a good idea. But if not, here are more reasons why you should enter the Scholastic Awards:

1. Winning a Scholastic award looks good on college transcripts. The Awards are a big deal in the educational community—and even if most people haven’t heard of it, I assure you, your future college has. This summer, my Communications professor asked me what awards my series had won (our assignment was to build a website, and mine showcased my author bio). When I told her I’d received a Gold and Silver key, her eyes went round.

2. You may qualify for scholarships. Depending on the nature of your story, you can apply for scholarships when you enter the Awards. These can vary from a few hundred dollars to $12,500 (for senior portfolios).

3. You’re getting your voice out there. Professionals are reading your work. They want to hear what you have to what you have to say. If you win, your work may be displayed on their website, in national ceremonies, or in traveling exhibits. Even if you don’t win anything, your voice will have been seen, known, and heard!

4. Uh, did I mention that you will get a step up on rejection, and you might win a really cool key pin?!

Scholastic: Take Four

This year is my last chance to submit to the Scholastic Awards. I’m going to make the most of it. In fact, I have a crazy, can’t-fail plan: I’m throwing everything I’ve written at Scholastic. Ten novels. Some of them are fully polished and professionally edited. Others are simply rough drafts. If I’ve won something most years when submitting one or two books, I gotta win something this time—right?

If I don’t, I am going to laugh so hard.

After winning and losing with the Scholastic Awards, entering my novels is no longer a risk. All that matters is that I love my books.

An award feels great at first. But the pleasure dies fast—and it dies hard. It’s much more rewarding to learn to love your work without others’ approval first—because then, you can truly enjoy the awards when they come.

And, if you keep writing, there’s a good chance they’ll come.

Best of luck with your novel entries!

The Rewrite

I rewrote the majority of The Fugitives’ Files while on Maui—and it was unforgettable.

Every afternoon, I’d slather on sunscreen, snag my backpack, and head to the Starbucks. It was a ten-minute walk along the beach. On my left, enormous resorts rose upward, with their jungle-themed pools, live ukulele music, and outdoor penguin exhibits. To my right, whale-watching tours coasted along the sparkling waves, and monk seals lounged in the sand.

I took my time along the sidewalk trail, savoring the sense of belonging. Among the other tourists, I was lucky—I had stayed there once before. I had the path memorized, and my confident stride showed it.

My younger self could never have dreamed that I’d visit Hawaii. In fact, I used to think of the islands like a different planet. Then, my dad picked up the hobby of travel hacking. The vacation was still a financial stretch, but my parents made it work… for me.

Visiting Hawaii was a huge leap of faith for me because of my OCD. On the islands, my triggers were everywhere. Which is exactly why my parents chose to take us. The first time we visited was extremely difficult for my OCD. But it grew my capacity and helped me break free from many of my ruminations.

When we returned in 2025, I was no longer triggered. And I couldn’t stop smiling.

The Starbucks itself was beautiful. All the seating was outdoor, (mostly) shaded by a wide pergola. Palm trees surrounded it on all sides, and there was a clear view of the teal ocean front.

I’d been saving money aside for this for months. After ordering my Venti Pink Drink (with light ice and whipped cream!) I pulled out my laptop and got to work. I worked uninterrupted for hours—except by the sun, which forced me to switch tables every forty-five minutes.

And that very shocking interruption while I was working on Chapter 13, when a beach-goer behind me said, “Kayla, do you want to dry off?” I was so startled that I almost fell out of my chair.

The rewrite was hard work. Because I had added so much, it was like I was working on two different projects: writing a new book and line-editing an old one. I was constantly deciding what parts of the original writing to cut or keep while writing a new story in between the lines. Plus, I had to develop a ton of new characters and juggle multiple new character arcs for Kayla.

Though it was the most technically difficult rewrite I’ve done, I loved the new storyline—and, naturally, I had a blast.

Whenever I needed a break, I’d stare out at the ocean or work on FTF Fourth (AKA The Fugitives’ Files) artworks. Was it a bit difficult to write a fall/winter-themed book while getting a deep tan? Yes. But, in return, I have vivid memories of the rewriting process—from nearly crying as I killed a certain character, to the “AHA” moments where I came up with my favorite bits of dialogue.

All too soon, our time on Maui ended, and I wished the Starbucks goodbye as we hopped islands to Kauai. Over the rest of the trip, I managed to cram thousands of words between beach visits, boat tours, and bike rides to the best boba on planet Earth.

A month and a half after we returned home, I finished the rewrite. In a snowstorm, nonetheless—a delightful moment of poetic irony!

I began the FTF Fourth rewrite on December 28th and finished on March 19th. From start to finish, here are the stats for The Fugitives’ Files:

Original draft:

• 42,000 words

• 138 Google Doc pages

• 25 chapters

Rewritten draft:

• 84,500 words

• 282 Google Doc pages

• 52 chapters

Which means that, since December 28th, I…

• Added 45,500 words

• Added 28 brand new chapters

• Added 4 new interludes

• Added 225 Google Doc pages

• Cut 70 pages of old scenes

The second draft was done. But, when I finished, I was faced with a new challenge: Altogether, I had rewritten 80% of the original content of FTF Fourth. After months of in-depth writing, I couldn’t tell which parts of the story were strong and which were weak.

Which is why I needed help.

Breaking Rule #2: My First Beta Team

When my dad ran his first beta team, back when I was thirteen, I decided it sounded: one, absolutely miserable, and two, like something I wouldn’t do until I was, like, thirty. Handing out a free copy of your book to a bunch of people so they can tell you everything they didn’t like about your writing? No, thanks.

However, this was the same thirteen-year-old who balked at the concept of “Good writing is rewriting.”

In 2022, I worked with a professional editor to developmental edit and line edit another novel of mine. During the process, I learned how to accept feedback—and just how valuable another pair of eyes is on a manuscript.

Because I had changed so much in FTF Fourth, and since it was my first time writing a novel with mystery aspects, I decided to run my first beta team.

Running a beta team was daunting. Here’s a step-by-step of how I made it manageable:

1. I didn’t need a huge beta team. So, I handpicked my beta readers, who were all FTF fans. This kept it manageable within my tight publishing schedule. It also allowed me to have a “soft opening,” since receiving honest feedback on my work was intimidating.

2. I created copies of my rewritten FTF Fourth document for each individual beta reader. This was to keep them from interacting, so their feedback was unbiased by others’ responses. At the start of each document, I included an instruction note that went over their role within the beta team.

3. Based on the feedback I needed, I created a dozen Google Forms. Each covered five chapters and had a unique set of questions for my beta readers (These included questions about plot consistency, theories, character arcs, etc., along with spaces for them to give additional feedback). Then, I decorated each form with an FTF Fourth theme—adding a sprinkle of fun for both me and my beta readers!

   Once I finished creating the forms, I copied and pasted the links into the beta Google Docs after each corresponding section of chapters. This made it so I had all my feedback in one place.

4. I sent out the beta forms and gave everyone a beta feedback deadline.

5. As feedback began pouring in, I snuck back into the other beta docs and edited them to see if I could improve the final results. Every time someone revealed a major plot hole, I rushed to the other beta documents to fix it.

   There was one particularly terrifying moment when I realized I had un-edited spoilers written throughout an entire chapter. Thirty seconds before my first beta reader arrived at the scene, I jumped on the doc and raced to alter certain words before my beta reader got there. And I did it—though it may have taken a few years off my life.

6. When all the beta readers finished their feedback, I went back to my Google Forms. Since the feedback was all in one place, I was able to discern themes and locate major plot issues. I went back through the book, making final developmental edits based on what worked and didn’t work for my readers.

7. At the end, I sent out a thank you note to all of my beta readers—along with a list of ways to support the book once it released. I included a brief how-to tutorial for writing book reviews.

Just like that, I had run my first beta team. Not only was the experience manageable, but I had a blast. On the other side, I ended up with a final draft I loved…

And a title I adored.

The Title

It was early March, and I was in my dear friend (Clara’s) car, driving between the limestone crags of northern Tennessee. We were headed to Kentucky for a weekend stay at another friend’s house.

Clara is also a writer. An incredible one, at that. She was my very first beta reader for FTF Fourth and gave me invaluable feedback before I launched the rest of the beta team.

The car ride was three hours long. Naturally, conversation turned to FTF Fourth. My beta team was up and running, and we discussed hilarious feedback comments and plot holes to my heart’s content.

But it brought up a new issue. One I had been delaying for five years.

“I love the book,” I told Clara. “But I have no idea what to call it. I’ve been brainstorming for years, but I haven’t come up with a title.”

The brainstorming session began.

For twenty minutes, Clara and I bounced ideas off one another. I wrote each title idea down in my note app, even though we agreed half of them wouldn’t work. Clara finally came up with an epic title—but we weren’t sure that it fit the main plot.

Would you like to know what the other title ideas were? There’s a poll at the end of this post, where you can vote for your favorite title for FTF Fourth!

I wet my lips, looking out the window. The landscape was now the vivid, green Kentucky hills with their enormous (but still leafless) trees. I looked back at Clara—

Just as the title hit me.

Immediately, I saw Clara’s eyes widen as the exact same idea hit her.

“The Fugitives’ Files,” she said.

Just like that, it was decided. (And since Clara said it two seconds before me, I am glad to give her the credit.)

The rewrite was finished. I had a title. There was just one last step.

But, unlike previous books, there was a slight problem.

Line Edits: New Cities, New Plan

As my dad’s book series (the National Park Mystery Series) has become more successful, his job has become a lot busier. Now, on top of writing novels, he’s managing a fast-growing business.

My dad line-edited the first three FTF books. He taught me grammar guile, punctuation prowess, sentence skill, and how to avoid clunky craft—not to mention how to collaborate. Our routine always looked the same: head to the local coffee shop, grab coffee and hot chocolate, and crank down on the book, chapter by chapter.

Since day one, I knew our editing process wouldn’t last forever. This summer, we sat down and faced the facts:

My publishing timeline no longer matched his publishing timeline. This year, I’m trying to publish four books—and my dad simply doesn’t have time to edit all of them, because he has his own books to publish, plus an entire brand to run.

So, we made a new plan:

For the first time, I would line-edit my books alone.

I spent the next month reading the entirety of The Fugitives’ Files to myself. Because I read aloud, I was able to catch the majority of mistakes and clunky sentences (at least, I hope). And though it gave me a sore throat, once again, I had the time of my life.

One of the best feelings in the world is enjoying a book you wrote. My writing cracked me up—to the point where, one time, I literally fell out of my seat. (I had replaced a random crickcrawk guard with General Atkai—but I forgot to take out all the references to his feathers. Thus, I found myself reading about a feather-covered Atkai. Disautonomia + feather-covered General Atkai = author on the floor.)

As a bonus, during the line-editing process, I enjoyed many frappes and strawberry lemonades. I even fudged my “no corn syrup” rule and was rewarded with the best Coke I’ve ever had.

At the end of my read-aloud edits, my dad and I had two line edit sessions, where he helped me fix some particularly challenging sections and sentences.

Finally, since I didn’t have time for a proofreader, I ran the book through Grammarly. Do I have major concerns with AI having access to my novel? Yes. But, after an evening of research, I decided to trust their “opt out of AI training” button. Later, they informed me by email that I was more productive and accurate than 95% of Grammarly users!

By the end of my first solo line edit, I came out with a (mostly) unclunkified book. If you are constantly tripped up by poorly-written sentences and continue to find typos, I apologize.

The Fugitives’ Files

On August 23rd, eight months after starting the rewrite, I finished the final edit on The Fugitives’ Files.

Immediately, I leapt from my seat and danced around the room.

The Fugitives’ Files rewrite was the most difficult, time-intensive edit I’ve done. There were many times when I was on the edge of burnout, and all I wanted to do was throw my FTF characters off a cliff, salute, and skip away whistling. But I pushed through.

And, in the end, the hard work was worth it.

I’d written a book my younger self would have devoured. Every chapter in the book is connected to a main plot now—from characters to clues—and there are tons of subplots, plot twists, and dialogue.

For the first time, I wasn’t afraid as I clicked “Publish.” Just happy, relieved, and proud.

Was the book perfect? Not even close! I bet there are plot holes I missed, and hundreds of grammatical and structural errors. But perfection isn’t the goal of writing—which is why this remains my favorite writing quote:

I have been successful probably because I have always realized that I knew nothing about writing and have merely tried to tell an interesting story entertainingly.

—Edgar Rice Burroughs

With The Fugitives’ Files, I did just that. In fact, I managed to convey two stories: the character-driven one my thirteen-year-old self envisioned, and the plot-driven one my older self later visualized.

I think we can all agree: the stolen files make The Fugitives’ Files a lot better.

Order Your Copy of The Fugitives' Files!

It was December 2024. Weeks earlier, I had released Rogue—and, after an extended Christmas break to avoid burnout, I was ready to dive back into edits.

With only two weeks until my family’s vacation, I had to rush to prep FTF Fourth—the fourth book in the Freedom Through Fire Saga. I told my friends it would be a “breeze.”

A third of the way into line edits, a cold dread dawned on me:

The book had no plot.

Eight months later, The Fugitives’ Files was on readers’ shelves—completely rewritten as the most plot-rich, character-driven FTF book yet.

How I Came Up with FTF Fourth

I wrote the first draft of FTF Fourth when I was thirteen, just like all of the FTF books. Back then, we were living in our friends’ mountain cabin while we waited for our house to be built. Every week, my family would drive back to Denver for school and to buy groceries. On the two-hour rides, I read the entire FTF Saga to my sister.

Let’s just say that my thirteen-year-old self brought a lot of emotion to the character voices. Especially the angry ones.

After multiple of these drives (and my parents establishing a rule that all FTF scenes that included yelling were banned from the car), my mom gave me a challenge: write a story that didn’t have constant life-or-death battles.

Immediately afterward, I did two things: One, I began recording all FTF scenes that included yelling ahead of time, so my sister could listen to them with earbuds. Two, I decided to take my mom’s advice to heart—and immediately plotted and wrote FTF Fourth in two weeks.

Slight misinterpretation of my mom’s advice? Absolutely—but the point is, it gave me the idea for the fourth book. And the story worked. There wasn’t anything wrong with it.

But there wasn’t anything right with it, either.

That was what got my attention.

What Was Wrong with the First Draft

There wasn’t anything amazing about FTF Fourth… but there should have been. The core concept was solid: a teenage girl must hide her deadly secret while enslaved by the relknish and crickcrawks.

But I hadn’t done the plot justice. In fact… I had left out the plot completely!

As I began to assess FTF Fourth, there were five main problems I discovered:

1. The book was episodic.

I’m a huge fan of episodic stories. However, I didn’t intend for FTF Fourth to be episodic—hence the problem. When I wrote the book originally, I hadn’t realized the plot was choppy and disconnected. It took away from the story instead of supplementing it.

2. The main character—Kayla Wright—wasn’t fleshed out.

There’s a new point of view in FTF Fourth. Instead of our dear, snarky Sky, we get Kayla: a girl in foster care who has a deadly secret (and the ability to bite her tongue). But past her love of overalls and Lord of the Rings, Kayla was a fairly typical character in the first draft.

3. The plot twist at the end had no effect.

If you’ve read The Fugitives’ Files, you know what plot twist I mean—that big one that kicks off the book’s climax. My younger self imagined that scene as a “the reader leaps out of their seat and dances around” type of scene. In reality… the plot twist was obvious and fell flat.

My thirteen-year-old self had no experience planning plot twists—and this plot twist would require masterful planning. As a much more experienced writer, my 2024 self realized there was no way I could pull off this plot twist without some serious editing, subplots, and diversions.

4. The book had no point.

Besides the introduction of a new main character, FTF Fourth had no influence on the rest of the series. If it were taken out… it wouldn’t impact anything. Which was a huge problem, because I wanted this book in the series.

5. I had just read Harry Potter for the first time.

This was more of a problem with me than it was a problem with FTF Fourth.

After years of neurofeedback and therapy for OCD, I was finally able to read Harry Potter. From the first book to the last, my jaw hung open. I had read thousands of middle-grade books—but none of them had ever been as plot-oriented as Harry Potter. The way J.K. Rowling tied everything together, dropped hints, and created complex mysteries blew my writer mind.

And it brought a revelation that would change my writing forever: I. Adore. Plot.

After I finished reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, I spent weeks itching to craft a new, better plot. But between school and my other writing projects, I didn’t have time to start a new book.

So when I discovered the issues with FTF Fourth, I wasn’t discouraged. I was elated. I had a poorly-constructed plot—but good concept—at my fingertips. This could be my plot experiment.

Once I located these plot issues, I took my original editing plan and threw it in the trash. Well, figuratively. What I really did was head over to my writing forums and inform everyone that, once again, I was switching directions with editing.

It was time.

I was going to break my thirteen-year-old rule of “don’t touch my younger self’s writing unless you absolutely need to make it coherent.” For the first time, I knew I could stay true to the original draft—while bringing to life the actual story in my thirteen-year-old head.

It was terrifying. But now, Sky India was taking herself seriously, too.

—The Fugitives’ Files (well, kinda)

This would be the biggest rewrite of my life—not to mention the most technically-skilled plot.

So, I made a game plan.

A game plan that included not just breaking one long-term rule… but two.

How I Discovered the Fugitives’ Files

To resurrect this book, I knew I had to add a lot of meat to the story. Subplots. Plot twists. Characters.

So, I sat down and started with the big picture.

Step One: Prep

I jotted down a plotline for the original FTF Fourth. Each chapter got its own bullet point and a one-to-two-line summary. This took about an hour.

Step Two: Analyze

I copied and pasted the bullet-point plotline. Now that I had a general overview of the book, I was able to locate my major plot issues. I highlighted the sections of the book that needed more plot development.

Step Three: Brainstorm

After I analyzed the plot issues, I wrote down my two main goals: One, to up the stakes, and two, to pull off that major plot twist. Beneath each goal, I began brainstorming ways I could do both. I jotted down every idea that came to mind—no matter how ridiculous they seemed. These “what ifs…?” started fleshing out brand new ideas:

What if the book were a mystery?

What if I brought old characters back?

What if there was a Turkey Trot?

And then…

If all devices are banned, what would happen if a forbidden device showed up?

I’d hit the jackpot, and I knew it. I started writing out all the problems this new subplot would cause. Why are devices banned? What is the forbidden device? How does it connect back to the Rebels? I answered each question until there were no more plot holes, and I had a fully fleshed subplot.

I’d discovered the stolen files.

Once I figured this out, the rest of the book fell into place. Using the same process of question-and-answer, I plowed through the rest of my “what ifs.”

Step Four: Rework the Plotline

With my boatload of new subplots, characters, and concepts, I headed back to my new bullet-point plotline. I went through and highlighted every chapter that needed to be significantly altered, which chapters would need to be cut, etc. Then, I began the painstaking work of adding all my new ideas to the old ones.

This step in the process took about a week. Fitting together the old plot and the new plot was like doing a complicated puzzle. To give context of just how much I added:

In the original draft, Atkai didn’t exist, and Kyren wasn’t even in the book. There were no red buttons. No interludes. And worst of all… there was no Darn.

Hold up—The Fugitives’ Files without Darn?! Blasphemy!

Through hours of trial and error, copy and pasting, and rearranging, I finally landed on a plot I loved. (Which, thankfully, included Darn.)

Next, I had to write the book.

My fourth-grade teacher had assigned each of us a historical Coloradan figure and told us to do a research paper on that figure. Even in fourth grade, I loved stories—so I loved the assignment. I sat for hours in our garage, hand-painting every eighteenth-century detail on my cut-out, and worked for days on my history report.

When my teacher called my name, I went to the front and got an immediate A+ for my painstakingly crafted presentation.

The next classmate went up to give his report as I sat back down. I was still grinning, joyful adrenaline pulsing through my system—

Until my classmate began reading, and his report ground my entire world to a halt.

My report was about an inspiring female activist. His historical figure was infamous… and abominable.

Never before had I felt so horrified.

My heart began to race so fast that I thought I would throw up. My hands trembled. My stomach shuddered with nausea, making me want to curl into a ball. I clenched my hands into fists and stuffed them against my belly.

But I had to keep listening.

Everyone clapped as he finished. They clapped. Our teacher dismissed us to recess.

Stars spun in my vision as I got into line. I was still reeling… but the rest of my class seemed fine. They were even cracking jokes—horrible, horrible jokes—about the report. I had never been so confused or scared. How can you joke about this?! I wanted to scream at them. How are you okay after hearing that?

Why am I the only one who is scared?

The entire day, the words from that morbid report screamed in my head. When I got home, I snuck into the garage and hurled my own report in the trash, along with the painted cut-out of my historical figure. The report and cut-out I had worked tirelessly on for days, which I was so proud of. Because whenever I saw them, it triggered the terrifying memory and made my entire body shake.

I locked the garage door behind me as if I could lock out the thoughts.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about my classmate’s report, every single day for the rest of that week.

Every single day for the next seven years.

Because, unknown to my family, my teachers, my classmates, and even me… I had OCD.

What Is OCD?

OCD stands for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Unlike popular stigmas imply, OCD isn’t about perfectionism or tidiness. In reality, it’s an incredibly disabling mental health disorder that causes unwanted ruminations and repetitive compulsions.

To gain better insight into what that means, let’s break down the term:

O. The “Obsessive” in OCD stands for intrusive thoughts, images, and urges. These thoughts are labeled as “obsessions” because they are recurring and persistent.

(For example, I continued having intrusive thoughts for years about the details in the historical paper my classmate wrote. I couldn’t push the thoughts away.)

C. The “Compulsive” in OCD stands for repetitive behaviors or mental acts. These behaviors are labeled as “compulsive” because they are, by definition, compulsions.

(For example, I can’t touch animals without feeling the compulsion to take a shower. If I don’t obey the compulsion, I come close to having a panic attack.)

D. The “Disorder” in OCD means that the brain is disrupted and cannot function normally, which negatively affects daily life.

Every case of OCD looks different because people ruminate on different topics and have different compulsions. (There are multiple types of OCD, but since this post is a basic overview, I won’t go into them.) For me, my OCD mainly manifests in morbid ruminations.

What many people don’t understand is that OCD isn’t our choice. Normal people can choose not to obey compulsions or choose to push away their intrusive thoughts. But with OCD, our brain doesn’t function properly—so what takes a normal person minutes to release may take someone with OCD up to years to stop ruminating over.

Just like I ruminated on that history report for seven years.

But why does this happen?

The Science Behind OCD

(Please note, I am not a doctor. This information is based on what I’ve learned over years of personal research and information from neurofeedback professionals.)

OCD stems from a combination of causes. Genetics, trauma, neurotransmitter imbalance, and comorbidity can all contribute to the OCD loop cycle. Whatever the root cause, they all cause the same thing:

A malfunction in brain circuits.

On brain scans, OCD patients are shown to have hyperactivity in various areas of the brain, along with heightened levels of Theta and Delta waves. These malfunctions cause our brain signals to get caught in a loop.

OCD is a physical misfiring in our brain that we cannot control. We know our thoughts and compulsions are irrational. But it doesn’t matter. Because we aren’t the problem—our subliminal brain waves are.

With that, it’s time to dispel some popular myths.

OCD Is Not…

I’m sure you’ve heard the term: “I’m so OCD.” Most people think OCD is a personality trait, and that it’s simply a desire to be clean or organized. In fact, with the stigmas surrounding it, many people don’t even realize OCD is a real disorder. They think it’s an adjective, used to describe people who desire cleanliness, organization, and perfection.

All of these things can be caused by OCD, but they are symptoms, not the full disorder. And these symptoms go far past ordinary desires, into true, irrepressible urges. The public misunderstanding of OCD isn’t just heartbreaking—it’s dangerous.

These stigmas prevent people with true OCD from getting the help they need. As a culture, we discount things we don’t understand—and thus, people dismiss OCD as a true disorder and disability. As we promote these stigmas, it brings our entire cultural understanding further from the truth. There is an entire OCD community who have no idea that they have OCD—because the only OCD they know of is the phrase, “I’m so OCD.”

I was part of that community.

My Experience with OCD

When I began ruminating on that morbid history report, I didn’t realize anything was wrong. I thought everyone had terrifying, looping thoughts that they couldn’t suppress. It was a daily occurrence for me.

I’d struggled with ruminations since I was in preschool. When I was four, there were weeks when I refused to go outside because I had intrusive thoughts about squirrels biting me. After reading Calvin and Hobbes, I remember lying awake in our camping tent, too terrified to move, because I couldn’t stop thinking about flesh-devouring monsters and skulls.

They weren’t normal childhood fears. Each time, it took me months—or years—to recover from the triggering incident.

But I had no clue. Past a few stigmas, I had never heard of OCD. And, for a long time, I was able to manage it.

Until fourth grade. After that history report, my entire mental world imploded.

I began having night terrors. Sleepwalking. Loss of bladder control. Anxiety. Tantrums. Depression. Most nights, I’d sprint downstairs to my parents, screaming and crying. They tried to understand what was wrong, but I was too terrified to tell them.

At school, none of my teachers had any clue what was going on. “She’s fine,” they would tell my parents in our meetings. “Her grades look good, and she’s great with the other kids.”

Halfway through the year, my mom pulled me from that school.

It helped for a few years. But my OCD continued to worsen.

I have one core OCD trigger. But, over time, more objects, events, places, stories, and idioms become associated with the core trigger. This creates more triggers. And those triggers create more triggers.

My life grew narrower and narrower. I couldn’t look at the mountains anymore. I had to shower at the same time, every day, or I’d have a panic attack. I couldn’t go to the beach. I couldn’t touch animals. I couldn’t think about marriage. And then, one day, I could no longer walk outside.

OCD is a real handicap.

OCD as a Disability

In my case, OCD is a psychiatric disability.

While trying to explain OCD to my friends, I came up with this analogy:

OCD is like being in a mental wheelchair. When I get triggered, I get dumped out of the wheelchair onto concrete. My knees get cut, and since I’m disabled, it can take me hours to get back in the wheelchair. Every time I get triggered, I fall again—onto those same cuts. Over time, they become enormous wounds.

Historically, OCD was considered one of the top ten most disabling conditions worldwide—mental and physical—by WHO (It’s no longer on the list, which may be due to its reclassification to its own mental health category, instead of being listed under anxiety disorders). Now, it’s in the top twenty leading causes of disability worldwide, and the top five for women aged 15-44.

OCD is a real handicap. And since it’s a handicap, it restricts my life.

Everywhere I go, I have to avoid my triggers carefully. I have had to sprint away from conversations. I have had to constantly have the mute button in my hand, ready to mute the TV. I have to have people preview books for me, and pray they don’t miss a triggering sentence. I have to walk out of movies and wait hours in the car. I can’t talk about news or politics. I can’t read my Bible or go to church. (Try explaining those to your Christian college’s Disability Services.)

It’s super lonely because people don’t understand. Most people try to fix me. Or, they get passive-aggressive, hinting that I’m being overdramatic. Some even treat me like I’m slow-witted.

This summer, when I went to a pre-college program, I faced those responses every day. Everyone there was wonderful—but I did have to sit, my face glowing red, as my hallmates tried to figure out what parts of the Bible were “safe for me to read.” I wasn’t angry at them. But I did feel hurt: hurt by what our culture is promoting and teaching.

One night, on the bus ride back to campus, they put on a triggering movie. Everyone else was fine with it—laughing and talking and singing. Meanwhile, I was nearly hyperventilating as I crammed my earbuds in. By the time we got back to campus, I was so sick to my stomach I could barely walk. But I made it into the dining hall and to my seat.

Then, my friend said, “Alright, did you guys see how that guy’s guts melted into his skin in the movie?”

I sprinted for it.

Out of the room. Past the admissions counselors. Down the hall.

I whipped around a corner and leaned against the wall, pressing my hand to my mouth. I couldn’t control the sobs now. I was having a panic attack. I was crying and shaking so hard I nearly puked.

I couldn’t stop ruminating.

“India?” It was one of the RAs.

“S-s-s-sorry,” I sobbed, doubling over. “The—the—the movie in the bus—I’m okay, I s-swear—but it triggered me—and the other students are talking about it—and I have OCD—”

“Hey, it’s okay,” the RA whispered, placing a hand on my back. “Let’s find somewhere to sit. Okay?”

I tried to say thank you, but I was crying so hard I couldn’t breathe. I just nodded.

She led me upstairs, away from the other students, to a bench. We sat down. I leaned back against the window and let myself cry.

“Take all the time you need,” the RA whispered, again and again. She didn’t demand an explanation or evidence of my condition.

She didn’t need to understand.

She just sat with me.

It was one of the best moments of my life.

Why Am I Writing About OCD?

After years of neurofeedback, my family’s love, God’s grace, and a boatload of bravery, my OCD is much better. That may be surprising, given the story I just shared about my college summer program. But guess what? It was a miracle that I was even in the program. For years, my parents and I wondered if I would be able to go to college. Not only was I at the program, but after my OCD episode, I was able to get up, walk back downstairs, and rejoin the other students. Instead of tearing me down, the experience showed me the next steps to keep breaking free from OCD.

And, as terrible as my experience with OCD has been, I’m thankful for it.

After that horrifying history report, my nine-year-old self couldn’t escape my intrusive thoughts. The world wasn’t safe anymore.

So, I created a new world.

A world in which, nearly a decade later, hundreds of tweens and teens are absorbed in—fighting their own fears alongside Skylar Rusten and the Rebels.

OCD nearly killed me. But, in a way, it also saved my life. Without my OCD, I would never have started writing.

And I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

It was forty-five minutes both ways, but we didn’t mind. My mom and I would have long, thought-provoking conversations during our car rides. Often, my mom would stop at Starbucks to get me a Pink Drink. Those moments, as I used my straw to scoop the whipped cream out of the cup, were some of the best of my life—and the hardest.

Those drives were monumental to me for many reasons. Among them, three stand out:

1. It was the first time I was brave enough to discuss my OCD.

2. It was when my mom gave me the best life advice I’ve ever received.

3. It was the same summer that Judah and the Lion released a life-changing song.

OCD

In fifth grade, I was forced to drop out of school because my OCD triggers prevented me from doing my schoolwork. I began having night terrors and sleepwalking. I couldn’t talk about early America anymore. I couldn’t talk about any history anymore. I couldn’t look at the ocean. I couldn’t look at the mountains. I couldn’t think about marriage. I couldn’t read my favorite books. I couldn’t write my own books.

Everything was triggering, and everything was terrifying. It got so bad that I couldn’t get off the couch for weeks—let alone go outside. Nothing was safe anymore.

But my mom wasn’t going to let OCD win.

She spent months researching therapy and medicine for OCD. She and my dad scraped together enough money to send me to neurofeedback.

Neurofeedback is a type of non-invasive biofeedback that rewires brain signals. Instead of treating OCD symptoms, it targets the physical location where OCD resides in the brain. Through a reward-based system, it trains the irregular brain signals to stay within the normal threshold—eventually stopping the OCD loop cycle.

Which was why, twice a week, we drove forty-five minutes south for my appointments.

On the drives, we would do discussion-based therapy together. OCD thrives in secrecy—and I was convinced that the terrifying thoughts would become reality if I said them aloud. But, slowly, I began to share my trauma and ruminations with my mom. It made me physically sick, and I couldn’t stop trembling for hours after telling her about my triggers. But the more I shared, the better I felt.

Which, one day, led to a conversation that changed my life.

The Advice

For the majority of my life, I couldn’t imagine a future where I was happy.

OCD caused me to constantly loop on horrific, worst-case scenarios. On top of it, I have time-space synesthesia, which means that I visualize time through shapes and colors. My year rotates around me in an egg shape, with various shades of the orange spectrum attached to the months. The happier a month, the closer the shade became to amber. The scarier a month, the darker the shade grew.

When my world began to shrink because of OCD, each month grew darker. Until, finally, the entire future became black. And when the future was black, it meant everything I was afraid of. War. Famine. Death. And terror.

On one of our many car rides, I explained this to my mom.

She pushed back against the darkness. “But what if the future is good?” she said.

I was curled into a shaking ball, my head between my knees. “But—” I stammered, glancing up, “but what if it’s horrible?”

“But what if it’s good?” With each word, my mom grew more excited. She shot me a grin. A joyful grin. A hopeful grin. “What if it’s good, India?”

That question went against everything OCD stood for. I hated uncertainty—and that phrase, “what if?”, celebrated it. The phrase made me legit want to puke.

Because it was a leap of faith. A leap that could carry me into a nightmare.

But… I realized, what happens if the future isn’t horrible? Do I want to ruin my life living in fear, and die regretful?

As I pondered that, another shocking revelation came to me: If the future was as horrifying as OCD says, what good would come from living in fear? Wouldn’t I still die regretful? Would I want that?

Or would I want to die satisfied, because I spent my life believing the future could be good?

Just like that, I knew: I had to change my mindset. If I didn’t, I was going to spend the rest of my life hiding in my room. The realization was like a fist to my nausea-riled gut. Unless I chose to believe in a bright future, I would never go to college. I would never move out of my parents’ house. I would never get married. I would never have the writing career I dreamed of.

I wouldn’t live.

It took years of neurofeedback, therapy, and trust—but, with my family’s help, I reclaimed my future. I’m still restricted by OCD, but now, it doesn’t hold me captive. After years of hard work, I’m proud to say that the future is golden.

Fear no longer owns me.

And, every day, I try to live by that simple phrase: “What if it’s good?”

The Song

Judah & the Lion has always been my favorite band.

Their energetic sound, the banjo, and their lyrics first made an impression on me in fourth grade. My dad introduced me to their music during our sweltering August rides home from school. Our old truck had no air conditioning, so we kept the windows down as we danced along to Pep Talks and Folk Hop n’ Roll. Years later, I wrote my Freedom Through Fire Saga while listening to their albums on repeat. I constantly checked for new albums and single releases.

Then, one summer morning before ninth grade, a green Spotify notification popped up on my tablet.

For the first time in three years, Judah & the Lion had released a new album: Revival.

Revival was so, so hard for me to listen to. Because of my OCD, I didn’t have the energy to grapple with the deep themes in the album’s songs. Even so, it was my favorite album yet. The lyrics of each song spoke to the struggles I was dealing with, between OCD, depression, and POTS. Someday, I knew I would have to embrace the main themes—hope, healing, and rebirth. That was why listening to the album was painful; I was terrified of change.

But there was one song I chose to listen to: the final song on the album.

Every song on the Revival album is about finding beauty through the pain. But Things Are Looking Up speaks to what comes after the pain. In the middle of my pain, it was exactly what I needed to hear. All the pain I was enduring was miserable. Nothing could change that. But something amazing was going to come out of it—if I chose hope, not fear.

And these hard years just took you to higher bluffs

Things are looking up

—Judah & the Lion

Over the next three years, Things Are Looking Up became my family’s theme song. We would crank it every time we got in the car and scream along to the lyrics. We weren’t just singing—we were making an agreement. An agreement to joy through the pain.

An agreement to a hopeful, beautiful future.

Welcome to My Blog

My name is India Johnson. I’m a teenage author and illustrator hailing from Colorado. I’m best known for my illustrations in the bestselling National Park Mystery Series and for my award-winning Freedom Through Fire Saga. I’ve also battled multiple hidden disabilities my entire life, including OCD and POTS.

Without my disabilities, I would never have begun writing. Instead of destroying my life, my struggles have provided me with the tools to thrive.

That’s why I’m here.

Things Are Looking Up

Things Are Looking Up is a blog about writing, creativity, and thriving after chronic illness. Each blog post will discuss various aspects of my writing process, my battle against chronic mental and physical illness, and learning to love life despite my disabilities.

Things Are Looking Up seeks to empower and inspire young creatives and struggling young women and men, all through my life mindset: What if it’s good?

I broke free from my fear of the future. And you can, too. Hopefully, this blog can encourage you in your own journey.

Because things are looking up.