Of Inklings and Willowpillars follows five young adventurers who follow an eccentric professor through a mysterious portal where they discover a world of magical creatures, dangerous kingdoms, and ancient secrets. What inspired you to create Of Inklings and Willowpillars, and how did the idea for The Chronicles of Ber’Ebrin first take shape?

The original spark for the novel began with one of my favorite philosophical questions from Plato’s Republic regarding the Ring of Gyges. Gyges finds a ring of invisibility, cloaking him from responsibility. What does he do? He slays the king and beds the queen, acting on his base desires. The question it presents is: What makes a person good? If you are given a ring of invisibility that removes all consequences from your actions, do you still choose good when no one is looking, and no one will ever find out? I wanted to test this exact philosophical dilemma through an ensemble of children whose distinct flaws and virtues would collide under pressure.

That single question quickly demanded an expansive canvas. It grew from a simple character study into The Chronicles of Ber’Ebrin, a multi-book epic that I originally penned between 2005 and 2011, and have spent the years since honing and refining. I wanted to combine the classic, illustrated storybook wonder I devoured as a child in the 1970s and 80s—like the worlds of Baum, Carroll, and Lewis—with my real-world observations as an immigration attorney. Every day in my legal practice, I witness real human stories, labyrinthine systems, and the profound weight of personal choices. The fantastical settings of the polycosmos became the perfect way to strip away everyday distractions and test fundamental truths about human nature, morality, and systemic power.

How did you develop the five Inklings as individuals, and what makes their personalities work together as an adventurous group?

I build characters from the ground up, from their background, vulnerabilities, needs, wants, speech patterns, and even clothing preferences. In an ensemble like the Inklings—Mary, Charlotte, Edgar, Charles, and Jules—it was vital that they never feel like a monolith. Each child carries a distinct verbal register and a unique way of processing emotion, whether it be fear or temptation or desire.

To make their interactions meaningful, I layered in the real, heavy internal and external issues a child of the late nineteenth century might naturally face—from losing parents in industrial accidents to facing poverty, loneliness, and first love. For example, eight-year-old Edgar desires to be taken seriously, wondering if he is brave and courageous. He pretends to be a bear. When realm-traveling, he is changed into a willowpillar, testing his character. Meanwhile, fifteen-year-old Mary is caught between the freedom of childhood imagination and the rigid expectations of impending Victorian adulthood. When these varied psychologies clash and reconcile in times of crisis, their rivalries, humor, and deep loyalties reflect the messy, beautiful reality of real-world friendships.

How does the idea that Ber’Ebrin can only be found by the worthy connect to the novel’s larger exploration of character, humility, and personal growth?

In the lore of the Polycosmos, Ber’Ebrin—the Beautiful Place—is built upon an intentional paradox: it can only be entered by the worthy, and it can only be found by those who are not actively seeking it. This comes from one problem that has always bothered me in religion: that people do good because they will be rewarded with Heaven. Ber’Ebrin is not such a place. In addition, this concept is directly tied to the series’ core belief that goodness is not a passive, innate state, or something you pursue for a reward; it is an active, courageous choice practiced in the face of peril—and without promise of reward.

When travelers chase Ber’Ebrin as a prize or an escape, it slips away from them, leading to realm madness. True worthiness in this world requires humility and a focus on the immediate moral choices in front of you. The portals themselves only open and draw children in when something within them is unfinished—a fear to face, a truth to learn, or a friend to save. By making the world react immediately to their choices—where a mistake can lead to a run-in with slavers or a physical transformation—the characters are forced to grow. They learn that they do not prove their character by reaching a destination, but by choosing responsibility and loyalty when doing otherwise would be much easier.

As The Chronicles of Ber’Ebrin progresses into darker and more mature territory, how do you envision the characters and the series’ themes evolving?

The series is built to grow older and darker alongside the characters as they journey deeper into the spaces of the Polycosmos. While the story begins with a tone of old-fashioned, whimsical adventure, it is not a gentle or uncomplicated journey. The landscape inherently contains elements of captivity, exploitation, and supernatural corruption. One arc explores a path to utter depravity and what can lead a person to this choice. The next arc seeks to explore if the person can be redeemed from those choices.

Because all 21 books are written, the roadmap for this evolution is already set. As the series progresses, the narratives transition from childhood fairy tales into complex cross-generational struggles. We will explore heavy, mature thematic territory: unrequited love, ill-fated romance, mental health breakdowns, addiction, the agonizing despair of losing hope, and the literal paths of falling into corruption and fighting for redemption. The villains force the characters to confront sophisticated questions about consent, free choice, and sacrifice. Ultimately, the overarching arc tests the protagonists to their absolute limits, demonstrating that passivity is never an option and that true courage is forged only through fire.

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