I didn't set out to write a retelling. Crown of Hawthorn Leaves began as a question I couldn't stop asking: what happens when the gods stop answering? Not in a dramatic, world-ending way — but quietly. The way a river changes course over centuries. The way a language loses its oldest words.
The best myths aren't explanations. They're invitations to sit with the unknowable.
Celtic mythology doesn't hand you a pantheon on a plate. There's no tidy family tree, no consistent canon. What survives is fragmentary, contradictory, haunted by the gaps between what was written and what was lived. That's what drew me in.
When I write, I'm not trying to fill those gaps so much as honor them — to let the silence between the lines do as much work as the lines themselves. A myth that explains everything has nowhere left to breathe.