Yes, I Talk to Crows. No, I’m Not Summoning the Apocalypse (Yet).

Every morning, I take the same route to work.
Every morning, I pass the same handful of crows.
And every morning, without fail, I greet them.

Sometimes it’s a nod, or a click of my tongue.
Sometimes it’s, “Morning, lads.”
Once, it was “You look majestic today, Reginald.”
(He did.)

Now, people have started to notice.

“Are you… talking to birds?”

Yes. Yes, I am.

Apparently, this is weird behavior.
Apparently, “normal” people don’t hold casual conversations with birds like they’re running for mayor of the local murder.

To which I say:
If Snow White can do it, so can I.

Let’s Be Real

I could be scrolling TikTok.
I could be arguing with strangers.
Instead? I’m bonding with the feathered citizens of this fine city.

Call it weird. I call it character research.
What if the crow is actually a cursed prince?
What if he’s the love interest in Book 9 of The Phoenix Rising Chronicles: Avian Edition?

Anything is possible when you’re mildly delusional and extremely charming.

The Crows Get Me

They don’t judge.
They don’t ask why I wear pink lace one day and a leather jacket the next.
They simply vibe.

Also, I think one of them has started following me.

(Emotionally or physically? Unclear.)

The Day I Snapped

Coworker: “Why are you always talking to crows?”
Me: “Because they’re the only ones who haven’t asked me to smile before 9am.”

Reginald respects boundaries. Be more like Reginald.

In Conclusion:

I talk to crows.
I wear too much eyeliner for 7:30 a.m.
I write novels about emotionally damaged pop stars and shadow-wielding women with trust issues.

You expected normal?

With love, feathers, and absolutely no regrets,
Eleanor

My Laptop Died and So Did My Career: A Dramatic Spiral

This is the End (Probably): On Writing, Crashing Out, and Questionable Financial Decisions

It all started with a buzz.

A faint groan. A flash of betrayal.

My laptop: my beloved, my battle-worn, my slightly-stickered companion: died.

And with it? Possibly, my entire writing career.

I did what any reasonable person would do in a moment of crisis:

I pressed the on/off button 7 times, Googled “weird fan noise + eternal sadness,” and whispered, “don’t do this to me, not now.”

But it did.

The Phone Writing Crisis

People say “you can write anywhere.”

Oh really? Can you write emotional betrayal and slow-burn tension with autocorrect turning “soulmates” into “soufflés”?

Have you tried writing your villain’s tragic monologue while your cat walks across your head and TikTok notifications remind you that someone just made a cake in the shape of a frog?

My thumbs weren’t made for this. My dialogue deserves SPACE.

Writing on my phone feels like trying to paint a cathedral ceiling with a toothbrush.

Meanwhile, in Financial Crisis Corner…

Naturally, amidst this breakdown, I did what any deeply logical, fiscally responsible adult would do:

I booked a trip to Japan. And Korea. Back-to-back. Solo. In style.

So no, I cannot currently afford a new computer.

But I can afford cherry blossoms, matcha, street food, and emotional healing under a Seoul city skyline.

Which is basically the same thing. Probably.

Is This the End?

My characters are in digital purgatory.

The group chat has gone quiet. The antagonist is definitely planning a coup.

My backup plan? Cry, drink tea, and type vaguely poetic notes into my phone until someone invents a typewriter I can carry in my tote bag.

Is this the end of my career?

Maybe.

Will I come back stronger, with aesthetic travel photos, three new story ideas, and a new era of mysterious author energy?

Absolutely. (But not yet, the trip’s not until next year, and I’m still emotionally recovering from the confirmation email.)

In Conclusion:

My computer broke.

My thumbs are overworked.

My finances are unstable.

My backup plan is vibes.

But my main character energy?

Thriving.

With love, chaos, and whatever’s left of my RAM,

Eleanor

Let There Be Flowers (Even in the Dishwasher)

On Choosing Joy, One Teacup at a Time

There’s something quietly radical about choosing joy.

Not the grand, cinematic kind, but the everyday kind. The kind that lives in the chipped rim of a teacup or the soft clink of a petal-painted bowl pulled from the dishwasher.

Lately, I’ve been surrounding myself with things that make me happy.

Not for show. Not for guests. Just… for me.

The Crockery Revolution

It started small. A new mug, lilac, in the shape of a tulip. Then a plate that a small fae would be happy to eat off of. Then another. And another.

Until one day, I looked around and realized:

I had quietly declared war on the plain white plates.

And I was winning.

I swapped out almost everything.

Each bowl now blooms.

Each cup feels like it holds more than tea, like it holds a moment, a softness, a choice.

Why It Matters

People talk about romanticizing your life like it’s some kind of luxury. But for me, it became a survival strategy.

There are so many things we can’t control.

So many “big things” that feel heavy and hard.

But this? This I could do.

I could eat cereal from a plate that looked like a garden.

I could sip coffee from a mug that reminded me that beauty doesn’t need permission.

A Life in Bloom

I don’t think joy has to be earned.

I think it can be chosen, quietly, every day, even when everything else feels uncertain.

Sometimes joy is just a cupboard full of flowers.

Sometimes it’s drinking your spearmint tea from a rose-rimmed mug because it makes you feel like your ancestors are watching over you.

And sometimes, it’s letting yourself love the smallest things without apology.

So yes, I swapped all my crockery for flowers.

And no, I’m not going back.

Not when it makes my mornings feel like poetry and my leftovers feel like art.

Let there be flowers, I declare with pride, on my plates, in my home, and always, always in my heart.

And as always,

With Love,

Eleanor

What My Characters Think I Do All Day vs. Reality

A Love Letter to My Dramatic Little Chaos Gremlins

What my characters think I do all day:

• Wake up in silk pjs and stare moodily out the window at the rain

• Light a candle that smells like despair and yearning

• Spend sixteen uninterrupted hours crafting their emotional journey through love, loss, betrayal, and lingering glances thrown across the room

• Cry over a metaphor so beautiful it stuns the heavens

• Whisper “you deserve happiness” into the void before tucking them into a perfect ending

What I actually do:

• Wake up because I dropped my phone on my own face

• Spill coffee on my shirt while replying to passive-aggressive emails

• Think about my characters constantly while unable to write a single sentence because I’m too busy being a person with bills

• Open my draft, type “They kiss. It’s a mess.” and consider that peak literature

• Spend my one free hour googling “how long can someone brood before it becomes legally concerning”

They think I’ve forgotten them.

But the truth is, they’re always with me. In coffee spoons and traffic jams. In stray thoughts and half-dreams. In every moment I wish I could write but can’t.

They wait (not patiently). They judge (with flair).

And they talk about me in the group chat.

You can find the leaked transcript of that chaos over on my Instagram.

Until I make it back to the page,

thank you for waiting, my beloved little gremlins.

As always,

With love,

Eleanor

Plot Twists and Pay Slips: The Life of an Author with a Day Job

By day, I’m a functioning adult. Answering emails. Smiling politely. Possibly holding a coffee cup like it contains the meaning of life.

By night? I’m whispering arguments between imaginary people into the void of a Word document at 1:43 AM while my cat judges me from atop a pile of laundry.

Welcome to the glamorous double life of a writer with a day job.

Writing Between the Lines (and Lunch Breaks)

The myth: Writers sip tea in sun-drenched libraries, typing profound sentences with soft piano music playing in the background.

The reality: I once wrote a dramatic kiss scene wedged between a stale chicken sandwich and a passionate discussion about colonic cleanses. Romance, baby.

Plot holes? Fixed in the staff kitchen. Character arcs? Sketched on the back of old receipts in the coffee shop at lunch. Existential dread? Booked in for 5:30pm, right after closing time.

Mental Gymnastics

Juggling a day job and a dream means becoming a master of context switching. One minute you’re in a staff meeting nodding at targets, the next you’re frantically texting yourself “Add a scene with betrayal and sword fighting???” like a caffeinated cryptid.

Bonus points if your coworkers have no idea you moonlight as the keeper of fictional kingdoms or emotionally scarred pop stars.

The Struggle Is… Surprisingly Funny

Being a working writer means accepting that sometimes your muse shows up at the exact moment your shift starts. Or that your best ideas strike during the least convenient moments, like:

• Standing in line at the post office

• In the shower (where all pens fear to tread)

• While pretending to understand an Excel formula

And let’s not forget the deep despair of having the energy to write but not the time, or the time to write but not a single functioning brain cell.

But Here’s the Thing…

We show up. For our jobs, our bills, our characters. We sneak our stories into the in-between moments, the cracks in the day.

And when those stories finally take shape? When someone reads them and feels something? That’s a kind of magic no paycheck can replicate.

So if you’re out there working a 9-to-5 (or 7-to-7) and still making space for the worlds you carry inside you, I see you. You’re doing amazing.

Even if your novel currently lives on your Notes app and your antagonist is named “big bad evil guy???”.

In Conclusion:

Being an author with a day job is a little chaotic, a little caffeine-fueled (who am I kidding, my barista texts me „you okay babe?” When I don’t show for my morning coffee), and a whole lot of showing up for a dream that doesn’t always have room in your schedule, but definitely lives in your heart.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got characters to emotionally traumatise and some clothes to de-hair.

Both are equally important. Probably.

With Love,

Eleanor

„Am I Too Early?”: On Claiming Your Space Before You Think You’re Ready

There’s a quiet question that’s followed me ever since I pressed publish on this website:

Is it too soon?

I haven’t released a book yet. My stories live in a hundred open tabs and scattered notebooks. Some are half-whispered outlines. Some are still more feeling than form. And yet, here I am, showing up in the world as a writer.

Some days, that feels bold. Other days, it feels like wearing shoes two sizes too big, hoping I’ll grow into them.

But here’s what I’m learning: waiting until you’re “ready” often means never starting at all.

We are always becoming.

I didn’t build this website because I had something to sell. I built it because I have something to say, even if it’s still unfolding. This space is a quiet room with the door cracked open. A place for you to peek in while the ink is still drying.

It’s easy to think that visibility should come after validation. After you’ve signed a deal. After you’ve perfected your manuscript. After someone else says you’ve earned your place.

But the truth is? Believing in your stories before the world does is one of the fiercest acts of love you can offer your creative self.

This is not the finish line. It’s the prologue.

Every author you admire had a first page. A shaky sentence. A moment when they weren’t sure anyone would care. The difference is, they kept going. They claimed space in the world for their stories.

That’s all this is. A small, sacred stake in the ground. A declaration: I’m here. And I have stories to tell.

Even if I’m still writing them.

Even if I’m still figuring it out.

Even if I’m still becoming the person who will someday hold that book in her hands.

If you’re asking, “Am I ready?”, maybe you already are.

Not because everything’s perfect. But because you care enough to ask.

So here’s to the messy middle. To the blogs that come before blurbs. To the websites built on hope and HTML. To the writers who dare to say “I’m not published yet, but I’m writing anyway.”

If that’s you, I see you.

Pull up a chair.

The story’s just beginning.

With love,

Eleanor

The Book That Made Me Believe in Magic (Even Without Spells)

I was eight years old the first time I met a girl with red braids, too many emotions, and a soul made of sunshine and storm clouds.

Her name was Anne.

Anne of Green Gables wasn’t a fantasy novel. There were no spells, no shadow beasts, no ancient artifacts tucked beneath the floorboards. But it had something even more powerful: imagination that changed reality.

Anne didn’t escape her world. She transformed it.

She renamed trees.

She recited poetry like it was a battle cry.

She believed in kindred spirits and possibilities that others couldn’t see.

Reading her cracked something open in me.

It was the first time I understood that magic doesn’t always wear a cloak or carry a wand.

Sometimes, magic is just how fiercely you love things.

How deeply you feel them.

How you name the world around you and make it yours.

What Anne Taught Me

That book didn’t just make me want to write stories.

It made me want to write everything.

Letters.

Dreams.

Alternate endings for my own life.

I didn’t read it in English the first time.

I read it in Polish, a beautiful hard cover set I still have to this day, with cracked spines and worn edges from how many times I returned to it.

I read the whole series cover to cover more times than I could count.

The names might have sounded a little different, the rhythm of the language shifted, but Anne’s spirit? That was unchanged. She still leapt off the page and made imagination feel like home, no matter the words she used to get there.

Anne showed me that each of us sees the world through a different lens;

and that those differences are not just valid, but beautiful.

Her world shimmered with wonder because she decided it should.

And that idea, that you could choose to see beauty, even in sorrow, it stayed with me.

Meeting Anne helped me survive my own childhood.

When things felt confusing or lonely, her words gave me purpose.

When I didn’t feel safe or understood, her stories whispered that I wasn’t alone.

She helped me make sense of the ache and gave me permission to dream beyond it.

It taught me that:

• Wonder is a choice

• Words have power

• And sometimes, being “too much” is exactly right

Anne gave me permission to see the world differently.

To be loud with my feelings.

To let daydreaming be an act of creation, not distraction.

And Now?

Now, I’m a writer with notebooks full of ideas and characters who talk back.

But somewhere inside me is still that little girl with wide eyes, holding a book a bit too tightly and whispering the words like they were spells.

Sometimes, I wish I could sit down with Lucy Maud Montgomery herself.

Just the two of us, tea in hand, gossiping softly about Avonlea.

I’d ask her what she saw in Gilbert first.

She’d probably laugh softly and say “the same thing you did.”

And we’d talk about words, and dreams, and the quiet ache of wanting to belong.

I still carry Anne with me now.

And I do wonder… if she were to look over my shoulder,

would she see the magic in my stories

the way I saw it in hers?

If you’re reading this now, wandering through this dreamy little website, scrolling through stories stitched with longing and light (once I share them) know that it started with her.

With Anne.

And with a child who saw herself, really saw herself, in the pages of a book for the very first time.

Somewhere in me, she’s still dreaming.

She just has a better pen now. And an abundance of notebooks.

With love, and dreams in her heart,

Eleanor

Website Building & Other Excellent Ways to Avoid Writing

How I Built a Website Instead of Finishing My Novel

Spoiler alert: The book isn’t done.
But this shiny new website? Oh, she’s thriving.

When I first set out to create my author website, it was supposed to be a quick task. Just a little landing page, a place to say “Hi, I write things, please love them.” But somewhere between picking a pastel color palette and selecting the perfect image, I found myself neck-deep in what I can only describe as a full-blown side quest.

And honestly? I regret nothing.

The Art of the Authorly Side Quest

If you’re a writer, you probably know the type:
You sit down to write… and suddenly redesign your entire website.
You open your manuscript… and end up making a business card. (Yes, I have a business card now, too!)
You brainstorm a plot twist… and decide today’s the day you reorganize your bookshelves by trope.

Side quests are magical like that. They feel productive, and to be fair, they often are. But they’re also usually just elaborate forms of running away from The Big Scary Project You’re Emotionally Avoiding™.

In my case? These projects have several names, all in draft form, glaring at me from the corner of my desktop like abandoned pets.

Website: The Unexpected Hero

The thing is, I loved making this website.
I got to:

• Design something that felt like me

• Find dreamy cherry blossom imagery that made my soul sigh

• Write copy that didn’t feel like pulling teeth (unlike certain chapters I could name)

• Pretend I had my life together for a few glorious moments

• Have something tangible, to prove I’m not totally winging this ‘author’ thing

And through it all, I realized something important:
This site is part of the story too.

It’s the place where I invite you into the worlds I’m still building.
It’s where I get to be a little messy, a little magical, and completely human.
And sometimes, the best way forward is sideways.

What I’ve Actually Learned

1. Creating a website doesn’t mean you’re not writing.
   You’re shaping your voice, your presence, your world.

2. Side quests aren’t always detours.
   Sometimes they refill the creative well. Sometimes they’re just a safe space to breathe. And they give you character XP to evolve your character. (for you gamers out there)

3. It’s okay to pause.
   As long as you return to the work that matters, eventually.

Are You Side Questing Too?

Are you also designing bookmarks, building playlists, or deep-cleaning your kitchen to avoid writing? Come sit with me. There’s tea, there are blossoms, and there’s absolutely no judgment.

And if you're curious about how I made this site (or want to use it as your next side quest), I can share some tips soon.

Until then:
Be kind to your projects, even if you’re not speaking right now.
They will be there when you’re ready. Promise.

With love, forever side questing,
Eleanor

Blog Post #1: Welcome to My Little Corner of the Story

There’s something quietly magical about beginnings, isn’t there?

Blank pages. Fresh notebooks. The soft hum of a coffee machine in the background. That fragile, fluttering feeling when you’re about to let someone into your world, even if it’s just through a screen.

So hello.
Whether you stumbled in by accident or came here on purpose, I’m really glad you’re here.

I’m Eleanor E.K. Blackwood. I write stories that ache a little and heal a lot, romance tangled with fantasy, soft moments tucked between storms, and characters who choose love even when it hurts. This blog is the in-between space. The part between the polished pages. A place where I can ramble about what I’m writing, share the tiny symbols woven into scenes, gush about fictional boys with sad eyes, and maybe even talk a little too much about coffee or cats.

You won’t find a perfectly curated space here.
But you will find tenderness. Honesty. Maybe even a line that lingers longer than expected.

Here, I’ll be sharing:

• behind-the-scenes thoughts on my books and characters

• quiet insights into my writing process

• playlists that keep me company

• musings on creativity, self-trust, and choosing love again and again

Until then, thank you for reading this far.
And if you’re holding a story close to your chest, one you want to write, or one you’re afraid to, this is your sign to begin.

The page is waiting. And so is the magic.

With love (and six half-filled notebooks whispering 'start again'),
Eleanor