About the Author

~ Dove Segovia ~

My Neverending Story

There has never been a point in my life when I can remember not having the urge to tell stories. It’s not something that was instilled in me, not something I was taught to do. It has simply been there, for as long as my little brain has been capable of grasping at language. It is the thing I have always done; the thing I have always longed to do.

I am the oldest of three Mexican-German children born to my parents in Anaheim, California. I was lucky to grow up with family nearby—cherry tomato plants, rose bushes, and a plumeria tree in my grandparents’ yard; more flowers and a little Westie named Kimber at my Abuela’s. My recollection of my childhood is positively stuffed with vivid memories of paper airplanes, imaginative roleplaying, and notebooks and printer paper overflowing with written work.

I first saw Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings trilogy when I was ten, and I felt suddenly as though I saw my path laid out for me. I wanted to write vast, breathtaking worlds, emotionally complex characters, gripping stories full of battles but with enough room for intimate relationship development. All at once, the Free World began to take shape in my mind.

Not long after, my mom taught a creative writing class at our homeschool collective in Colorado with a focus on composing fairytales. It was there that I first wrote Adiadni. I don’t remember the story that surrounded her, or if I fully developed a story at all. At her inception, she was something of a self-insert—a collection of traits I identified with or dreamed of becoming. But she, and the story, quickly began to grow and take a more solid shape.

When I was twelve, I decided it was finally time to write the story in full, and I enlisted my dad’s help to name my characters and significant locations. Over the next several days, we came up with a substantial list, and I began writing my first book: Uritus and the Sword of Fire.

It was just under three years and three handwritten notebooks before the story reached its completion, and though high school and preparations for life after high school meant that I put the book away for a time, I always knew we would find our way back to one another. The story was not done growing, and neither was I.

In the time that followed, I immersed myself in theatrical performance, home movie production, singing and songwriting, prose poetry. I briefly picked the book up again at nineteen, living in Bavaria, confident in my skills as a writer, organized enough to start legitimate, in-depth worldbuilding. But the time was still not quite right, and I ultimately moved on to other projects.

I returned to Colorado and underwent that long and tedious process of figuring out who you are in your twenties. I made new friends and worked new jobs, and quickly made acquaintance with Leo—the man who would shortly become my husband. I got my license to practice esthetics and makeup artistry and worked briefly at a salon. Leo and I moved to Texas and then to Virginia, and when the dust finally settled, I woke up at twenty-seven and acknowledged the reality that I would always feel a little disoriented and lost if I didn’t return to the thing that I have always known I was meant to do.

So I returned.

I sat down with my laptop, unemployed, fully supported by all the people who love me, and was delighted to find that, though it needed work, the prologue and couple of chapters I wrote in Bavaria at nineteen were as good a starting point as any. And when I finally began to write again, the story flowed like water.

I had come to realize that I held this fear, one I am sure is also felt by many artists: that I would seek to accomplish an ambitious project that had always been a desire of my heart and find that it was not good enough. That I was not a good enough writer to make it happen, and that the beautiful world swirling around in my head was going to have to stay there. This fear had crept its way into my tired mind, wrapped its gnarled, bony fingers around the story, and held it hostage. It was when I chose to write the story for myself—not for any external validation—that I was able to set it free.

The first draft was finished in just over a year, the editing and formatting in just over six months, and Reader, I say this with utmost assurance: I have never felt happier or more like myself than I have since I allowed storytelling to again sweep me off my feet. I have many more stories still inside me, eagerly awaiting their full realization, and I am re-devoting my life to them. Through all of my seasons, writing has always been there, has always been my chosen means of process, grief, exploration, celebration.

Writing is what I am meant to do. And I am rocked every day by the knowledge that there are people who care about what I have to say. I am so very grateful that you are here. I write because it is what I have always known. I write because it is the joyful embodiment of my truest self. I write for me… but I also write for you now.

Thanks for reading.

Uritus and the Sword of Fire

Dove’s debut novel available now in print and on Kindle.

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