Why My First Drafts Are Always a Mess (and Why That’s Okay)

 Every time I look back at a first draft, I have the same thought: Wow… this is a disaster.

There are scribbles in the margins. Half-sentences trailing off. Arrows pointing across the page because I realized something belonged somewhere else. Notes to myself like “fix this later” or “what even happens here??” are scattered everywhere. If someone else found these pages, I’d probably have to explain that, yes, I do in fact know how to write.

But here’s the thing: I’ve learned that the mess isn’t something to be ashamed of. It’s actually a sign I’m doing the work.

The Beauty of a Chaotic Draft

Messy drafts mean momentum. When I’m scribbling notes in the margins or throwing down clunky sentences just to get to the next thought, it means I’m not stopping. I’m not censoring myself. I’m letting the story (or the idea, or the argument) unfold however it wants to.

The pages may look wild, but they’re alive.

If I tried to make everything neat and polished from the start, I’d stall out on page one. Instead, I give myself permission to let it be rough, knowing I can come back later with a red pen—or a delete key—and carve out the real shape.

Why Messy Drafts Work

• They free me from perfectionism. The sooner I accept that “bad” sentences are part of the deal, the faster I get to the good ones.

• They capture sparks. Notes in the margins often hold the best ideas, the ones that wouldn’t have come if I’d paused to be neat.

• They give me clay to work with. A sculptor doesn’t start with a perfectly shaped statue. They start with a lump of stone. My draft is the lump. Revision is the chisel.

  Learning to Love the Mess

  I didn’t always feel this way. For a long time, messy drafts felt like proof I wasn’t “real” at writing. But somewhere along the way, I realized that almost every writer I admire admits their first drafts are terrible, too. The magic happens in revision, not in the first attempt.

  Now, when I see my scribbled notes in the margins, I take it as a good sign. It means I was thinking, adjusting, wrestling with the words. It means I was writing.

  The Takeaway

  So yes, my first drafts are a mess. They always will be. But that’s not a problem—it’s the point.

  If your pages are full of scribbles, arrows, and question marks, don’t panic. Don’t stop. Keep going. Because a messy draft isn’t the opposite of a good draft—it’s the first step toward one.

Motherhood Writing Prompt

 I remember growing up and realizing something fundamental. Women had babies, and men didn’t. It seemed simple at first, almost like a rule of nature, but the weight of it deepened as I got older. A woman carried life inside her for nine months, feeling it shift and stretch and press against her ribs, until one day that tiny flutter became a kick. I’d watch new mothers cradle their newborns and notice how their bond seemed to have begun long before birth, as if the child was already known to them.

I couldn’t help but feel a flicker of envy. Not because I wanted to be a woman, but because I knew I would never experience that mystery from the inside. I would never feel a heartbeat beneath my own, never carry the secret of life under my skin, never sense the way a body whispers to another body in silence.

There was something sacred in that intimacy, something both ordinary and miraculous. And though I could only stand at the edges of it, watching, it left me in awe. Motherhood, I realized, is not just a role. 

It is a lived, physical poetry, written from the inside out.

Messy Thoughts, Neat Notes: How Echo Helps My Characters Talk Back

 

Here’s a little secret about my writing process: my best ideas almost never arrive when I’m sitting at my desk, ready to type. They sneak up on me in the middle of folding laundry, making coffee, or trying to fall asleep.

It’s rarely a complete scene. More often, it’s fragments.  A single line of dialogue, an image, or a wild “what if” that refuses to leave me alone. My characters, in particular, love to interrupt me at inconvenient times. (They’re very opinionated.)

Before, I used to lose a lot of those sparks. Scribbled notes on scraps of paper would disappear, and don’t even get me started on how many “brilliant” ideas I forgot before I could write them down.

That’s where Echo comes in. It’s like my digital notebook. A safe little corner where all those messy, half-formed thoughts can land. I don’t worry about whether they make sense. I just toss them in, and later, when I look back, they’ve transformed into something useful. Sometimes one stray thought from last week suddenly clicks with a character quip from yesterday, and voilà: a new scene takes shape.

My characters are sitting in there, waiting for me, chatting among themselves until I show up. By the time I return, they’ve got opinions, arguments, and secrets ready to spill.

So yes, my writing process is basically: collect the chaos, store it in Echo, and let the characters keep talking until I’m ready to listen. It’s not glamorous, but it’s wonderfully messy, and it means none of their voices ever get lost.

Character Interview With Mayor Mallory - State Prison

Today, I sat down with Mayor Mallory at the NC State Prison to ask him a few questions about the events that took place in After the Fall and Beneath the Surface. The room smells faintly of antiseptic. A single light casts harsh shadows over the walls. Mayor Mallory sits across from me, hands folded, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. His eyes, sharp and calculating, seem to measure not just me, but the weight of every word I speak.

Q: Do you think you were misunderstood or guilty as charged?

A: (chuckles softly) Misunderstood? Oh, my dear, everyone’s always so quick to throw the word “guilty” around. I did what needed to be done. People just don’t like it when someone has vision… when someone moves before the rest of the town catches up. Guilty? Maybe. Misunderstood? Absolutely.

Q: What was your biggest mistake?

A: Mistake… hmm. I suppose it would be underestimating how tenacious some people can be. Gabriel’s parents, Lillie… they thought they could outsmart me. That was amusing at first, but it did complicate things in ways I hadn’t planned. One can plot a perfect course, but humans… humans always have their surprises.

Q: Who do you blame for what happened?

A: (leans back, steepling his fingers) Blame? That’s a curious word. Blame implies weakness. I don’t blame anyone. I merely recognize… certain inevitabilities. People make mistakes. I capitalize on them. That’s how life works. But if you want a name… I suppose you could say the town itself, for being too small, too stagnant, too… predictable.

Q: If you could go back, would you do anything differently?

A: (smiles thinly) Perhaps I would have been bolder sooner. Perhaps more subtle in other places. But no… I don’t regret the path I chose. Every action, every decision, brought me exactly here—to this moment, where people finally call me by name and remember me. There’s a certain… immortality in that, don’t you think?

Q: What do you think June got wrong about you?

A: June… she always thought I was some sort of monster without reasoning or heart. That’s the common mistake. People always see the cruelty, never the calculation. I never acted without purpose. I never killed without cause. The heart is irrelevant when the mind is clear. June never understood that, and that was her failing, not mine.

He pauses, as if savoring the weight of his own words, then shifts slightly in his chair.

A: (continued) You know, they all think fear is my tool… but it’s only half the truth. Fear is a mirror. It shows them what they’re unwilling to confront in themselves. Gabriel, Lillie, June...they all saw pieces of me and recoiled. They called it evil. I call it foresight.

Q: Did you ever feel remorse for… anything?

A: (slowly shakes his head) Remorse is for those who would have allowed emotion to dictate action. I felt… satisfaction. Satisfaction that the pieces moved as I intended, that the town bent, reshaped itself under my vision. They will tell you horror stories, but history—real history—will remember results, not sentiment.

He leans back, folding his hands neatly on the table, the faint smirk never leaving his face.

Q: Mallory… can you tell me why Gabriel’s parents were killed?

A: (his eyes glint, a slow, deliberate smile forming) Ah… the question everyone wants answered. You see, Gabriel’s parents were… obstacles. Obstacles in the path of progress, of order, of vision. They didn’t just stand in the way—they resisted, they questioned, they threatened to unravel the plan I had so carefully constructed over decades. And I cannot have loose threads.

Q: But why murder? Why go so far?

Ay: (leans forward, voice low, almost conspiratorial)  Because subtlety only works until someone is cleverer than you think. Gabriel’s parents… they were clever, in their own small-town way, but cleverness without foresight is dangerous. I didn’t relish it. No, it was necessary. Sometimes, to shape the world, certain sacrifices must be made.

Q: Harland Graves… he carried it out, didn’t he?

A: (nods slowly, steepling his fingers again) Harland was loyal. Loyal beyond fear. He understood what I could not explain to everyone else. He acted with precision, with… discretion. I don’t get my hands dirty. I orchestrate. I direct. Harland… he implemented. And that, my dear interviewer, is the difference between a man of vision and a man of whim. 

Q: Did you ever think you’d be caught?

A: (chuckles softly, leaning back)  Caught? I always knew the law was slower than strategy, weaker than cunning. I counted on the passage of time, on the decay of memory. That’s why I built my empire quietly, slowly, over decades. And yet… here I am. Perhaps a miscalculation, perhaps fate. 

Interviewer Notes: 

As the interview concludes, I take a step back and watch him as he is led back to his prison cell, as if the walls of this prison could never contain the magnitude of his ambition. There is no remorse in his eyes, no shadow of regret. Every question, every accusation, seems to amuse him rather than trouble him. He does not bend, he does not apologize, and he certainly does not acknowledge the damage he has caused. Gabriel’s parents, Sam, Lillie Raines, and the town of Grady itself are all pieces in his grand design, collateral in his pursuit of control and legacy. As I leave the room, I am struck by a chilling truth. Some people are unchangeable, untouchable in spirit, and Mayor Mallory, for all the walls that surround him, remains as unrepentant and as dangerously calculating as he ever was.

Pinetops, NC

 I wrote this today as I was applying for a freelance writing job. Decided I would share here with you guys. 

Pinetops, North Carolina: A Small Town with Big History

Nestled in Edgecombe County in eastern North Carolina, Pinetops may seem like just another dot on the map. But behind its quiet streets and tight-knit community lies a story that reflects the resilience of many small American towns. For me, Pinetops holds personal significance — it’s where my grandparents lived — but it also offers a fascinating glimpse into how railroads and rural life shaped the South in the 20th century.

A Town Born from the Railway

Pinetops was founded in 1901 and incorporated just two years later, in 1903. Like many small Southern towns of the era, its origins are tied to the railroad. The depot became the heartbeat of the community, connecting local farmers and merchants to larger markets. Though trains no longer rumble through town as they once did, the legacy of that railway is still etched into the layout of the streets and the town’s identity.

Small but Steady

Today, just over 1,000 residents call Pinetops home. The town covers a little more than a square mile, yet it provides all the essentials — from grocery stores and banks to a pharmacy and a few local employers. Its location, just a short drive from Greenville, Wilson, and Rocky Mount, gives residents access to city amenities while preserving a slower, small-town pace of life.

Landmarks and Heritage

Pinetops is also close to historic landmarks such as Vinedale, a plantation home listed on the National Register of Historic Places, and Adelphia, another historic estate. These sites highlight the region’s layered history from antebellum architecture to the transitions of the 20th century. While modest in size, Pinetops is a reminder of how history is never far away, even in the smallest of towns.

Why Pinetops Matters

For me, Pinetops represents more than family ties. It’s an example of the enduring importance of local history and community. Towns like Pinetops show how America’s story isn’t just told in big cities or famous landmarks. It’s written in the smaller places too, where families, traditions, and history come together in ways that deserve to be remembered.

A Short Story Featuring Rebecca Hoochstraten

 The Lantern of Ash

A Short Story Featuring Rebecca Hoochstraten

The house was too quiet without Marian Hoochstraten’s voice in it. Rebecca had grown up in these walls, listening to her mother’s firm tone direct cousins, aunts, and siblings with equal precision. Now, with Marian gone barely three weeks, the silence pressed down like a weight. Every creak of the floorboards reminded Rebecca that she was alone at the top of the family chain.

Her hands shook as she set the Lantern of Ash on the oak table in the great room. The brass was warm, though it had not been lit in months. She swallowed, drawing in a breath that felt too shallow, and whispered the words her mother had taught her long ago.

The lantern’s flame bloomed, soft and pale, filling the room with a glow that was not entirely of this world. Shadows bent strangely around it, stretching long fingers across the walls. Rebecca braced herself, clutching the pendant at her throat, a trinket Marian had given her when she was a girl.

“Mother?” Her voice cracked like dry timber.

The flame shimmered. Then, slowly, Marian Hoochstraten’s face formed in the lantern’s light. Her dark eyes gleamed as they always had—sharp, unyielding, but softened now by a trace of something else.

“Rebecca.” Marian’s voice was steady, though distant, as if carried from a great depth. “You have lit the lantern. That means you are ready.”

Rebecca’s throat tightened. “I’m not ready. I can’t do what you did. The family listened to you. They feared you, respected you. They...” Her words dissolved into a choked sob. “They don’t look at me the same way.”

“Of course they don’t,” Marian said gently. “They will test you. Doubt you. Even those who love you most will question you. That is the burden of the matriarch. You do not ask for respect, Rebecca. You earn it, and you take it.”

Rebecca wiped at her eyes, trying to absorb her mother’s words, but guilt sat heavy in her chest. “I wasn’t with you at the end. I should have...”

“Hush,” Marian said, her tone sharp enough to cut through Rebecca’s grief. “You were where you needed to be. My death was mine alone. But your life, your leadership, that is yours to shape. Do not mire it in regret.”

Rebecca nodded, swallowing hard. The silence between them was thick but not empty; it pulsed with meaning, as though the lantern itself demanded she absorb every syllable.

Marian leaned closer, her face flickering with the flame. “There is more I must tell you. Our family’s strength lies not only in our blood, but in our bonds. You will not rule by fear alone. You must learn when to trust, and you must keep watch over Nicholas Bergeron.”

Rebecca blinked, startled. “Nicholas? The Bergeron boy?”

“Not a boy,” Marian corrected, her tone heavy with warning. “A man whose path is unfinished. His choices will ripple into ours. His future is bound, in part, to yours. Do not turn your eyes away from him.”

Rebecca frowned, heart hammering. She knew of Nicholas Bergeron, of course—the name carried weight. The Bergerons and the Hoochstratens were entwined by history, by rivalry, by uneasy kinship. But what possible role could Nicholas have in her future as matriarch?

“I don’t understand,” Rebecca admitted.

“You are not meant to understand. Not yet.” Marian’s expression softened, shadows playing across her strong cheekbones. “Trust that when the moment comes, you will know why.”

Rebecca’s fingers tightened on the edge of the table. “I’m afraid, Mother. Afraid I’ll fail the family. Afraid I’ll fail you.”

Marian’s image flickered, but her voice remained steady. “Fear is not your enemy, Rebecca. Indifference is. Let your fear sharpen you. Let it remind you of what is at stake. But never let it paralyze you.”

The flame guttered, shrinking. Marian’s face began to dissolve into smoke and light. Desperation rose in Rebecca’s chest. “Please, don’t go yet. I still need you.”

“You have me,” Marian said, her voice thinning like a thread pulled taut. “In your blood. In your will. In the lantern, when you need guidance. But do not cling to me, child. You must step forward. You must lead.”

And then she was gone. The room dimmed, leaving only the soft glow of the lantern’s mundane flame. Rebecca sat in silence, staring at the brass handle, her heart pounding. Her mother was gone. The weight of the Hoochstraten legacy sat squarely on her shoulders. But her mother’s words lingered, burning brighter than the light that had carried them.

Nicholas Bergeron. His path is unfinished while hers was just beginning. Rebecca drew a steady breath, lifted her chin, and extinguished the Lantern of Ash.

Tomorrow, she would begin.

When Story Mapping Isn’t Enough

Even when you’ve carefully mapped out a story, there are still days when the words just don’t come. I’m living that truth today with the third installment of my Bergeron Witch Series. I know exactly where the story needs to go, but I’ve hit a stubborn spot in the middle, and pushing past it feels like trudging through quicksand.

Instead of forcing myself to grind through, I’ve learned it’s better to step back. Today, that means taking a short break, listening to a mellow jazz record, and letting a cozy fall scene play on my TV courtesy of YouTube. It’s a way of giving my brain a reset—reminding myself that writing doesn’t have to be a battle.

I also have a daily commitment: at least 30 minutes of writing, no matter what. On days when the story itself feels stuck, I find other ways to keep the words flowing. That’s how this blog post came to be. It’s not part of the witch series, but it iswriting. It keeps my creative muscles warm without forcing the story before it’s ready.

Writer’s block isn’t always a wall. Sometimes it’s just a signal to pause, breathe, and find a different doorway into the work.

Why Writing Feels Like Control

Writing has always been one of my pleasures, and I think I finally understand why. It gives me control.

In my everyday life, there are so many things I can’t steer. The world moves how it wants, people act how they act, and so much is left to chance. But when I sit down to write, all of that shifts. The page belongs to me. The story bends to my choices. The characters live, speak, and move because I decide they do.

That sense of control feels like breathing room. In my stories, I get to explore places that don’t exist yet, craft endings that feel right, and create people who say the words I wish someone would say out loud. Writing becomes a way to take all the chaos and uncertainty of life and reshape it into something I can hold in my hands.

But it’s not just about control. It’s also joy. There’s something almost magical about seeing a blank page fill with sentences, watching an idea turn into a world. The more I write, the more I feel like I’m building little pockets of existence that belong only to me. Even if no one else ever reads them, they’re real, and they matter.

In writing, I don’t lose myself. I find myself. It’s one of the rare places where I feel both powerful and at peace, where control doesn’t feel like pressure but like freedom. And maybe that’s why, no matter how restless my nights get, I always come back to the page.

Why It’s Hard for Me to Sleep at Night

 

Every night, when things finally get quiet, I should be able to let go and drift off. But instead, I wrestle with the idea of sleep itself. For most people, sleep is natural, even comforting. For me, it’s complicated. It feels like two things at once — a loss of control and a kind of temporary non-existence.

The control part is huge for me. During the day, I get to steer things. I make decisions, move around, set the tone for what happens. But when I fall asleep, that control disappears. My mind goes wherever it wants, my body does what it does, and I’m not the one calling the shots anymore. Dreams come and go without my permission, and the idea of surrendering like that makes me uneasy. It’s like handing over the keys to something I should always be driving.

Then there’s the stranger part — the non-existence of it all. Sleep isn’t just closing your eyes and resting. It’s a chunk of your life where you stop experiencing anything. It’s hours that vanish into nothingness. One minute I’m here, awake and alive, and the next it’s just blank. And that blank space feels too much like death’s rehearsal, like practicing not existing. I don’t think about it lightly — it honestly unsettles me.

Put together, these two things feed each other. The fear of not existing makes me want control, and the loss of control makes the non-existence feel heavier. It’s a cycle I replay every night, and it keeps me awake far longer than I’d like.

Most nights, I end up waiting until my body finally overrides my mind and pulls me under. Sometimes I distract myself, sometimes I fight it, and sometimes I just stare into the dark and hope it feels different than the night before. Maybe one day I’ll learn to see sleep not as surrender, but as trust — trust that I’ll wake up, trust that life will be waiting, and trust that letting go for a little while doesn’t mean I disappear.

When the First Grain Falls

 So I was tasked with writing a time-travel sci-fi piece today. I just finished it after working on it for the last 8.5 hours. It's called When the First Grain Falls. I have decided to share the first part of the story with you all. 

                                                       When the First Grain Falls

The package was unmarked, its cardboard edges softened as if it had traveled far, maybe farther than I could imagine. Inside, nestled in yellowing tissue paper, lay a brass key so worn it seemed ancient, yet it gleamed faintly under the kitchen light as if it had been waiting. The note was brief. It was just two words in a script I knew as intimately as my own thoughts. It’s time. But what rattled me wasn’t the message, it was the handwriting. It was mine, older, shakier, written by a hand that had lived far longer than I had.

I turned the key over in my palm, half expecting it to dissolve into dust or reveal some hidden circuitry. It didn’t. Just cold, weighty brass. I should have laughed it off, tossed it aside, but something inside me hummed with recognition, like the faint vibration of a memory not yet lived. That’s when I noticed the numbers etched along the shaft, almost invisible until the light caught them. 2143. A year, not mine, at least not yet.

I spent the rest of the day pretending it hadn’t arrived. I answered messages, blew out candles, and raised a glass to “forty more.” But all the while, the box sat on the counter, daring me. That night, long after everyone had gone and the house fell silent, I sat with it again. My pulse quickened as I imagined what kind of lock could wait for me in a century I would never see. Unless, somehow, I was meant to.

Finally the pull of the key became too much. I retrieved the box from the counter and pulled the key from the box. I saw the year 2143 again. If I was alive in 2143, I would be 150 years old. It would be impossible for me to be that age. But it was clearly my handwriting that stated it was time. But what was it time for, or to do? The brass felt heavier this time, as though the key knew it finally had my attention. I traced the numbers with my thumb, whispering them aloud—two-one-four-three—and the sound of it filled the kitchen like an incantation. The rational part of my mind cycled through explanations: a prank, a forgery, a coincidence. But the more I stared at the loops and slants of the handwriting, the less room there was for doubt. It wasn’t just similar, it was indeed my own.

The night air pressed in cold and sharp as I pulled the door open. And there I was—creased face, silver hair, the slump of years in my shoulders, yet unmistakably me. My future self. He—I—held a chest no larger than a carry-on suitcase, its surface marked with the same year etched into the brass key: 2143. For a heartbeat we only stared at each other, mirror and man, until his lips moved. The voice was mine but lower, sanded down by decades of use.
“It’s heavier than it looks,” he said, pushing the chest toward me. “And it doesn’t open without you.” The chest thudded into my arms, startlingly solid, and I realized with a jolt that the key in my hand vibrated faintly, as if recognizing its mate.

I tightened my grip on the chest, afraid it might vanish if I let go. My eyes darted between the etched numbers and the older version of me still standing in the doorway.
“How is this possible?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended. “We can’t both be here. Doesn’t this break the rules of time travel?”

The older me gave a tired smile, one that held no humor. “You’re thinking of the wrong rules,” he said. “Stories like to keep things tidy—cause and effect, loops and paradoxes. But time doesn’t care about tidy. It cares about… convergence.”

The word hung in the air like a warning. I wanted to ask more, but he lifted a hand, silencing me before I could speak. His eyes—my eyes—gleamed with something between fear and hope. “You’ll understand soon. Just don’t open it until you’re ready. Not a moment before.”

And just like that, he or I should say I was gone. I turned and went back into my home and set the chest on the table next to the key. There was now a low hum that filled the air. My curiosity was now at a fever pitch. I decided at that moment that I would open this chest.

Character Interview with Mary Beth Honeycutt Jones

 Today I’m handing the spotlight over to one of my characters, Mary Beth Honeycutt Jones, who readers will recognize from The Girl Time Forgot. So here’s your chance to get to know Mary Beth better. 

Q: Can you introduce yourself to readers who might not know you yet?

A: My name is Mary Beth and I am the sister of Delilah who went missing in 1975 from Grady, NC. I contacted June to help me locate her after she brought down the crooked mayor and found Lillie Raines. 

Q: What was working with June like?

A: June never gave up. Honestly, it was like trying to drink tea while someone insists on refilling your cup every two minutes: relentless, a little overwhelming, and exactly what I needed. Goodness, I don’t think I’ve ever compared a person to a teapot before.

Q: What’s something most people don’t know about you?

A: I love to sing Karaoke. (laughs, then adds) Don’t look at me like that. Yes, karaoke. Eighties only. Give me Bonnie Tyler and a microphone, and suddenly I’m less poised and more… dramatic arm gestures.

Q: If you could step out of the story for a while, how would you spend your time?

A: If I stepped out of the story, I’d spend the time with a cup of tea and a trashy romance novel that I’ve been meaning to finish.  

Q: If your case became a movie, who would play you?

A: Oh, that’s easy. Emma Thompson. 

Well thank you for sitting down with me today Mary Beth. That’s all the time we have for this chat. If you have a question for Mary Beth, drop it in the comments. Maybe she’ll answer in a future interview!

Character Interview with June Calloway

 

Today I’m sitting down with June Calloway. She's an amateur sleuth, part-time troublemaker, and the woman you definitely want on your side if there’s a mystery brewing in town.

Q: June, you’ve solved everything from decades-old cold cases to murders that shook the whole community. Do you ever get tired of mysteries?
June: Tired? No. Frustrated, sometimes. I’d like a day where no one gets kidnapped/murdered, of course, but mysteries are part of how my brain works. If I see a puzzle, I have to solve it.

Q: Which case so far has stayed with you the most?
June: The murdered girl from 1998. Finding out what happened to her and giving her family closure. That one hit me hard. It reminded me why I do what I do.

Q: Be honest… how much coffee does it take for you to function during an investigation?
June: (laughs) More than my doctor would approve of. I’m pretty sure the local coffee shop stays in business because of me. Good thing I am friends with the owners, Gabe and Nate.

Q: Do you ever get scared?
June: Constantly. I just don’t stay scared. Fear’s useful — keeps me alert. But I refuse to let it run the show.

Q: You’ve uncovered corruption, murder, and more secrets than I can count. How do you unwind after all that?
June: Tea, a good book, and pretending my phone is switched off. (It usually isn’t.)

Q: If you could take a vacation with no murders, mysteries, or corruption to unravel, where would you go?
June: A quiet cabin by a lake. Just me, a stack of books, and maybe a fishing pole. But knowing my luck, I’d find a body in the water by day three.

Q: Last question: how do you feel about being written into all these crimes?
June: (side-eyes me) You know, it’s a little suspicious that bad things only seem to happen around me. Starting to wonder if you’re the real mastermind.

That’s it for today’s character chat! What would you ask June if you could sit down with her? Drop your questions in the comments. She might just answer in a future interview!