A few recent readers pointed out something I hadn’t consciously noticed: that many of my characters have a peculiar relationship with silence. Some embrace it. Some fear it. Some even speak through it. I smiled when I read that. Of course they do.

Silence has always been there, following me through poetry, short fiction, novels, and novellas — across genres, from fantasy to science fiction. It’s the one companion that never leaves, no matter how far my stories travel. Sometimes it arrives as comfort, other times as tension, but it always has a presence. In my world, silence isn’t emptiness; it’s a living, breathing character.

Silence listens when no one else does.

It waits. It judges. It forgives.

And in the stories I write, it becomes the invisible hand that shapes people and moments, the space between the words that defines what the words cannot say.

Maybe that’s why I’ve never been afraid of quiet. I grew up with it, learned to inhabit it, to hear its subtleties: the weight of an unsaid truth, the pulse beneath restraint, the thousand thoughts that live in what’s left unspoken. When I write, I chase that same rhythm.

In The Spacer, silence isn’t a void but a kind of gravity. The pull of isolation, memory, and identity. In KoS: Invasion, it becomes the pause between chaos and command, where decisions are born and lives are measured. Even in my poems, silence is the stanza that holds everything together.

Writers often talk about voice, but I think silence shapes voice just as much as sound does. Without silence, dialogue loses tension, grief loses its echo, love loses its depth. The unsaid defines the said. The absence defines the presence.

I suppose that’s what I mean when I say:

It’s not just how I live: it’s how I write, how I understand people, and how I let my characters speak when their voices fail them.

Because in the end, the most powerful moments in any story are not the words that are spoken, but the silence that follows.