I didn’t write The Last Girl on Earth for 14 years. But I’ve carried the weight of this story since around 2010.
It started with a different story entirely. In 2006, I wrote a cheeky satire called Maria or the Last Single—a tongue-in-cheek take on dating in the big city when all you want is to start a family. It was sharp and personal. Was it a masterpiece? Probably not.
Then, in 2009, I shared it with a (then) friend for feedback. She didn’t just critique it—she tore it down. And I let it stick.
That single moment planted a deep fear: maybe I wasn’t good enough. Maybe writing was something I liked, but not something I was meant to do. So I kept my stories quiet. I still took writing courses, dreamed up scripts, jotted ideas. But I didn’t commit. Not really.
A year or two later, something started stirring again. This time it wasn’t satire. It was deeper. Lonelier. Heavier.
Inspired in part by shows like Buffy the Vampire Slayer (yes, I’m a TV nerd), I started imagining what it would mean to truly be the last one left. Not just romantically—but existentially. A girl in a world where she doesn’t belong. Where her existence is a threat. Where survival means silence.
And still—I didn’t write it.
I kept pushing it away. Telling myself I wasn’t ready. That the idea was too big. Too serious. That someone else could tell it better.
Then came 2021.
In the middle of the pandemic, I started having dreams about my grandfather’s old diaries. I hadn’t read them—but in my dreams, they were glowing. Urgent. Like they had something to tell me.
I went looking for them. They were gone. But that story is for another day—and another book.
What I found instead was a different kind of message. It wasn’t about reading someone else’s story. It was about finally writing mine.
So I sat down. I started writing The Last Girl on Earth.
And—spoiler—it wasn’t smooth. I hit walls. Switched stories. Started a whole different book and almost finished it, while Eve and Leo waited patiently in the back of my mind. But their story wouldn’t leave me alone.
I kept coming back. Because I had to.
Here’s what I learned:
- You can’t escape the stories that live inside you.
- You can’t hide behind someone else’s opinion forever.
- And you absolutely cannot bully yourself into silence.
All you’re doing is cutting off a piece of yourself—and calling it safety. But it’s not safety. It’s self-abandonment.
If you’ve been sitting on a story for 14 years—or 14 weeks—this is your sign:
Start. Try. Write. Risk it.
Because some stories don’t go away. They’re not meant to.
