Stori Fallon's Blog

There is a specific kind of silence that exists at 1:00 AM, before the world wakes up. It’s the hour when my hands are most active, though they perform two very different roles.
One hour, they are flying across a keyboard, detailing the supernatural tension of a new chapter or the sharp dialogue of a mafia romance. The next, they are gripped around a feed bucket, sliding into heavy gloves to handle the day's chores, or braced against the weight of a horse’s leg for a hoof trimming.
The Duel of the Manicure
We all know the "professional" look. The perfectly shaped almond nails, the smooth cuticles, the high-gloss gel that suggests a life spent exclusively in climate-controlled offices and coffee shops. There is a deep, feminine longing to look that "put-together"—to have the hands of a writer who only touches fine paper and expensive pens.
But then, reality sets in.
The Reality: You can’t trim hooves in a fresh set of acrylics.
The Result: My "manicure" is often a collection of chipped edges, a stray smudge of dirt that soap hasn't quite reached yet, and skin toughened by the Alabama elements.
There is a unique beauty in a chipped nail. It’s a badge of service. It says these hands didn’t just describe a world; they sustained one. They fed the chickens, they hauled the water, and they cared for the animals that don't care if my polish matches my outfit.
Writing and Riding
Writing is an act of the mind....longing, dreaming, and escaping. Riding and farming are acts of the body....presence, strength, and dirt.
Sometimes, while I'm in the middle of a heavy farm task, a plot point for Niccolò or Amber will strike me. I’ll be standing in the dirt, sweat on my brow, looking at my "un-pretty" hands, and realize that the grit of the farm is exactly what makes the writing real. You can't write about passion or struggle if you haven't felt the physical strain of the real world.
The Beauty in the Balance
I’ve stopped apologizing for the dirt under my nails during my bilingual tutoring sessions or professional meetings. Those hands, the ones that are currently "farm-worn", are the same ones that translate complex documents and write intricate stories.
We don't have to choose between being "pretty" and being "productive." We can be the bridge between the two.

The Life of a Writer and a Farmer

There’s something people don’t always understand about being a writer.

They imagine quiet mornings, a warm cup of coffee, and a cozy desk by a window where inspiration flows easily. And sometimes… that’s true.

But more often, writing looks like this: mud on your boots, hay clinging to your clothes, and a horse nudging your shoulder while you’re trying to hold onto a sentence before it disappears.

I live between two worlds.

One is built of words of angels and fallen ones, love and betrayal, choices that echo across realms. The other is grounded in earth, early mornings, long days, and the steady rhythm of life that doesn’t wait for inspiration.

My mornings don’t begin with silence. They begin with the loud familiar sound of roosters calling out to the rising sun, cutting through the stillness before the day fully wakes. It’s not gentle...but it’s honest. It reminds me that life moves forward whether I’m ready or not.

There’s work to be done.

Horses to feed. Fences to check. Water buckets to fill. And somewhere between all of that, I carry stories in my mind, the unfinished conversations, scenes waiting to be written, characters who refuse to stay quiet.

The barn becomes its own kind of writing space. Not quiet...but alive. The sound of hooves shifting, the soft breath of horses, the creak of wood. It all settles something inside me. Ideas come differently out there. Slower. Deeper. More real.

And then there are the evenings.

When the heat begins to fade and the air softens, carrying that unmistakable scent of earth, grass, and something just beyond words. It’s the kind of air you don’t just breathe—you feel. The sky stretches wide, painted in colors no story could fully capture, and for a moment, everything feels still.

That’s when the words come back. That is when the stories live.



I’ll sit outside, sometimes still in my work clothes, sometimes with a notebook, sometimes just with my thoughts. The world quiets, and the stories I’ve been carrying all day finally have room to speak.

Being a writer and a farmer isn’t about balance.

It’s about coexistence.

The farm teaches patience. Writing teaches expression. The horses teach trust. The stories teach understanding.

One grounds me. The other sets me free.

And somewhere between the sound of roosters at dawn and the quiet breath of the evening air, I’ve learned that stories don’t come from perfect conditions.

They come from living.

And this life—dust, sweat, silence, and all—is where my stories begin.

Being a writer is a beautiful thing. It’s creative, emotional, freeing and sometimes, it’s also incredibly lonely.

No one really prepares you for the moment when you realize that not everyone will support your writing.

Not your genre.
Not your characters.
Not your stories.

Sometimes… not even the people closest to you.

And that truth can sting more than any rejection email ever could.

Because writing isn’t just something we do.
It’s something we are.

So when someone dismisses your work—or doesn’t show up for it. It can feel personal. It can make you question everything:
Is this good enough?
Should I be writing something different?
Would people support me more if I changed?

I’ve asked myself those same questions.

And then, at a moment when I needed it most, a friend gave me advice that changed everything:

“You can’t write to please everyone. You have to write what makes you happy.”

Simple.
Honest.
Uncomfortable… but true.

Because the truth is, if you try to write for everyone, you’ll end up writing for no one, including yourself.

Not every reader will understand your genre.
Not everyone will connect with your themes.
Not everyone will support your vision.

And that’s okay.

Because your job as a writer isn’t to be universally liked.
Your job is to be authentic.

To tell the story that’s been placed on your heart.
To create characters that feel real to you.
To build worlds that only you can bring to life.

The readers who are meant for your work will find you.

They will connect with your words in ways that others can’t.
They will feel seen in your stories.
They will stay.

And those are the readers that matter.

So if you’re a writer struggling with lack of support whether it’s from strangers or people you thought would be in your corner please hear this:

You are not doing anything wrong.

You are not “too much.”
Your genre is not “too niche.”
Your story is not “the problem.”

You are simply writing something that not everyone is meant to understand.

And that doesn’t make your work less valuable.
It makes it yours.

So write boldly.
Write honestly.
Write the story that makes your soul feel full.

Because at the end of the day, the most important approval you will ever need…
is your own.