I’m not certain how it happened, but it did. I was in the throes of writing The Killing Game when, one day, I looked at a photo - graph and met the gaze of a man from the former Yugoslavia. In my head, I heard a voice: “Write a story about my country.” The words were so vivid, as if the speaker was right there with me. Whose voice was it? God’s? … Someone else’s? It was impossible to ignore, and I couldn’t let go of the idea. I tried to set it aside, but within fifteen minutes, I found myself typ - ing the opening sequence on my computer. By then, the story had unfolded fully in my mind, eager to be told. This happened during the Christmas holiday of 1994, while the siege of Sarajevo raged. I had followed news of the war, yet I couldn’t fully grasp it. The media framed the conflict as “ethnic cleansing due to religious differences,” but that felt like a shallow explanation. So I started digging. I began asking questions, discovering that much of the truth was buried beneath layers of wartime propa - ganda. I sought out people from the former Yugoslavia and found them. They shared varied perspectives, and the complexity of their insights was overwhelming. What I gathered left me with more questions than answers. But that confusion became the heart of my story. Misconceptions, lies, de - ceptions, loss, and lost causes would shape the narrative about a place I had never stud - ied or visited. I had seen much in life, but not war—so how would I write about it? First, I had to decide on the story’s focus. That choice came in an instant: interper - sonal relationships. But what kind? Naturally, a man and a woman, though not a typical relationship. War complicates things, doesn’t it? Were they both from Yugoslavia or from elsewhere? If both from Yugoslavia, perhaps they’d be desperate to escape; if from different nations, what would bring them there, and why? At the time, several movies were already ex - ploring this conflict, but my story needed a unique angle. I wanted to tell the untold, ev - eryday stories of those fighting simply to survive. I wanted to highlight the quiet he - roes who struggled to help others amid the chaos. The news often depicted civilians as frenzied, scrambling for survival—if they mentioned them at all beyond major atroci - ties. But the press thrives on sensationalism. I wanted something deeper, something that spoke to the heart and soul of the people. The answer became clear: a man from Yugoslavia and a woman from America. But what would compel her to leave her com - fortable life in the U.S. for a war-torn coun - try? The answer lay in a concern that had haunted me since I first heard of the war—the children who had lost their par - ents. An orphan could be the catalyst, a mo - tivation strong enough to pull her from her safe environment. So, the story would re - volve around a man from Yugoslavia, a woman from America, and an orphan. I wrote a rough sketch before I discovered the documentation of the war’s atrocities. My sketches are cohesive outlines of events as they will unfold, usually requiring more detailed work later. I drafted this sketch be - fore reading about the prison camps held by all three warring sides—Muslims, Croatians, and Serbians. By these ethnic labels, I mean the military factions involved, not the civil - ians; however, nationalist ideologies often spilled into civilian life as well. My story, however, focuses on one man, driven solely by a sense of what is right according to God’s laws. I aimed to portray a man who, although not of Serbian descent, was raised by a Serbian family. In his circumstances, a lesser man might have let nationalist allegiances sway him, turning on the very people who had given him a safe and beautiful life. As the hero himself put it: For now, I won’t delve into the details of what caused the war. Read the book, and you’ll find enough context to understand its roots without dwelling on the conflict itself. Instead, you’ll be drawn into an adventure that focuses less on war and more on love and honor. Through these emotions, the story will reach your heart. You’ll feel the plight of souls caught between warring fac - tions, fighting for all they believed to be right. By the end, you’ll either relate to the characters, thinking—That’s exactly what I would have done—or close the book, decid - ing getting involved was foolish. Either way, you’ll have felt something—and that, in the end, is what writing is about. Love, hate, sorrow, joy—whatever the emo - tion, the goal is that you experienced it within the story.