From Nautical Bros to Badass Mermaids: The Accidental Origin of The Atlantis Twins
Writers are often asked, “Where do you get your ideas?” Usually, the answer is a mix of “I had a weird dream” or “I stared at a wall until my forehead bled.”
But the origin story of The Atlantis Twins is a little different. It involves a complete hijacking of the manuscript, a total course correction that steered me away from a functional but ultimately bland thriller, toward the wild, chaotic, and magical world of the Mermaid Curse series.
If you’ve read the series, you know it as the saga of Alysa and Alyx—twins separated by tragedy, bound by a mysterious genetic legacy, and navigating a world of blood mage conspiracies, dangerous genetics labs, and underwater civilizations. You know it’s about power, responsibility, and the messy business of sisterhood.
But here is the secret I rarely tell people: This book was originally going to be a bunch of twenty-something dudes on a boat.
The “Bro-Thriller” That Wasn’t
In the earliest drafts, The Atlantis Twins wasn’t even about twins or hidden aquatic abilities. It was a purely speculative, gritty nautical thriller focused on survival. I had the setting locked down: a rusty, barely functional research vessel far out in the Pacific. I had the stakes: a mysterious, fast-acting contagion discovered deep in the trenches, threatening global disaster.
And I had the cast: a motley, cynical crew of guys named things like “Chad,” “Brad,” and “Trent.” Their internal drama revolved around who got the last coffee filter, who was stealing the satellite bandwidth, and who was flirting with the lone female technician (who was, frankly, more of a plot device than a character).
The book was fine. It was functional. I was pushing a plot uphill, ticking off necessary thriller beats: engine trouble, radio silence, a mysterious locked cargo hold. But it lacked a soul. Every scene felt like homework, and I couldn’t muster genuine excitement for the interpersonal drama of a crew whose main motivation was getting paid and getting back to shore. I was desperately searching for the spark.
The Magic of the Brooklyn Public Library
I was stuck. Frustrated with my manuscript, I took a break from the isolation of my desk and attended a writing workshop at the Brooklyn Public Library (shout out to BPL—libraries are where magic happens, literally).
The instructor, sensing the collective groan of the room, gave us a simple prompt to loosen up our creative gears:
“Free write an unexpected character—someone who should not be in your current scene, but bursts in anyway.”
I put my pen to the paper, fully intending to flesh out one of my brooding sailors, maybe giving “Trent” some trauma that would justify his grim mood.
Instead, a teenage girl kicked down the door of my imagination. She was soaked to the bone, angry, sarcastic, and terrified, clutching a ridiculously outdated phone. She had no business being on my fictional research ship, yet she planted her feet on the deck and refused to leave.
Her name was Alyx.
Alyx Hijacks the Manuscript
Once Alyx started talking, the whole book shifted on its axis. She wasn’t just on the ship; she was running from it. She brought with her a twin sister, Alysa (who was presumed lost but wasn’t), a dark family history, a hidden ability to heal, and a sense of fierce, defiant purpose.
Suddenly, the contagion wasn’t a random virus—it was related to her own suppressed genetics. The stormy sea wasn’t just a threat—it was her natural, terrifying home.
The nautical thriller quickly became something much deeper: a mystery about identity, a story about twins separated by tragedy, and a high-stakes fantasy where ancient secrets clash with modern science.
The original “dudes on a boat” concept retreated into the background (though a few evolved into key characters like the complicated Ivan and the well-meaning Nate, now serving her story, not their own). The gritty thriller elements remained—the tension, the danger, the deep-ocean claustrophobia—but the heart of the story became about two girls realizing they were a powerful, hybrid force that defied the land world.
The Lesson: Give the Wheel to the Wild Ones
That single, fifteen-minute writing exercise at the BPL changed my career path. Alyx and Alysa demanded more than a cameo. They demanded a world where healing hurts more than the injury, where bloodlines hide ancient magic, and where mermaids aren’t mythical creatures—they are real, they are flawed, and they are absolutely badass warriors.
The moral of the story, for any creative, is simple: stop trying to force the story you think you should write, and listen to the characters who have something to say.
So, to the “Nautical Bros” who never made it past the first draft: sorry, guys. But Alyx and Alysa had a much better series to start.
Have you read The Atlantis Twins yet? Dive into the series that started by accident and became a universe of its own. What’s your favorite accidental character discovery?
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