There’s something transformative about art. As creators, we spend countless hours breathing life into our work, obsessing over details, and imagining how it will resonate with readers. But something magical happens when it leaves our hands and meets the world. It becomes something new—something more—because every reader brings their own experiences, emotions, and perspective to it. That, to me, is what turns a pretty picture into art. It’s not the brushstrokes, no matter how precise, or the lyrics, no matter how masterful. It’s the meaning others find in it.

When I was a teenager, I encountered Dominique Francon in The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand. In one of her most striking moments, she takes a beautiful statue and drops it down an elevator shaft to protect it from what she sees as the mediocrity of those who could never truly appreciate it. To her, destroying the statue “humanely” was better than letting it be degraded by the unworthy over time.

That scene infuriated me—and I knew it was meant to. But it wasn’t until years later that I understood why it affected me so deeply. On the surface, her actions made a kind of sense. If she were a hunter, I would hope she’d end an animal’s suffering quickly rather than let it endure unnecessary pain. By that logic, why not spare the art from slow degradation? But Dominique wasn’t protecting the art from suffering. She was ending her suffering—her inability to bear the thought of something so majestic being seen by those she deemed unworthy.

Here’s where my perspective shifted: without someone to look at it—whether their gaze is astute or indifferent—that statue was just a piece of rock. That’s the beauty of art. A rock can’t be destroyed; you can break it, dissolve it, or grind it into dust, but its elements still exist. Art, though, is different. Its meaning depends entirely on the people who interact with it. One careless moment—a soup can, an elevator shaft—and the meaning disappears. What’s left is a cold, mechanical world that has no need for beauty.

Looking back, what made me so angry about Dominique’s actions was how they contradicted her own desires. She wanted to protect art from mediocrity, but by destroying it, she robbed the world of its beauty and the opportunity to rise to meet it. If she truly wanted to elevate the world, she should have created art instead of destroying it. Each piece of art invites people to see beyond the mundane, to imagine a world that is more. Destroying it, on the other hand, deprives the world of that chance.

This week, Lionwood Manor received its first review. A first review carries a special weight; it marks the moment when a story that has lived so long in your own mind steps into someone else’s. Here’s what they had to say:

“Sophia and her adventures are definitely not for the faint of heart. This is a dark gothic paranormal story. I know there is a romantic story there, but that’s secondary to the rest of this incredible tale. I don’t know what I just read, but it kept me going for a long time. Hard to get into, I finished it in just over a day. WOW. Hope the next one is out sooner than later so all the questions get answered!” ~Wendrip

I’m deeply grateful for this reader’s thoughts. What struck me most was their perspective on the story. For them, the romance—an important thread in Sophia’s journey—took a backseat to the dark and gothic atmosphere. That’s such an intriguing lens through which to view the book. As the writer, I saw every moment as interconnected, one element fueling the next. To see it differently through their eyes allows me to take a completely new journey through my own work as I prepare to begin writing the next book.

This is what I love about reviews in art. They reveal that stories aren’t static; they’re reflections. What we see in them depends on where we stand. The same message, the same characters, the same themes—every reader views them differently, because no two people see the world from exactly the same place. It’s a reminder of how endlessly rich and complex art can be.

Even the same reader, at a different time in their life, can have a completely new experience. I’m reminded of watching the movie Dennis the Menace when I was much younger. Back then, I saw Mr. Wilson as an entirely unreasonable grouch and Dennis as a victim of circumstance. But watching it again years later, I see a wildly different picture. The story didn’t change—I did. That’s the power of perspective.

For me, the creative process is about crafting something that feels true, even when it’s shadowed in mystery or fraught with pain. But the real magic happens when it’s read—when someone else steps into the world I’ve built and sees it through their own eyes. Reviews like this one offer a glimpse into that experience and challenge me to see my work in ways I hadn’t imagined.

Art is meant to spark discussion, connection, and reflection. That’s why reviews matter—not just to authors who rely on them to reach new readers, but to the entire ecosystem of storytelling. They’re conversations about the same piece of art from different perspectives, and each voice adds depth to that conversation.

If you’ve read Lionwood Manor, I’d love to hear your thoughts, too. What stood out to you? What lingered after you closed the book? And if you haven’t read it yet, perhaps this review will intrigue you to step into Sophia’s world and form your own perspective.

Thank you to every reader who has taken the time to engage with Sophia’s story. Your reflections keep this journey alive and evolving.