For some authors, inspiration strikes like a bolt of lightning, instantly setting their imagination ablaze with a torrent of ideas and emotions that they eagerly channel onto the page. For others, it’s more like a slow-burning ember, gradually intensifying into a magnificent inferno over time. Such was the case with my novel, “The Adventures of Izzy Adams: Descending Into Darkness,” a tale that smouldered within me before roaring to life in a blaze of creativity.

Do we just become empty husks decomposing beneath the vibrant, green turf, ultimately serving as nourishment for the plants we once consumed? Is our existence snuffed out, or is there something beyond the threshold of death?