An Interview with J.F. Hopper
J.F. Hopper writes mythic fantasy through the voice of Lirian Ever-Weaver, a bard born of firelight and fading memory. Rooted in Celtic myth and shaped by a love of storytelling, his work blends the epic with the intimate—where ghost-kissed warriors rise, ancient powers stir, and the long echo of song may yet shape the fate of a world. He lives in Kansas City, where he writes, teaches, and keeps the storyfire lit.
What inspired you to start writing this book?
The Fianna Chronicles: Awakening began as a love letter to myth and memory. I was drawn to the idea that forgotten stories still whisper, waiting for the right soul to hear them again. I’d been revisiting Celtic myths, especially tales of Fionn and the Fianna, and realized there was space to reimagine those ancient truths in a world where the echoes of old oaths could still shape the living. I wanted to write a story where grief becomes a kind of magic, where the broken still have a place in the chorus, and where memory isn’t a burden—but a bridge.
Tell us the story of your book’s current title. Was it easy to find, or did it take forever?
It took time. I wrestled with titles that felt too grand, too obscure, or simply didn’t resonate. But The Fianna Chronicles: Awakening emerged as the most honest description of what the story is. It’s about the reawakening of myth, yes—but also the personal awakenings of its characters: Aisling discovering her strength, Ronan confronting his fall, Calla and Elara redefining loyalty and identity. “Awakening” became the word that held them all.
Describe your dream book cover.
What is a book if not a threshold—and what is a cover if not the first gate the soul must cross?
The cover of The Fianna Chronicles: Awakening bears the face of the story’s fire-hearted guardian. You see her there—red hair like burning bramble, eyes aglow with the light of the old gods. She stands armored and resolute, with a blade in hand and a shield etched in knotwork older than kingdoms. Behind her rise the stones of the forgotten rites, where the wind remembers names long buried.
It is not merely a picture—it is a promise. That within, you will walk roads of shadow and starlight. That you will meet those who have lost much, but rise still. And that you, reader, are invited to awaken too.
If your book had a soundtrack, what are some songs that would be on it?
A few that come to mind:
“The Host of Seraphim” by Dead Can Dance — for the moments when loss becomes transcendent.
“Divenire” by Ludovico Einaudi — the feeling of fate catching up to you.
“Sons of Winter and Stars” by Wintersun — pure mythic energy.
“Aeon” by Nick Murray & Mark Petrie — for battle scenes and ancient powers stirring.
“Never Let Me Go” by Florence + The Machine — for Calla’s heartbreak and fire.
There’s a playlist I keep called Songs for Mórradún—it’s half prophecy, half confession.
What books are you reading (for research or comfort) as you continue the writing process?
I return often to The Mabinogion, Lady Gregory’s Gods and Fighting Men, and Seamus Heaney’s Beowulf. For comfort, I’ll reread The Name of the Wind, The Once and Future King, or The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly. I also read nonfiction about ancient ritual, bardic tradition, and memory as mythology. Sometimes, one sentence in an old text becomes a seed for a whole scene.
What other professions have you worked in? What’s something about you that your readers wouldn’t know?
By trade, I’ve worked in education, instructional design, and creative direction. I build learning experiences by day and write about ghost-sung warriors by night. One thing readers might not know: I once spent a year traveling to collect stories from elderly folks in rural communities, recording oral histories that would have otherwise been forgotten. That work made me believe more deeply in the power of memory and myth, and it still shapes the way I write today.
Who/what made you want to write? Was there a particular person, or particular writers/works/art forms that influenced you?
I think it began with listening—really listening—to stories told aloud. My grandfather used to tell me wild tales by lamplight, and they always felt more real than the world around me. Writers like Ursula K. Le Guin, Lloyd Alexander, and Guy Gavriel Kay showed me that fantasy wasn’t escape—it was return. And music—especially traditional folk and instrumental scores—helped me understand that storytelling has a rhythm beneath the words.
Where is your favorite place to write?
Anywhere quiet where I can hear the page breathe. My ideal is a dim-lit room with a candle, a cup of strong tea, and an old wooden desk. But I’ve also written in airports, trains, and the front seat of my car while waiting for my children’s dance lesson to finish. If the voice of the story comes, I follow.
What advice would you give your past self at the start of your writing journey?
Guard the spark. Not everything you write has to be “marketable.” Write what you need to say, even if you don’t yet understand why. And trust that your voice matters. You’re not just building a book—you’re building a bridge for others to walk across.
What’s one thing you hope sticks with readers after they finish your book?
If there’s one thing I hope lingers long after the last page, it’s this: that memory is not weakness—it’s power. The broken can rise. Even in a world of shadows, it is possible to choose the light—and carry it. Old songs, when sung true, still matter.
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