Syl De’Vil — The Feral Mind Behind the Music‑Driven Madness.

When a break is needed or your mind takes over you talk to yourself.

Interview with Syl D.

Interviewer: Thanks for sitting down with us, Syla. You’ve been dropping stories on Vocal like artillery shells. Your latest piece came with a full playlist. What possessed you to soundtrack your own writing?

Syla: Possessed is the right word. I don’t “decide” to make playlists — they just show up like stray cats demanding food. My brain writes better when it’s vibrating. If the music isn’t loud enough to rattle my fillings, I’m not in the zone. I also have to tune my kids out and whatever other bullshit is happening in the background. If the house isn’t shaking, I can’t focus.

Interviewer: Your readers say your writing feels cinematic. Do you actually write scenes like you’re directing a movie?

Syla: Absolutely. I’m not normal. I don’t “see” words — I see the whole damn scene like I’m standing in it. Fog, headlights, someone yelling in the distance, maybe an alien doing something stupid. I can smell the blood. I can hear the crunch of snow. I can feel the “oh shit” moment before it hits. Then I just translate the chaos into English and hope people can keep up.

Interviewer: You’ve got a reputation for humor that’s… let’s call it “feral.” Where does that come from?

Syla: Military police, small‑town Maine, seven kids, and a lifetime of people doing things that make me question the structural integrity of humanity. If you don’t laugh, you’ll scream. I choose laughter because it scares people less. Or more. Depends on the person. And if you can’t laugh, I don’t want it. I’ve seen enough nonsense to fill three lifetimes — humor is the only thing keeping me from drop‑kicking reality.

Interviewer: Your readers say your voice is sharp, fast, and unapologetic. Is that intentional?

Syla: No. That’s just how I talk. I don’t do long, flowery paragraphs. I write like someone who’s late for something important and mildly pissed about it. If a sentence doesn’t punch, it gets thrown out. I keep my mind quiet by shoving myself into this world I’m building — it’s cheaper than therapy and comes with better lighting.

Interviewer: Let’s talk about your series. What’s driving it?

Syla: Vibes. Chaos. Fog. Music. And the fact that small towns are weird. People think horror stories are unrealistic — I promise you, they’re not. I’ve lived in places where the fog rolls in like it’s got a vendetta. And what goes on in my head needs to be on paper or I’ll explode. I think about weird shit all the time, so it’s only fair you do too. Consider it community service.

Interviewer: Your playlist dropped instantly on Vocal. Were you expecting that?

Syla: Hell no. I thought it’d sit in review purgatory for a day or two. Instead, Vocal looked at it and said, “Oh, she’s building a whole cinematic universe. Let her cook.” They didn’t even blink. Just stamped it and shoved it out the door like it was late for formation.

Interviewer: What’s your writing process like?

Syla: Step 1: Put on music loud enough to summon demons. Step 2: Pace around like a raccoon deciding whether to steal something. Step 3: Sit down and write 2,000 words in a single feral burst. Step 4: Realize I forgot to eat. Step 5: Hit publish. Step 6: Shut the world out and get it going. Step 7: Wonder if I should be supervised.

Interviewer: What should readers expect next from you?

Syla: More fog. More weirdness. More humor that makes people question my mental stability. And probably another playlist because I can’t stop myself. If I’m not writing, I’m thinking about writing, and if I’m not thinking about writing, I’m probably yelling at someone to stop touching my stuff.

Interviewer: Final question — how would you describe your writing style in one sentence?

Syla: Controlled chaos with a soundtrack. And maybe depression. But like, the funny kind.

Interviewer: You’ve mentioned your military police background a few times. How does that experience bleed into your writing?

Syla:
Oh, it bleeds everywhere. You don’t stand gate guard at Incirlik at 3 AM
without developing a sixth sense for weird shit. Half my instincts come from
years of watching people make choices that should’ve been illegal. The grit,
the tension, the “don’t flinch” attitude — it all leaks into my stories whether
I want it to or not.

Interviewer:
Do your kids ever read your work?

Syla:
God, no. They’d either think I’m cool or call a therapist. I write to escape
them, not impress them. If they want to understand me, they can wait until
they’re adults and emotionally prepared.

Interviewer:
What’s the strangest thought you’ve had that actually made it into your
writing?

 Syla: The strangest thought that ever made it to paper was Jake and his buttplug sword. I don’t know what brain‑gremlin handed me that idea, but I ran with it like it owed me its life. Sometimes the muse shows up drunk, hands you a cursed object, and says “put this in the story.” And I do. Because I’m committed to the bit and possibly unwell. His name is Jake.  It was all him, Blame Jake.

Interviewer: What’s one thing readers would be shocked to learn about your writing process?

Syla:
I write faster when I’m annoyed. Mild irritation is my muse. If someone pisses
me off, I’ll suddenly produce 2,000 words like a printer possessed by demons.
Rage‑productivity is real.

Interviewer:
If you could give one piece of advice to new writers, what would it be?

Syla:
Stop trying to be perfect. Perfection is boring. Write like you mean it, write
like you’re late, write like you’re being chased. And for the love of all
things holy, stop apologizing for your voice. If it’s weird, good. Fuckn be
you..

Interviewer:
What’s one thing you want readers to feel when they finish your work?

Syla:
Confused, entertained, slightly concerned, and maybe a little sweaty. If they
walk away thinking, “What the hell did I just read?” then I’ve done my job. And I haven’t even gotten to the spicy shit yet.