Why I Built It in the Fire

It’s a warm Sunday morning, and as I enjoy my second cup of coffee for the day before Sunday church at Kings Runaway Bay, I find myself reflecting on why I started my indie publishing house, Refined by Fire Press, and why it matters.

If you had told me years ago, when I finally began writing my memoir Kissed by Death: My Journey to Finding Life in the Darkness, that I would one day start a publishing house, I would have thought you were hopping mad and probably had a quiet giggle to myself.

It just didn’t fit.

It didn’t align with how I saw myself.

It didn’t feel like something that belonged to my life.

But something began to shift when I started writing that book.

Not externally at first.

Internally.

Because as I began to write my memoir, I felt something I can’t fully explain in clean language.

The Lord was in it.

Not around it.

Not watching from a distance.

In it.

In the middle of the chaos.

In the middle of the memories.

In the middle of the parts of my life that I had buried, avoided, or tried to move past without fully facing.

And as I wrote, something began to form.

Not just a book.

Something deeper.

There is something about writing your own story that forces a kind of honesty you can’t escape.

You can try to soften it.

You can try to shape it into something more acceptable.

But if you’re being real, truly real, there comes a point where you either tell the truth or you stop writing altogether.

And I remember sitting in that tension.

Because my story isn’t clean.

It isn’t simple.

It isn’t something you can wrap up in a neat narrative and move on from.

It carries weight.

Pain.

Moments that still feel close when I think about them.

And as I began to put that into words, I realised something.

This wasn’t just about telling my story.

It was about confronting it.

And somewhere in that process, something unexpected happened.

The writing stopped being about me.

Not in the sense that my story disappeared.

But in the sense that it started pointing beyond me.

Toward something else.

Toward something greater.

Toward the gospel.

Because when you strip everything back, when you remove the layers of performance, identity, and self-preservation, you are left with a simple truth.

I needed saving.

Not improving.

Not adjusting.

Not refining in my own strength.

Saving.

And that reality became clearer the more I wrote.

Not because I was trying to make it theological.

But because it was.

It was already there.

Running through every part of my life whether I had language for it or not.

And that’s where Refined by Fire Press began.

Not as a business idea.

Not as a strategic move.

But as a response.

Because as I sat with what I was writing, as I sat with the weight of it, I started to realise something that felt both exciting and confronting at the same time.

This story isn’t just mine.

The details are.

The experiences are.

But the underlying reality is not.

There are people everywhere carrying similar weight.

Different circumstances.

Different stories.

But the same questions.

The same need.

The same search for something real in the middle of chaos.

And I began to feel this quiet but persistent thought.

What if this doesn’t stop with one book?

What if this becomes something that outlives me?

That word started to form.

Legacy.

Not in the way the world defines it.

Not in terms of success, recognition, or building something that draws attention.

But something quieter.

Something more grounded.

Something that points people back to truth.

And as I’ve sat with that over time, that vision has become clearer.

My long legacy vision with Refined by Fire Press is to create a doorway to Christ through deep, Christ centred theology and human stories of the saving grace and love of Jesus Christ.

And in a world full of artificial intelligence, fake news, constant error, and misinformation, my goal is to keep Christ and truth front row centre at Refined by Fire Press.

Because the more I look at the world around me, the more I realise how much noise there is.

So many voices.

So many messages.

So many ideas about identity, purpose, and meaning.

And yet, in the middle of all that, there is often a lack of something real.

Something grounded.

Something that doesn’t shift depending on the moment.

And I don’t want to add to the noise.

I don’t want to create something that simply exists alongside everything else.

I want to build something that carries weight.

Not because of me.

But because of what it points to.

And that’s where the name came from.

Refined by Fire.

Because that’s what my life has felt like.

Not constantly.

Not in a dramatic sense every day.

But over time.

Through different seasons.

Through different experiences.

There has been a process.

A refining.

Not comfortable.

Not easy.

But necessary.

Fire doesn’t just warm.

It exposes.

It burns away what doesn’t belong.

It reveals what’s real.

And if I’m honest, a lot of my life has felt like that.

Moments where things I thought defined me were stripped back.

Moments where I was forced to confront parts of myself I would have preferred to ignore.

Moments where I realised I wasn’t as steady, as strong, or as in control as I thought I was.

And yet, in the middle of that, something was being formed.

Something that didn’t come from comfort.

Something that couldn’t be manufactured.

Something that had to be lived through.

And I started to see how that connected to writing.

Because writing, at least the kind I feel called to do, isn’t about performance.

It isn’t about sounding polished.

It isn’t about creating something that looks impressive on the surface.

It’s about truth.

Truth that has been tested.

Truth that has been lived.

Truth that has cost something.

And that’s what I want Refined by Fire Press to represent.

Not just a place where books are published.

But a place where truth is carried carefully.

Where stories are not cleaned up to look better.

Where the gospel is not diluted to make it more comfortable.

Because the gospel isn’t comfortable.

It’s confronting.

It dismantles.

It exposes.

And then it restores.

And I realised something else as I sat with all of this.

This wasn’t something I felt qualified to do.

Not in the traditional sense.

I don’t come from a publishing background.

I didn’t have a roadmap.

I didn’t have a clear plan.

But I had something else.

I had a story.

I had conviction.

And I had a growing sense that this mattered.

And sometimes that’s where things begin.

Not with certainty.

But with obedience.

There’s a strange tension in stepping into something you never planned for.

Part of you questions it.

Part of you wonders if you’ve misunderstood something.

Part of you looks at your past, your limitations, your weaknesses, and thinks, this doesn’t make sense.

But then there’s another part.

Quieter.

Steadier.

Not loud, not forceful.

But persistent.

And it keeps drawing you forward.

That’s what this has felt like.

Not a dramatic calling.

Not a moment where everything became clear all at once.

But a series of small steps.

Small moments of clarity.

Small decisions that, over time, began to form something bigger than I could have planned.

And when I look back now, and carefully examine my work, I can see it.

Not just the progress.

But the imperfections.

The mistakes.

The rough edges.

There are things I would write differently now.

Things I would express with more clarity.

Moments where I can see I was still finding language for something I didn’t fully understand yet.

And I must admit, when I do go back through my published works, there are places where I can see the need for fine tuning in the overall quality.

But I’m committed to bringing top tier publications to the press with everything I do.

Not at the expense of honesty.

Not by removing the rough edges that make the work real.

But by continuing to refine the craft while staying true to the truth.

Because like my writing, and like my story itself…

It’s all evolving.

And maybe that’s part of what makes it real.

Because growth doesn’t come in a finished form.

It comes in movement.

In process.

In moments that don’t always look polished but carry something true.

And now, sitting here on a Sunday morning, coffee in hand, reflecting before church, I can see it more clearly than I could when it first began.

Not fully.

Not completely.

But enough.

Enough to know that this matters.

Not because of what it could become externally.

But because of what it represents internally.

It represents a refusal to hide the truth.

A refusal to pretend that life is something it’s not.

A refusal to dilute the gospel into something more comfortable.

It represents the reality that God meets us in the fire.

Not after it.

Not once everything is resolved.

But in it.

And if that’s true for me, then it’s true for others.

And maybe that’s the point.

Maybe Refined by Fire Press isn’t just about publishing books.

Maybe it’s about creating something that says:

You don’t have to have it all together.

You don’t have to clean yourself up before coming to God.

You don’t have to pretend that your story is something it isn’t.

You can bring it as it is.

Messy.

Unresolved.

Still in process.

Because that’s where grace meets you.

And as I sit here finishing my coffee, preparing to head to church, I feel a quiet sense of clarity.

Not about everything.

But about this.

This matters.

Not because it’s impressive.

Not because it’s structured perfectly.

Not because it fits into a clear category.

But because it’s real.

And I think, at the end of the day, that’s what I want this to be.

Not perfect.

Not polished beyond recognition.

But honest.

Grounded.

Pointing to something that doesn’t change.

Because everything else does.

But the gospel doesn’t.

And if I can build something that carries that truth, even in a small way, then that’s enough

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About the Author

Dylan Verdun Sullivan is the founder of Refined by Fire Press and an Australian author indexed in the National Library of Australia. As a Level 7 Local Guide with over 1.7 million views on Google Maps, he documents the intersection of faith, recovery, and the light found in ordinary places.

• Read the Memoir: Kissed by Death on Amazon
• Explore the Journey: Follow Dylan on Google Maps
• Connect on Instagram: @porkysparadise