HOW A LIMINAL PUZZLE GETS MADE (IT'S A LOT. IT'S SO MUCH.)

People ask me all the time: how do you make these?

And I smile and say "oh, it's quite a process!" because that is the polite answer.

The honest answer is: it starts with me, my dream, a keyword list, and an artist who has absolutely no idea who I am (yet).

Step One: Finding the Art (A Humbling Experience)

I do not commission artists to make art for me. I wish. That would be simple.

What I actually do is scour the internet — obsessively, painstakingly, at hours I will not disclose — until I find an artist whose work makes me stop scrolling and actually feel something. Then I slide into their DMs like a professional fangirl and attempt to convince them, with varying degrees of success and occasionally alarming sums of money for my small business, to let me turn their art into a puzzle.

Sometimes they say yes immediately. Sometimes they say no three times before they say yes. Sometimes the number they quote me makes my eye twitch a little and I say "absolutely, that works great!" because it's the right art and there is no substitute for the right art.

Finding art is the hardest part of this entire business. I will not be taking questions. But will certainly take applications. 

Step Two: The Whimsies (My Favorite Part, Don't Tell the Other Parts)

Every Liminal puzzle has whimsy pieces — custom-cut shapes hiding in the mix that you won't see coming. A little owl. A sunflower. A Unicorn. Something that makes you pause when you find it and feel like the puzzle just winked at you.

Here's how they actually get made:

First, I make a keyword list. What belongs in this world? What would feel like a secret if you found it tucked in the corner? What would make you smile?

Then I draw them. More than I'll use, because some don't survive the next step. We're not all destined for great things. 

Then I test cut them — checking for size, feel, and fragility. A whimsy piece that snaps in half is not a whimsy piece, it's a disappointment.

Then comes my favorite part: placement. I drag and drop them into the design, rotating them to fit, making sure the gaps between pieces are even, for Step Three. But I'm not just filling space — I'm building scenes. Little stories inside the puzzle.

The three sunflowers in the Sunflowers puzzle? That's a scene. The whole "Alice in Wonderland" puzzle I'm still hunting art for? That is an entire narrative. I already done, ready to go. I just need the right art. (See Step One. Pray for me.)

Step Three: The Liminals (Yes, There's a Whole Philosophy Here)

"Liminal" means the space between. A threshold. A place that's neither here nor there but somehow essential.

I named my company that on purpose. And I lovingly named the filler pieces — the ones that connect everything, that hold the whimsies in place, that make the whole puzzle work — the liminals.

I draw them in section by section, and I test cut as I go. This part matters more than it sounds: if one piece is even slightly too big or too small, it affects every single piece around it. Like a bad roommate, but for puzzles.

Each section has to be right before I move on. There are no shortcuts here. I have tried. The puzzle always knows. It might forgive, but it will never forget. 

Step Four: The Test Puzzle (Quality Control Is a Lifestyle)

Once the full design is cut with the final image, I do the first puzzle myself.

But to be honest, at this stage I can't see the forest from the trees. After 20, 30 or more hours of staring at the same pieces, I'd be hard pressed to notice if one was shaped like a middle finger.

So I send it to a small group of people I trust — genuine puzzle nerds with high standards and no obligation to be nice to me — and I wait. They give feedback. I make changes. Then we go to production.

Is this efficient? No.

Does it mean every puzzle that ships is actually good? Yes.

Worth it.

Step Five: The Box (Because Presentation Is Everything)

Your puzzle pieces don't just rattle around in a box like they have no home training.

They arrive in an organza bag, wrapped in tissue paper, nestled inside a beautifully designed box that you will feel a little bad about recycling. (Keep it. It's a good box.)

And if you're giving a Liminal puzzle as a gift — which, honestly, great choice, very good instincts — we will gift wrap it for you. Just ask.

That's how it's made. With obsession, negotiation, hand-drawn details, section-by-section perfectionism, and a genuine belief that the person opening this box deserves something that was thought about.

You deserve something that was thought about.

Shop the collection at liminalpuzzleco.com