When I started this Substack a few months ago, I thought I would cover almost everything related to scent within months. Then I’d hit writer’s block and eventually run out of decent topics to talk about. There are approximately 100 active natural aromatics commonly in use, most suppliers offer about 50 of the most obvious ones. But in fact, there are more than 200 if we take into account rare oils, those no longer produced, or those you can make yourself as tinctures or macerations. That’s a pretty good number.
Still, sometimes it seems like everything has already been said about the uses and properties of essential oils, absolutes, and other extracts. But I love talking about botanicals that hold a special place in culture, ritual, history, ceremony, and even witchcraft.
My research for the project I’m currently working on has shown me that many plants do contain trace amounts of essential oils. These are not available commercially and are not produced, yet every year, artisan distillers develop new techniques to introduce uncommon aromatics to the market, even if the price tag is high. I’m in awe of the new aromatics I see, many rare, ancestral, indigenous, and I do hope they are sustainably made with respect for nature and people. Some plants are too endangered, too sacred, or too subtle to be harvested or distilled at all. That’s another reason to imagine rather than extract. This series honors those boundaries while still allowing us to connect with their essence: through story, symbol, and scent memory.
One of the earliest examples that caught my attention was vervain (common verbena). I can’t seem to find a true essential oil from it, some sources are dubious, but my research shows it yields very little oil. Yet it has long been associated with folk medicine, witchcraft, and pagan traditions. Today, instead, we have lemon verbena. But it’s not the same.
For one, common verbena is native to Europe, Northern Africa, and Asia, and is deeply rooted in the early European pagan traditions, including those related to entheogens. Lemon verbena, on the other hand, is native to South America. I wonder what the essential oil of common vervain would smell like. As we know, the scent of the fresh plant is subtle. The absolute or essential oil, if it existed, would likely be more intense, smoother, and perhaps even quite different in character.
There are also plants that have no chance of ever yielding aromatic extracts simply because they don’t have a scent. But their rich history is so inspiring that I’m sure many creatives and scent enthusiasts would be intrigued if we imagined their scent, drawing from their appearance (leaves, flowers, seeds, roots, etc.), their reputation (healing, sacred, forbidden, baneful…), their historical use in specific traditions, or their presence in literature and alchemical texts.
So what is the purpose of this series, Fictional Scent?
I guess we’ll rely purely on fantasy and imagination. We’ll talk about plants that don’t exist as ready-to-use natural aromatics in a bottle, how their profiles might be assembled using other materials, and how this can inspire us to look at them from new perspectives. You can trust my assemblage of words and ingredients, or create your own.
Whether you enjoy reading about scent, practicing it, wearing it on skin, or diffusing it in the air, this is a new way to engage with plants. Use it as a foundation for your creative work, be encouraged to finally plant a garden full of witch plants, develop a new perfume blend, or simply enjoy how the story unfolds. Not everything must exist. Imagination is something we lack in daily life, why not indulge in it for the sake of education and fun?
Some might say, “So what? This plant doesn’t produce essential oils. I have it in my garden, I know what it smells like. It’s green, bitter, and just a common leafy thing.” But you see, those people are still making an attempt to describe it. Their opinion may stem from a lack of scent vocabulary, or simply from disinterest in blending fiction with non-fiction.
Yes, exactly. This series is fictional.
Think of henbane, a plant steeped in myth and medicine, yet one that has never yielded a drop of essential oil for us to smell. What would it be like to capture the scent of dreams, delirium, and danger?
We’ll explore forbidden, baneful, toxic, poisonous, sacred, folk, traditional, and many other plants, one at a time. Each post will be nuanced and detailed to help expand your olfactory imagination, train your nose, and begin to notice the overlooked plants, right there in your backyard, in the field among wildflowers, in the woods, or even in your kitchen.
We won’t talk about the obvious candidates highly desired perfume ingredients. The purpose here is to imagine and to get inspired. Imagination is one of our most underused tools in scent. In a world increasingly obsessed with data, imagination often gets dismissed as frivolous. But when it comes to scent, which is always personal, always subjective, imagination might be the most honest tool we have.
In perfumery, we often work with materials that are symbolic or abstract: smokiness, powder, ink, fresh linen. Imagining the scent of non-distillable plants trains the same muscle. It’s about learning to compose with absence, to let memory, emotion, and concept guide the hand as much as chemistry. Through these exercises, we’ll expand our scent vocabulary, deepen our understanding of plant energetics, and perhaps find inspiration for new blends, rituals, or creative works.
Our noses, can piece together the forgotten past of a plant. Even if no oil exists, scent can be imagined: born from memory, metaphor, or symbolic associations. In this way, we don’t just invent scents; we restore what history left unsaid.
This series, written in the form of short essays, is for scent enthusiasts, practitioners of scent (perfumers, aromatherapists, incense makers, distillers), and anyone who simply enjoys reading about the world of natural aromatics. Whether you work with scent professionally or are just curious about the cultural, ritual, and imaginative dimensions of botanicals, these reflections are meant to inspire, educate, and awaken the nose and the mind.
P.S. Although I originally planned to post this series under Studio (scent education), I’ve decided to include it with the Essays. While it contains educational elements, especially around olfactory imagination and the training of the nose, it’s ultimately a guided thought experiment rooted in storytelling, plant lore, and artistic speculation. I’ll be sharing personal opinions (though not necessarily personal experiences), and using metaphor, rhetorical questions, and a contemplative tone to invite both emotional and intellectual engagement. This series lives at the intersection of essay and education, designed for scent practitioners and enthusiasts alike who want to explore memory, mystery, and the evocative power of plants that can’t be distilled.