J.T. Ellison's Blog, page 20

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Hi friends,

Today I’m announcing a brand new addition to my Substack publication: The Creative Edge chat.

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This is a casual conversation space in the Substack app that I’ve set up exclusively for you and I to converse, kind of like a group chat or live hangout. Like our Facebook of old, with a dash of the Literati, plus Twitter and Instagram Live, rolled into one. I’ll post short prompts, thoughts, and updates that I think you’ll be interested in, and you can jump into the discussion. I hope it will help us stay connected in a fun environment, free of ads and distractions. Think of it as an interactive version of Smatterings!

- Photo by Frank Leuderalbert on Unsplash

To join the chat, you’ll need to download the Substack app, now available for both iOS and Android. A heads up, Chats are sent via the app, not email. If you don’t want notifications, you can rest assured I’ll be there Fridays for our usual Friday reads…

I’m really excited about this, as you can tell. I hope to see you there!

How to get started

Download the app by clicking this link or the button below. Substack Chat is now available on both iOS and Android.

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Open the app and tap the Chat icon. It looks like two bubbles in the bottom bar, and you’ll see a row for my chat inside.

That’s it! Jump into my thread to say hi, and if you have any issues, check out Substack’s FAQ.

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A Gardener of Words, A Killer of Plants

I am growing an apple tree from seeds I plucked from the interior of an apple I had for a snack. They are germinating on a piece of damp paper towel inside a recycled pudding jar, with a thin sheet of Saran Wrap over the top to create a friendly but slightly miasmic ecosystem. The odds of getting an actual apple tree out of this endeavor are slim to none—but I try anyway. All the time, I try. I love to grow things. I have the blackest of black thumbs, except when it comes to African violets. I can look at an African violet and it will lay down on its side and cock a brow and say, “come get me, you big galoot.”

Everything else I touch, I kill. Oh, it might not look at me and die, but it’s the rare fauna that comes across my delicate hands and lives to tell the tale.

Johnny Apple Seed

Plants around the house that have moved out of middle age and are rapidly heading into social security include:

A Christmas cactus I bought this year because it had riotous fuchsia blooms that immediately fell off and left me with spiky edges—but they’re still green;

Three orchids in various stages of blooming decay. Two are still blooming, one hasn’t bloomed in five years but still has a green leaf. All three were gifts from sweet friends—where did I read the humble grocery store orchid is the ultimate passive-aggressive hostess gift? It made me laugh and I am determined never to let the gifted ones die, to various degrees of success;

A corn tree from my parents’ house (so…it’s at least 35+ years old; it predates my husband) that died, killed dead as a doornail in a frost five years ago. We’re talking it broke in half and exposed a black stump like some sort of gangrenous pirate. We parked it in the garage because I am a sentimental fool and I felt SO guilty for leaving the tree on the deck and letting it get bit by the frost (it was nine feet tall at that point and had bloomed the fragrant stream of flowers three times and it was bent over scraping the ceiling of our guest room, so I took it outside and BAM, frost.) It then rebirthed itself into a small furry behemoth that loves to trail leaves along the edge of its pot for the cats to chew and puke up. It is now in time out up on a shelf, out of reach from the girls because, hello, poisoning the cats is not allowed in this house;

Six African violets, two of which I bought to cheer me up during a deep depression for our first house in Nashville that are also 28+ years old and have volunteered two of the other four plants;

A succulent I bought at Home Depot at the end of the pandemic that I was certain would withstand my benign neglect—reader, it has;

A succulent gifted by my BFF in an adorable stone bunny pot that lives on a bookshelf in my office and is thriving despite me forgetting to water it, well, ever;

One pathetically anemic stalk of a Queen Anne variegated fern (named Anne) I bought for my office macrame holder who is barely clinging to life no matter what I do. Anne was drowned in a house-sitting massacre and has never recovered;

Two pots of petunias on the front porch who have the vapors and die at 3:00 p.m. every afternoon. When I go to get the mail, I’m convinced they're dead, but split a watering can between the two, and the little fakers spring back up like nothing ever happened.

This is a surprisingly long list considering I am the plant executioner, but check with me in a month and trust me, the tally will have changed, and not in their favor. That is why there are fake flowers scattered around. Lush peonies on the foyer table, stalks of cherry blossom in a blue hand-blown vase in my office, a spray of white roses on a clear table in a crystal vase (the vase was a wedding gift; tucked among them is a pen with a white rose cap, a treasure from another life that remains to remind me of before.) They might get dusty, and some get changed out seasonally. They are amiable to whatever I throw at them; they will not disappear on me.

Back to my teensy burgeoning apple tree.

I germinate seeds constantly. I am compelled. Lemon seeds, apple seeds, once even a pear. Avocados, pierced with toothpicks, balanced in cups of water. Chives in water in the fridge; garlic in small pots around the sink. I even once stabbed a rose stem through a potato and buried it in Miracle-Gro soil to create a new rosebush. Yeah. That one didn’t come close. The potato rotted, (shocking, I know) and dear God the smell. I am frisky as hell when it comes to onions in the pantry who decide to burst forth. There’s one on the back porch now that’s growing its own garden’s worth. We really need to get that in some dirt.

When I see the little green shoots, when the seeds open and rise and fight their way into being—damn, that is fascinating, isn’t it? I give them all the encouragement and love I can. I place them in the sun. I croon my dreams.

I want to be a homesteader. I want to be a gardener. I want to grow things that will feed and sustain my family. I have seeds, people, packet upon packet upon packet, so if there’s ever a zombie apocalypse and we need to start from scratch because the food supply has dried up (THREE DAYS TO ANARCHY!) then I’m your girl.

Ask me how many successes I’ve had.

There’s a big deep metaphor in here somewhere, and perhaps I’ll explore it more later. Because we haven’t even visited the outside yet, where I am also the garden grim reaper, except for the possessed lemon balm that marches across the many pots staged throughout the backyard like a demonic Napoleon on his last Russian campaign. And the sweet basil I place, tenderly, calmly, into the huge whisky barrel every year because I am Italian and if I don’t grow basil it is an insult to my forebears, and my husband loves pesto and I love to make my own sauce and sweet basil is the secret to every good sauce. And the hibiscus—Athena and Aphrodite—who I fear are dead twice over, first from an assault by the damn grumpus (my agent’s pet name for the groundhog who uses the garden as its own personal buffet line, damn the sneeze guards to gopher hell); second, the wild freeze over the holidays that killed all the laurels in Nashville. (They’re coming back, don’t pull them up. Just cut them down to six inches and wait five years for a return to their previous glory.) And Maplethorpe, the Japanese maple, our first truly expensive tree that was a birthday gift from my parents, who made it through the frost and is doing his damndest to show off some burgundy leaves for everyone who passes. He seems very tired this year. A new neighbor saw me stroking his leaves and praising his resilience and gave me quite a strange look, but he needs the love.

An aside: Mr. Ellison and I used to live in a neighborhood that was quite loud and not very private, so we decided to buy some thujas to plant along the fence row on either side to create a small forest to hide in. Our lot backed to woods; this would create a three-sided barrier of glorious evergreens. (If you don’t already know, I grew up in Colorado, where it is green all year round, and I miss that.) I ordered 20 established thujas off Amazon—each two feet—shocked at how awesome the price was. I received 20 seedlings, each two inches tall. Yes, I misread the description. It wasn’t like we could send these poor babies back; that would kill them dead. They were on their last legs anyway, panting in their little shadowy box, confused to be stolen from the sun, shoved in cardboard, and mailed to a stranger. They needed to get in the ground STAT if they had a chance at living.

UPS delivers late. It was already six. It was early spring, before daylight savings, so it was also dark. But there was a full moon. And we had flashlights. We got the last bebe into the ground at midnight, under the milky shine of that full moon. I am not a full-time sole-practitioner Dianic witch, but at the time, I was pretty intense on all things Wicca because of a book I was researching, so we did a little dance for their safety and growth, and went to bed, feeling we’d bewitched the backyard into a haven to watch over us forever.

I watered those trees like my life depended on it. Weeks of watering. Pruning. Putting down pine straw to keep them warm in the winter. Cajoling and encouraging and touching. (I like to touch my plants. That’s probably why they die.)

We lost a few over the years, which were promptly replaced. When we moved, five years later, they were taller than the privacy fence. When we drove by the old house recently, just to say hello and let it know we haven’t forgotten it, those fuckers were 25-feet tall, lush and thick, an actual forest. Our plans, realized. I felt very proud.

Let’s be honest, they were also not dead because my husband touched them. Where I am the back death, he is milk and honey and frangipani and ambrosia, all wrapped in a hot southern package of a man who knows how to garden. What a ridiculous turn-on. Apparently, I like to eat and look at pretty things, and when we met, my DNA said this is the one who will feed you forever and grow your flowers, and I was lost.

I, though, am the strange soul who ADORES fresh flowers but weeps when I have to throw them away. I thank their dead little hearts for their service, for bringing me joy, for marking the event—the anniversary, the book launch, the birthday, Valentine’s day, just because—and swallow hard when they disappear into the kitchen Hefty bag. It’s just not fair! Why can’t they live forever? Why can’t we live forever? Is this why I am so compelled to try and grow things? Am I trying to escape death? Trying to throw a life preserver to anything and everything to slow the march of time, that inexorably beast who doesn’t care how much you love or are loved but chews you in its fiery maw regardless, unfairly or as a blessing, the greatest egalitarian of all? A fool’s errand, but I am happy to play the fool here. I despise change. I want everything—every one—to be happy. Healthy. Together. Immortal. The phoenix from the ashes, like the crazy corn tree upstairs and my self-propagating violets. What do the trees and the plants know about this life that we do not understand? What do they whisper to one another as the breeze plays through their beings? Life is impermanent. But pieces of you will live on forever?

I don’t know. I’d like to think they are sentiently alive. I clearly saw too many Disney movies as a child.

Anyway, psycho plant killer, qu’est-ce que c’est, must leave you here, because now, I need to go write words on a story I am growing. Successfully, at last, because for months it has been wizened and dry; dormant on the page. I’ve pushed it. I’ve prodded. I’ve begged and cursed. But it has not budged. Until suddenly, two weeks ago, when the days started getting longer and the pansies weren’t fainting as often and I had ninety other projects that needed my attention, it burst open like the tiny apple seed in the pudding jar and screamed “NOW!”

I bid you adieu because I am nothing but the servant of my plants, be they green on a windowsill, lurking on the page in black and white, or growing slowly in my soul, and they must be tended regardless of the outcome. I have faith I can keep them alive.

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The Origin Story of an Assassin

Assassins are some of my favorite creatures to create. They are the Byronic hero of the literary world, moving through the shadows, doing the wrong thing for the right reasons. We root for these characters because they are vital in the international landscape, stopping wars, ending dictatorships, and otherwise ridding the world of vermin. They also protect, keep safe, and otherwise selflessly save the lives of many characters. They walk such a fine line, and the ones we (I) love the most are forever struggling with that tightrope, relying heavily on their strict but twisted moral code and sense of honor while still…well…murdering people for a living.

The dichotomy of these characters is one of my favorites to write. I thought I’d spend today deconstructing how I create a solid, believable assassin, using one of my favorites, Angelie Delacroix, as an example. Angelie appears first in the Taylor Jackson novella Whiteout and reappears in The Wolves Come at Night.

Angelie was born in blood. The sole survivor of an assassination attempt on her family, she is brought up by her morally corrupt uncle and trained away from her grief and into the vicious traditions that make him money. She eventually becomes one of the most sought-after assassins in the world for her success, discretion, and creative disposal methods. She works for an international consortium, The Macallan Group, under the ever-watchful eye of Thierry Florian.

Angelie fascinates me for several reasons.

Read more

Taylor Jackson #9 Giveaway!

Hi all, just wanted to direct you to the Goodreads Giveaway for THE WOLVES COME AT NIGHT!

Check it out here, and may the odds be ever in your favor!

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/1...

The Wolves Come at Night: A Taylor Jackson Novel

Conversations About AI (Part 2)

I understand AI much better now. In my last piece, I mentioned I’d been goofing around but hadn’t gotten into any substantive creation. Two things have happened since then.

First, my friend Cal Newport broke down our current AI, how it works, and what it can and can’t do in an article in the New Yorker and then in more detail on his podcast. You can listen, but it’s better to watch because he goes all professor, and the visuals helped it make sense. Understanding what these LLM AI programs can and can’t do is definitely helping me sleep better.

Second, I decided to see how well both Bard and ChatGPT did on a screenplay adaptation of a short story.

Reader—it sucked. And I’m kinda thrilled. I shouldn’t be as happy about it as I am, to be honest. But hey, it means we creatives are still needed, at least a bit.

The result it gave me was truly awful. I’m talking base, boring, bland, lacking any uniqueness or spark of life, and trope-addled. The indefinable something (voice) that takes a basic script to something both shootable and watching was completely missing. I’ve read some incredible scripts. Their magic lies in how the screenwriter can evoke a scene in just a few sentences or words. A brilliant screenplay isn’t always enough—clearly, how it is cast, acted, and directed is essential. But it’s hard to make silk from a sow’s ear.

Photo by Waldemar on Unsplash

[[An aside:

JT: Bard, where does the phrase silk from a sow's ear come from?

Bard: The phrase "you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear" is a proverb that means that you cannot improve something that is inherently bad or worthless. The phrase is thought to have originated in the 16th century, and it is often used to discourage people from trying to improve something that is beyond repair.

There are a few different theories about the origin of the phrase. One theory is that it comes from the fact that it is impossible to make a purse out of a sow's ear. Sows' ears are made of coarse, thick skin, and they are not suitable for making delicate items like purses. Another theory is that the phrase comes from the fact that it is difficult to make something beautiful out of something ugly. A sow's ear is considered to be an ugly thing, and it is therefore difficult to make something beautiful out of it.

The phrase "you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear" is still used today, and it is a reminder that it is important to be realistic about our expectations. We should not try to improve something that is beyond repair, and we should not expect to get something for nothing.]]

Thank you, Bard. Helpful! Though I take umbrage that my story might not have been good enough to create an excellent adaptation, I don’t think there’s a direct in/out correlation here.

I fed in various commands for this particular screenplay adaptation, and none made it into what I was hoping for—a template I could use to adapt one of my stories. Looks like I’ll have to master Final Draft after all.

The other thing I tried was outlining a Taylor Jackson short. While the basic premise was…okay, it lacked any creative magic. I tried as myself, in the style of a Ron Howard movie, in the style of a David Fincher movie, and in the style of Aaron Sorkin. I was left with a few atmospheric directions and a deeper setting, but nothing that felt unique. It was a general locked room mystery with palm trees. Sometimes they bent in a breeze. Sometimes they were shadows against a dark sky. (umm…)

I started getting somewhere when I pulled out a specific scene, gave closer directions, and then asked, “why?”

“Why” made a big difference. The refined story outline was a bit more original.

Then I pushed Bard into the core question that kickstarts every good story— “What if…?”

“What if” is the topic of another essay, but adding “why” and “what if” to the queries about each plot point in the outline turned something generic into something somewhat useable. It helped refine the story I was considering.

Knowing what I now know about how the models work, I can much more easily conceptualize the program's limitations and tailor the queries. The issues of copyright infringement notwithstanding, we’re still in a very basic AI world. Will it become better? Maybe? Cal points out that ChatGPT’s founders are looking to make their AI model smaller and more eloquent rather than larger and more broadly capable, which will possibly help this specific issue.

More importantly: Will I use this outline? Meh…probably not. I do have a short story planned for Taylor and Baldwin—you’ll have to read THE WOLVES COME AT NIGHT to see what it might be (ahem 💍)—and my story idea is happily more original than anything Bard or Chat GPT could generate, even with refinements to directorial style and the more specific queries. But for idea generation, for what I don’t want to do, it was invaluable.

Why? Because if AI thinks I should zig, I should clearly zag. Just in case my fellow scribes out there are using these AI programs for idea generation and story outlines, it seems wise for me to stick to using it for research and non-fiction support rather than anything fiction-related. I know everything we do is derivative, but there’s derivative, and then there’s derivative, you know?

I found myself willingly turning to Bard several times this week. Weirdly specific research queries are its forte, for sure. An excellent historical author, Deanna Raybourn, once told me that if you need to learn about a particular topic or time, the children’s section of the bookstore or library is the first place to start because the books can distill complex historical moments into a few simple concepts.

So can Bard. Just like the example above, as it turns out, asking for research mid-paragraph gives a simple, straightforward synopsis that lets me add whatever little thing I need and keep moving forward instead of all-stopping to deep dive into what I need to know. (Don’t worry, I mark each section to double-check. Trust me, I do not believe it wholly yet.)

I still have many questions about the ethics of using AI for story generation, as there’s no way for it to generate anything that hasn’t been written by someone else because that’s how AI has learned to “think.” But for the rest? I see the value and will continue experimenting and reporting back. Many authors are happily engaged with this new technology, and I’m not there yet, but an uneasy alliance might be forming.

My question for you today: Would you ever read a book created by AI with or without an author’s guidance?

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On the Power of Accepting Critique

Here is one of the secret handshakes of publishing. Revision is the true art of writing.

It is a talent just as vital as the original creation of the story. In revision, stories come alive. The possibilities show themselves. Stephen King sagely suggests that we “Write with the door closed. Edit with the door open.” It’s so true. You must be very, very careful about letting other creatives into your drafting process because things can go off the rails very quickly. When you have a solid draft, though, it’s time for some input. Time to let in the light, metaphorically speaking.

I can’t speak to all writers here, only my own process. I am not a fan of showing work before I’m comfortable that it’s truly done. I will write multiple drafts, edit and edit and edit, and it’s only when I feel I can’t do any better that I will show the work to a select few trusted readers. It’s an exciting time, and one I look forward to with every manuscript. But if you are new to this editorial step, it can be VERY fraught.

Photo by hannah grace on Unsplash

There will be moments when your betas, or even your editor, says, "What do you think about this?" and you have to decide one way or another whether you want to listen. It can be very, very hard to hear that a change may be necessary. I imagine there are authors out there who go into a complete tailspin when they receive "input." But good editorial input is like having opposable thumbs. It makes life a whole lot easier. I’ve been blessed so far with the suggestions and critiques I’ve received, and I’m not terribly uptight when it comes to changing certain aspects of my work. But that has everything to do with being surrounded by the right people. I don’t let just anyone read my unpolished work on purpose.

I personally find the input at this stage fascinating. It’s where the magic occurs. The suggestion of a tweak here, a change there, an ask for more information, less detail…it all helps the final product come together. Even if I disagree completely with the suggestion, it still allows me a moment to sit back and analyze why the suggestion is being made.

The Art of Revision

The first act in the art of revision—receiving and accepting the criticism from the beta reads—is really about discerning what’s happening to the reader behind the scenes. Interpreting what they’re saying. This is why you need to choose your betas so very carefully. If they can’t tell you what the real issue is, if they can only wave a hand and say meh, this didn’t work for me or wow, you are a genius, that’s not helpful. You need people who can be concrete. Who are not worried they might hurt your feelings and can be honest with you. Who want what’s best for you as a creative. This last is tricky, because there are people out there who will not—gasp!—have your best interest at heart, and use the beta process as a way to project their own jealousies and inadequacies onto your work. Avoid these people like the plague! (That’s not just writing advice, friends, but life advice, too. Beware the creative emotional vampires.)

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Once you’ve established this small team of readers, and you trust their input is sound, you have to figure out how to implement their suggestions. Some input will be easy to deal with; aspects of the story you’ve already suspected or assumed need tweaking. Some suggestions, though, will be painful, and difficult. Instead of reacting, you will need to sit with their suggestion, examine whether it’s correct for the story, or not, and then act. When in doubt, go with your gut. Though if four readers say the same thing, your gut might be clouded, and you need to take a step back and consider bringing in a professional. Be that your editor, agent, or a paid reader, if you disagree with the people you trust, and you’re not brave enough to discard their advice and soldier on, then it’s time for an outsider reader. They cost, but their advice can be invaluable in this situation.

Here’s the thing you must remember. This is a subjective industry, and different people will have different experiences with your draft. Instincts can be off. Reactions can be personal, not editorial. A good beta will not impose their own style or words onto yours. Yours is a unique and symbiotic relationship—they are an added benefit to your creative process, and not meant to be a copyeditor.

Have I cut people from my reading team because I feel their suggestions are regularly intrinsically wrong? Yes. Have I disagreed with unanimous concerns, and gotten outside advice? Yes again. There isn’t a right or wrong answer here. The good news is, once you’ve done this a few times, you’ll see every story is different, every reaction unique, and every situation solvable.

The Practical Steps

For my JT books, I have two alpha readers—my dad and my husband. They are my alphas because they’ve heard/lived with/already read the story during the course of creation. They have a solid sense of what I’m after and give invaluable input that I listen to, regardless of whether it feels good or not.

I make adjustments, and then it goes to the betas.

I have four beta readers. Joan. Sherrie. Laura. Anna. They each provide a different service, so to speak. One is research-oriented. One is grammatically inclined. One is reading for the story, the plot. One is reading for the emotional journey.

And, of course, my agent, who isn’t a beta read per se, but more of a what do we have on our hands now read. She might see a few chunks as I go, but only for what we call proof of life, not for editorial input. When the book goes to the betas, that’s when she gets the whole manuscript for the first time. Her input is incredibly important because it is she who will be championing the story from that moment on. (Every agent-writer relationship is different. Some don’t do editorial work at all; some act as the first editor and won’t submit the book until they feel it’s perfect. You need to know what you’re getting when you sign up, so don’t forget to ask…)

For my Joss fantasy books, I also have alpha and beta readers. As I write this, I’m waiting on a professional beta read to come in. For fantasy, a genre I am relatively new to, I like pro reads because they know the tropes I’m looking to hit, and in addition to making sure the storylines are consistent, they are not going to coddle me if I’ve gone off the rails.

There’s a symbiotic relationship that grows between a writer and the people who give her input. And it’s not just the betas that this applies to, but also the next stage of the process—editorial.

Your editor is the power player in this relationship, and it can be very easy to cave to suggestions you don’t agree with because they are the experienced ones. Always remember: This is your book. If you don’t agree with a major suggestion, bring in your agent, and talk. Be open to their explanation. Make them see your point of view as well. Nine times out of 10, you’ll find some common ground that makes the book stronger.

I think it’s vital to be paired with an editor who gets you. Who can be as excited, laid-back, cheery, or morose as you are. Someone who can be your polar opposite when you’re down, and knows when to rein you in for your own good. Someone who can understand when the time is right to talk to you about making changes, who won’t step on your feelings or your dreams, who knows when to push and when to pull back. A good editor has many of the same qualities as a good beta reader—and trust me, a good editor can elevate your work to the next level with a few deft strokes of the pen.

And yes, your relationship with your agent must be harmonious as well. They are your cheerleader, your priest, your conscience, your career manager, your ally, and everything in between, and it’s vital that the lines of communication stay open, that you stay open, and they stay open. This business of being reluctant to contact your agent about an issue because you don’t want to waste their time is nonsense. You need to be a cohesive unit, and that takes regular, intimate communication.

I hope this has helped, and if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask.

Also, welcome the divine Ariel Lawhon to Substack! Ariel is one of those *very* few people with whom I will discuss the guts of a book whilst it’s in progress. She is brilliant, and her ’Stack will get into the nuts and bolts of how she builds her historical fiction. Well worth a read.
 

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Conversations with AI (Part 1)

To date, I have been staying very, very far away from the AI generators. There’s something odd and creepy about it, and it’s such a self-fulfilling prophecy. I mean, we’ve given the machines the tools of our destruction. They’ve watched Terminator now. Skynet exists. And if it’s not entirely sentient, what’s stopping it?

I worry—deeply worry—about how this will affect original thought. Shortcuts are all well and good. Inspiration comes from a thousand different places. But some of the AI I’ve now come across is so sophisticated it’s hard to see the lines between reality and fantasy. All the lines have blurred. You experience AI-generated content all day, every day, and don’t even know it. From art to music to computer programs to audio books to design to Captcha to distant experiments on Mars, artificial intelligence is here to stay.

The very name of it—intelligence—is part of what concerns me. How do we define intelligence? What array of thoughts lead to the breakthroughs we take for granted? Without scientific advances, would modern medicine be achievable? Did they come from human ingenuity, or machine learning? I’m typing this on a laptop—what spark created the idea for such a thing? It’s impossible to define the exact moment when an idea becomes reality. Can AI define that for us?

Well, that’s actually an excellent question. So I asked. And Bard answered:

The exact moment when an idea becomes reality is a difficult one to define. It is a moment that is both personal and subjective, and it can vary depending on the individual and the idea itself. For some people, the moment of realization may come when they first have the idea. For others, it may be when they take action to make the idea a reality. And for still others, it may be when the idea is finally completed and brought to fruition.

There is no one right way to define the exact moment when an idea becomes reality. It is a moment that is unique to each individual and each idea. However, there are some common themes that tend to emerge when people talk about this moment. These themes include:

Clarity: The moment when an idea becomes reality is often a moment of clarity. It is a moment when the idea becomes fully formed in the mind, and when the individual sees exactly how it can be made a reality.

Excitement: The moment when an idea becomes reality is often a moment of excitement. It is a moment when the individual feels energized and motivated to make the idea a reality.

Fear: The moment when an idea becomes reality is also often a moment of fear. It is a moment when the individual realizes that they are taking a risk, and that there is a chance that the idea may not succeed.

Commitment: The moment when an idea becomes reality is also often a moment of commitment. It is a moment when the individual decides that they are going to see the idea through to the end, no matter what.

The moment when an idea becomes reality is a powerful one. It is a moment that can change the course of a person's life. It is a moment that should be savored and celebrated.

Uuuuuugh. I mean…yes. But ugh.

I suppose that’s what creativity is—a moment when idea becomes reality, a subjective action borne deep within our own psyches. Is an experience—a creative expression—less valid if it comes from an inorganic neural network? Does it matter? If you enjoy the story, do you care if it was generated by man or machine?

Thorny philosophical issues aside, AI is everywhere right now. When my husband sent me the outline for a short story he’s heard me talking about, and I recognized the simplistic beats of the three-act structure, I decided to bite the bullet and play around a little. Below is a transcript of the first “conversation” I had with the Google AI, Bard. I can see how powerful this kind of AI can be for authors. Obviously, it’s an easy win as a research assistant. But there’s something more. There’s a plaintive personality, a sense of it wanting to prove itself, that sparked all kinds of ideas for me. I thought it might be an interesting exercise to transcribe some of the “conversations” for you. And don’t worry. I will always tell you if there’s been AI involved.

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

JT: What is the most universal story that appeals to readers and viewers alike?

Bard: The most universal story that appeals to readers and viewers alike is the story of the hero's journey. This is a story structure that has been used in countless works of literature, film, and television. It follows the protagonist as they leave their ordinary world, go on a journey to face a challenge, and return home a changed person.

The hero's journey is a story that resonates with people because it reflects the universal human experience. We all face challenges in our lives, and we all have the potential to grow and change as a result of those challenges. The hero's journey provides a framework for understanding and navigating these challenges.

It is also a story that is full of hope. The hero always triumphs in the end, which gives us hope that we can overcome our own challenges. The hero's journey is a story that has the power to inspire and motivate us, and that is why it is so popular.

Here are some examples of stories that follow the hero's journey:

The Odyssey by Homer

The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien

Star Wars by George Lucas

The Matrix by The Wachowskis

JT: (Okay. Now I’m paying attention. Now only do I agree with this list, but The Matrix just popped up in my Twitter feed thanks to my friend Boyd Morrison, who retweeted a thread that was quite fascinating.)

JT: What is it about the Matrix that sets it apart from other hero's journey stories?

Bard: The Matrix is a science fiction film that follows the story of Neo, a computer programmer who learns that the world he lives in is actually a simulation created by machines. Neo then joins a group of rebels who are fighting to free humanity from the machines.

The Matrix is a hero's journey story in the sense that it follows the protagonist as they leave their ordinary world, go on a journey to face a challenge, and return home a changed person. However, there are several things that set The Matrix apart from other hero's journey stories.

First, The Matrix is set in a futuristic world where technology has advanced to the point where machines have become more powerful than humans. This setting provides a unique backdrop for the hero's journey, and it allows the film to explore themes of technology, artificial intelligence, and free will.

Second, The Matrix is a visually stunning film that features groundbreaking special effects. The film's use of CGI and fight choreography helped to set a new standard for action films.

Third, The Matrix is a thought-provoking film that raises questions about the nature of reality and the role of technology in our lives. The film's philosophical themes have made it a popular choice for study in schools and universities.

Overall, The Matrix is a unique and groundbreaking film that has had a lasting impact on popular culture. It is a must-see for fans of science fiction, action, and philosophy.

JT: How does Hunger Games fit the hero's journey?

Bard: The Hunger Games is a young-adult dystopian novel by the American writer Suzanne Collins. It is written in the voice of 16-year-old Katniss Everdeen, who lives in the post-apocalyptic nation of Panem, where a boy and a girl aged 12–18 from each of the nation's 12 Districts are chosen annually as "tributes" and forced to compete in The Hunger Games, an elaborate televised fight to the death. Katniss volunteers to take her younger sister's place, and with her district's male tribute, Peeta Mellark, travels to the Capitol to train and compete in the games.

The Hunger Games fits the hero's journey in many ways. Katniss is the protagonist who leaves her ordinary world (District 12) to go on a journey (the Hunger Games) to face a challenge (the other tributes) and return home a changed person. Along the way, she meets allies (Haymitch Abernathy, Peeta Mellark, Rue) and enemies (President Snow, the Gamemakers). She also undergoes a transformation, from a reluctant participant in the games to a determined survivor and symbol of hope for the people of Panem.

Here is a more detailed look at how The Hunger Games fits the hero's journey:

Ordinary World: Katniss lives in District 12, one of the poorest districts in Panem. She is a skilled hunter and provider for her family.

Call to Adventure: Katniss's sister, Prim, is chosen as a tribute for the Hunger Games. Katniss volunteers to take her place.

Refusal of the Call: Katniss initially refuses to go to the Capitol, but she is eventually persuaded by her father and Haymitch Abernathy, her mentor.

Meeting with the Mentor: Haymitch is a former Hunger Games victor who is now Katniss's mentor. He trains her for the games and helps her to develop her skills.

Crossing the First Threshold: Katniss and Peeta travel to the Capitol, where they train for the games and are groomed by the Gamemakers.

Tests, Allies, and Enemies: Katniss and Peeta face many challenges in the Hunger Games, including other tributes, the Gamemakers, and the environment. They also make allies, such as Rue and Haymitch.

Approach to the Inmost Cave: Katniss and Peeta make it to the final two tributes in the Hunger Games.

Ordeal: Katniss and Peeta must decide whether to kill each other or to commit suicide together.

Reward: Katniss and Peeta are both declared victors of the Hunger Games.

The Road Back: Katniss returns to District 12, where she is hailed as a hero.

Resurrection: Katniss is changed by her experiences in the Hunger Games. She is no longer the same person who left District 12.

Return with the Elixir: Katniss returns to District 12 with a new understanding of herself and the world around her.

The Hunger Games is a classic example of the hero's journey. It is a story about courage, sacrifice, and the power of hope.

JT: Okay, can the hero's journey be seen in a romance novel?

Bard: Yes, the hero's journey can be seen in a romance novel. The protagonist of a romance novel is often on a journey to find love. They may face challenges and obstacles along the way, but they will ultimately find love and happiness.

Here are some examples of romance novels that follow the hero's journey:

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen: Elizabeth Bennet is the protagonist of Pride and Prejudice. She is a strong and independent woman who is on a journey to find love. She faces challenges from her family and society, but she ultimately finds love with Mr. Darcy.

The Princess Bride by William Goldman: Buttercup is the protagonist of The Princess Bride. She is a kind and gentle woman who is on a journey to be reunited with her true love, Westley. She faces challenges from the evil Prince Humperdinck, but she ultimately finds love and happiness with Westley.

The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks: Allie Hamilton is the protagonist of The Notebook. She is a young woman who is on a journey to find love. She faces challenges from her family and society, but she ultimately finds love with Noah Calhoun.

The hero's journey is a universal story structure that can be found in many different genres, including romance novels. It is a story about courage, sacrifice, and the power of love.

JT: With this in mind, what would a dystopian romance novel look like?

Bard: A dystopian romance novel would be a story about two people who fall in love in a world that is not ideal. The world could be a post-apocalyptic wasteland, a totalitarian society, or a world that is being destroyed by climate change. The two lovers would have to overcome the challenges of their world in order to be together.

Here is an example of a dystopian romance novel:

The year is 2042. The world has been ravaged by climate change, and the few remaining humans live in domed cities. In one of these cities, a young woman named Alina meets a young man named Ben. Alina and Ben are from different social classes, but they are drawn to each other. They must overcome the challenges of their world, including the dangers of the outside world and the prejudices of their society, in order to be together.

A dystopian romance novel would be a story about love, hope, and the power of the human spirit. It would be a story about two people who find each other in a world that has given up on love.

JT: But what about longing? You can’t have this story without longing.

Bard: Sure. Here is an example of a dystopian romance novel that includes longing:

The year is 2042. The world has been ravaged by climate change, and the few remaining humans live in domed cities. In one of these cities, a young woman named Alina meets a young man named Ben. Alina and Ben are from different social classes, but they are drawn to each other. They must overcome the challenges of their world, including the dangers of the outside world and the prejudices of their society, in order to be together.

Alina longs for a world where she can be with Ben without fear. She longs for a world where they can be free to love each other. Ben longs for a world where he can protect Alina from the dangers of the outside world. He longs for a world where they can be together without judgment.

Alina and Ben's love is a beacon of hope in a world that has given up on love. Their love is a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there is always hope for a better future.

I stopped there. It’s all very simplistic, and nothing I haven’t read before. It felt very strange, like Google had come to life and become Jarvis. But it’s fascinating in its own way. I was surprised when Bard started outlining stories for me instead of answering questions. I played along, feeding it some general ideas. Themes are its forte, for sure. Original thought, not so much.

Would I ever use AI to generate story ideas? I don’t think so, but I can’t say I didn’t pay attention to the story it spit out. It’s a bit more entertaining than following my ailing cat around the house saying, “Did you go potty? Who’s a good girl?” as happens several times a day.

The thing is, I can’t imagine this doesn’t completely trample copyright in some way. When I asked about a villain, Bard gave me The Dark Lord. I mean, come on, that one’s been taken.

I also can’t imagine what our teachers are going through, and parents, too, because it’s almost impossible to guarantee original thought in this environment.

It’s early. There’s certainly more to be explored, and as the systems refine themselves, there may be ways to isolate specific AI to ensure a more original storyline. Obviously, it can be used in so many facets of the creative life, both positive and negative, and I’m going to continue exploring through conversation, just to see what happens.

Meanwhile, I am *so* glad idea generation isn’t a problem for me…

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Welcome back, Taylor Jackson!

I have been keeping a small secret from you. I’ve hinted but I haven’t actually confirmed, and I certainly haven’t shared details. But the time has finally come. Taylor Jackson #9 is here!

THE WOLVES COME AT NIGHT will be available on May 23, 2023.

A detective on the brink.
An assassin out for revenge.
A desperate mother racing against the clock.

While the high-profile murder of a young country singer turns Nashville inside out, danger lurks in the woods beyond the city’s border. There was a witness to the terrible crime, a college student who stumbled onto the scene. When the girl goes missing, the police don’t know if she’s run for cover or been taken…or if something more sinister is happening.

The truth will shatter Taylor’s career and bring her face to face with a deadly assassin who wants nothing more than to finish what they started.

Taylor Jackson is back. And you’ve never seen her quite like this.

PREORDER, BABY

It’s been a decade since I had a Taylor novel come out. I admit I’m both nervous and excited. The world has changed in the intervening years. We have changed. Policing has changed. Staying true to my characters who’ve been in suspended animation whilst also being true to our new world was a delicate balance. Plus, I've written a few books in that time. I had to remind myself of the stories, the stakes, the little details. It was fun, but harder than I expected.

I wrote a novella back in 2015 called Whiteout that was intended to bridge the gap between the Taylor books, and then never got a chance to continue the story. In Whiteout, Taylor takes Baldwin’s place at an international conference and comes face to face with a deadly assassin, Angelie Delacroix. To say Angelie is one of my all-time favorite characters is an understatement. She is complex, as all assassins must be to survive their crimes. She is beautiful and cunning and on a personal mission of destruction, and of course, Taylor gets in her way.

Suffice it to say, I have ALWAYS wanted to return to this story. And I finally have in Wolves.

So many of you are new to my work, having found me when I switched out of procedural series into domestic suspense standalones. I hope that you’ll give this new book a try. Even though it’s the 9th in a series, I’ve written it to stand alone as much as possible, with perhaps a suggestion to read Whiteout first to understand the stakes at play. It's not gory, it's not keep the lights on scary. It's very suspenseful, with an international flair. I think you'll love it.

That said, it’s impossible to write a new book in a series and not bring along some of the baggage from the earlier adventures. So if you are a fan of the series already, this should feel like slipping into a favorite pair of jeans, because I’ve picked up where I left off at the end of Where All the Dead Lie.

Speaking of...both WHERE ALL THE DEAD LIE and SO CLOSE THE HAND OF DEATH are also refreshed and repriced! I am just beside myself excited to finally be able to share these books with you, and to bring Taylor and Baldwin and the team to life again. I have missed my girl.

Onward...

IT’S ONE OF US landed on Canada’s bestseller list for six weeks, a gift for which I will forever be grateful! Tour is fully wrapped and I am happily puttering around the house again, birdwatching with the kittens, testing chocolate cake recipes for the hubby, and catching up on reading. Not to mention kicking off this fun endeavor, The Creative Edge, where my non-fiction lives now, and–yes–writing. I’m working on a new standalone that is tentatively called A VERY BAD THING. That title might change, but it’s a good one for now, as it’s part of the prologue's opening lines.

Writing the Taylor book reminded me that while I do love the series format, I am definitely now a standalone author. There’s something really cool about creating worlds out of whole cloth for you. I’ve been working on this particular story for about a year. The AVBT synopsis came together in a day, after months of thinking, and I got a solid 40k into it before the wheels came off. Something was wrong, but I couldn’t figure out what. And then it was the holidays, and I went out on tour, and... and... and...

Okay, maybe I was a little blocked. It happens. I poured every ounce of myself into IT’S ONE OF US. I’ve never had a book become an all-consuming flame before, but wow, it absolutely did. There’s also this stupid mental thing that when you know you’ve “leveled up” as we call it (see 6 weeks on the bestseller lists, above) that can sometimes climb right inside your brainpan and set up shop. I saw an interview with Gillian Flynn recently where she very bravely admitted she wishes she’d gone ahead and published the next book instead of waiting so long, because now the mythology around Gone Girl is so fervent that nothing she does can hold a candle, even if it eclipses the work. I’m not comparing IOOU to Gone Girl, only acknowledging that when you’ve done something people really love, sometimes it’s hard to give them the next thing for fear of disappointing.

Anyway. Enough of that. I’m writing, and writing about writing, and bringing you a new Taylor book FINALLY, and that’s really all I can ask of myself at this point.

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Indie Publishing and Exclusive Fiction #1

Happy Sunday—and Happy Easter, and Blessed Passover. I spent the past two weeks on a massive, monster project—getting the new Taylor Jackson novel up and running. Let me tell you, indie publishing, done right, is much more than popping a book up online and raking in the page reads. (I sort of wish that was the path I’d chosen instead of my Pinnochio-esque desire to be a “real press.”)

To start, obviously, is Editorial. I have a long-term copyeditor (helloooo, Flis!) who works on every manuscript from both JT and Joss land, and a few excellent beta readers who are never shy in letting me know whether I’ve hit the mark or not. When the book goes to Flis, I then turn to Art, with the incomporable Kim Killion. She understands me, and the cover she gave me for this book is SPECTACULAR. (See below)

When the copyedits and proofreading are done, then it’s time for Formatting. I use Vellum, which is possibly the simplest, most intuitive program I’ve ever worked with. I can generate files for every platform, plus print files for Ingram, hardcover and trade (I like to give you choices.) I do one last pass in the formatting process, and typeset as I go. Vellum lets me use handwriting, text messaging, email fonts seamlessly, making the books look modern and clean.

Once the book’s interior is beautiful, it’s time to get the book up for preorder. Uploading is where the fun begins. If I’m only putting together a single title, it’s not too big a deal - 6 identifiers, 6 upload sites. Metadata is vital. The categories are different on every platform, and some platforms are easier than others. Ingram. Amazon. Google Play. Draft 2 Digital. Kobo. Apple. Nook. Edelweiss.

But…

Because it’s been so long since I’ve had a Taylor novel (10 years!) and I’ve gotten the rights back to a few titles in the series, I needed to build fresh files for So Close the Hand of Death, Where all The Dead Lie, and The Wolves Come at Night. Then I had to update every other book in the series, and do some refreshed formatting and editing. Two Tales has several Taylor titles, short stories, bundles, etc., all of which need updated backmatter and Also By pages. 8 individual books. 6 sites. Digital and print.

You’re getting the idea. This is all before any sort of marketing, too.

I’ve needed to update earlier Two Tales titles for a reeeeeeeallly long time, and I’ve been putting it off because, well, this is a lot of work, and I need to spend my time writing. But every once in a while, this has to happen, and I used the opportunity of Taylor #9 releasing to clean up my indie world.

I hear the question. Why in the world are YOU doing this? Why aren’t you paying someone to do this for you?

That’s a fair question, and I’ll give you an honest answer. To get the right sort of person to do this, you have to pay a LOT of money, and the profit margin disappears before the book releases.

But it’s more than that for me. Obviously, I am a novelist. Writing novels is a marathon, not a sprint. I can’t buckle down for two weeks and write 100,000 words. When you’re a task-oriented person like I am, little wins along the way make the work more fun. As much work as updating a backlist in preparation for releasing a frontlist title is, it’s actually fun, and incredibly satisfying.

So. Who wants to read some Taylor Jackson?

From this point on, exclusive fiction posts will only be available to paid subscribers,( and I hope to have designated “office hours” where I’ll be on the chat available to converse with you.) But to kick off this segment, I thought it only fair to entice the rest of you, if only a little. I give you, THE WOLVES COME AT NIGHT!

A detective on the brink.
An assassin out for revenge.
A desperate mother racing against the clock.

While the high-profile murder of a young country singer turns Nashville inside out, danger lurks in the woods beyond the city’s border. There was a witness to the terrible crime, a college student who stumbled onto the scene. When the girl goes missing, the police don’t know if she’s run for cover or been taken…or if something more sinister is happening.

The truth will shatter Taylor’s career and bring her face to face with a deadly assassin who wants nothing more than to finish what they started.

Taylor Jackson is back. And you’ve never seen her quite like this.

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Taylor Jackson #9 - THE WOLVES COME AT NIGHTChapter 3Metropolitan Justice Center

Taylor Jackson hated her new office.

She hated not having a view of her beloved Nashville downtown. She hated not having a view into her Murder Squad bullpen. And she sure as hell hated the always-open-to-anyone door in her current line of sight, labeled with the word that now preceded her name.

Captain.

Better pay, better hours, better benefits.

Desk. Desk. Desk.

She had fought this promotion, begged and pleaded and threatened to quit, and yet here she was, sitting in the shiny new headquarters building, surrounded by stacks of paperwork and trying not to grit her teeth every time her new admin knocked gently on the door frame to remind her of her next meeting. She spent her life in meetings now. Half of them virtual, half of them in person, at an appropriate distance. Such a perfect metaphor for her feelings toward her new gig—she was distanced from everything she used to love about her job.

“Captain?” Knock, knock.

Speak of the devil.

“Commander Huston wants to talk to you. I told her you’d be right up.”

“Thanks, Delila. If you want to leave at lunch, go for it. They’re saying there might be severe weather this afternoon, and schools are closing early. You might as well get home ahead of the kids.”

Delila’s look of gratitude made Taylor feel bad for her earlier uncharitable thoughts toward her admin. “I appreciate it, Captain. I hate this weird tornado weather. You be safe, you hear? Don’t hang out in the sky in your condo watching this one come at you, all right?”

“I’ll be fine,” Taylor said, grabbing her notebook and stretching, little pops breaking out along her spine. “And tomorrow, do me a favor and find me another chair? This one hurts my back.”

“Will do. Thanks, Captain. See you tomorrow.”

Taylor opened her phone to the Nashville Severe Weather Twitter feed to see what was in store for the afternoon. With luck, she could have her chat with Huston and then head out herself. She supposed that was one perk of the new job: she could work from home on the ridiculous mounds of paperwork and do many of her meetings on the computer just as easily as here. And she’d have a view of the incoming weather, as Delila warned against. The condo she and her fiancé, John Baldwin, had bought during the first summer of the pandemic was on the forty-fourth floor. She dug that she could watch the storms blow in, but tornados weren’t her favorite. Their building had been only blocks away from the monster that tore through Nashville just a few days before the earliest lockdowns began.

According to the local meteorology gurus, the line of severe weather would be passing through between 2:00 and 3:00 p.m. It was 11:00 now. She had time.

Taylor rose from the wildly uncomfortable fancy modern chair with a small groan and headed down the hall to Huston’s office.

Commander Joan Huston was busy umm-hmming someone on the phone and gestured for Taylor to hold on a moment. Happy to wait, she rested a shoulder against the jamb and crossed her feet at the ankles. Huston had the better view: the city at a distance. Nashville’s copious new skyscrapers rose like beanstalks into the sky, and the edges of the Batman Building were blue in the gray haze.

“Hey hey, if it ain’t the Cap.” Taylor looked down the hall to see Detective Marcus Wade and newly minted Lieutenant Lincoln Ross hurrying down the hall toward her. Her mood lightened immediately.

“Y’all are a sight for sore eyes. What’s up?”

Marcus gave her a high five; Lincoln, a fist bump.

“Murder and chaos, as always. What’s up with you? You look like you’ve been tearing out your hair.”

Taylor whipped her hair out of its ponytail and smoothed it before piling the whole mess on her head and anchoring it with a rubber band, noticing ruefully that it was an actual rubber band, snatched from her desk drawer in an earlier moment of duress. “You spend the morning digging through requisitions and see how slick you look. Though you’re getting a taste of that now, aren’t you, Linc?”

“Yeah, but I always look slick.” Lincoln gave her a gap-toothed grin. She’d long thought he was a dead ringer for the singer Lenny Kravitz. All he needed was a nose ring and some cool tattoos. He was dressed casually today in a black half-zip sweater over a white button-down, sleeves pushed up, and a pair of black jeans. Marcus, too, looked well-put-together though casual—dark jeans, blue button-down, cowboy boots, his thick brown hair flopping over his forehead.

Taylor, in her uniform, expected of all the brass, felt a pang of jealousy. “How’s Flynn?”

Lincoln’s smile got even bigger. Lincoln had adopted Flynn last year after the boy’s mother, the wife of a fallen officer, was killed. “Getting bigger every day. That kid’s eating me out of house and home. He’s getting good grades, too. He’s smart, like his momma was. Marcus saw him last weekend. You and Baldwin should come over soon, we can grill and you can see for yourself.”

The sense of isolation widened around her. They used to be a tight-knit unit, in each other’s business and lives constantly. Now, she had to catch up with them in hallways.

“He’s a cute kid,” Marcus agreed. “Oh, speaking of, have you talked to Renn this week?”

Renn McKenzie was the fourth of their former team. She’d been reluctantly paired with him and ended up welcoming him into their circle. He was a fine detective and a good man.

“I haven’t,” she said. “What’s up?”

Marcus blushed immediately. “Oh, you gotta call. I’ll let him tell you.”

A light sparked in Taylor. “Tell me the baby is happening.”

“I am sworn to secrecy. Call him.” Though while he spoke, he grinned and nodded.

“That’s a bright bit of news. I love babies.”

“So long as they aren’t your own,” both men said in unison.

“So long as they aren’t my own.”

Lincoln cocked his head. “You know, you really should rethink that. You and Baldwin would make really pretty babies.”

“A—sexist. B—why does everyone keep telling me that? C—we aren’t even married yet, and you’ve already got me knocked up. One step at a time, boys. One step at a time. And when we do get married, it’s going to be quiet, and we aren’t going to tell anyone. Elope Central. And then maybe—and I say maaaybe—” She let it drag on a moment for effect, enjoying how their eyes lit up. “A hamster.”

While they guffawed, she shuddered at the memory of her own interrupted nuptials. Taylor had come inches from marrying John Baldwin in a traditional, elaborate, tons-of-guests church affair, but was kidnapped by a psycho on the way to the altar.

But that was years in the past, and now, she was actually ready again, if one can ever be ready to make such a life-altering change, especially when you’ve been alone for so long. They’d do it on a beach somewhere. Someplace no one knew about but her best friend, Samantha Owens, and Sam’s fiancé, Xander Whitfield, the two people she would not marry without. Vows in private, a huge party back home once the deed was done.

Her friend from New Scotland Yard, Memphis Highsmith, had offered his castle estate in Scotland, with him and his wife, Evan, as witnesses, but Taylor had demurred. As glorious as the home seat of the Viscount Dulsie was, she still had too many bad memories of her time there.

“Y’all quit jawing and get in here,” Huston yelled.

They shuffled in, the guys letting Taylor go first.

(And…scene)

THE WOLVES COME AT NIGHT will be available May 23, 2023 in an exclusive special edition hardcover, trade paperback, and digital. Audio news to come…

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Full Circle

The book is in the books. It seems surreal to be able to say that, just shy of three years since I wrote the proposal for IT’S ONE OF US, and a decade after the story was conceived. But after this week, the tour is done, the book launched into the world, and while it’s nearly time to start thinking about what’s next, I am not pushing that goal. I want to continue enjoying this fallow moment just a bit longer. There is time. I can get back to work next week.

I had a very special moment on the last day of week 2. I had an hour to kill so I stopped by Litchfield Beach on my way to the airport. It was a sunny but breezy afternoon, the wind bringing enough coolness that I was chilly. I taped a quick video of the mostly empty beach. And it hit me.

This story started with the image of a woman walking alone down a windy, chilly beach. It was the first scene I wrote, even though it ends up being the last little scene in the documentary script, which closes the book. And here I was, on an unscheduled, unplanned stop at the end of my second week of touring, standing alone on a windy, chilly beach. It was a capital M Moment. A full circle closed that I will treasure always.

Ironically, my flight ended up being canceled and I spent the night at said beach, a little north of where I stopped. On my balcony the following morning, as I ate breakfast and watched the waves’ relentless crashing, I realized what I’d done wrong in the draft of the new book, and wrote up a few quick scenes about how to fix it. Thanks for the gift, universe!

I knew this book was special when I was developing the story, but I don’t think I anticipated just how special it would be. Yes, it’s my 25th; yes, it’s landed a number of major picks and hit several bestseller lists. But what I’d hoped would happen has. We are having open, frank, and intimate conversations about what happens when you have trouble building a family naturally. I have had so many conversations, in public and in private, about infertility, miscarriage, loss, fear, disappointment. And joy, happiness, fulfillment, love, faith. You have lifted Randy and me up so much this past month with your words, your messages, your hugs.

This is not a conversation I ever thought I would engage in, much less on an international platform. Especially in a thriller. I never did do the therapy the doctors at the fertility clinic recommended, and for years, I was terrified to speak these truths aloud. But now, with this story out in the world and so many of you responding in kind, I feel like I’ve crossed the Rubicon. And I think this book is helping others cross it as well.

I have a media roundup of the places IT’S ONE OF US has appeared, which includes an essay I wrote for Crime Reads, my in-conversation with Nick Petrie and Barbara Peters at Poisoned Pen, a truly intimate conversation with Lauren Lowrey on the Ampstigator podcast, a sit down with Emily Ley of Simplified fame, and so much more.  I couldn’t be more grateful to all of you for buying the book, leaving such amazing reviews, and in general supporting me through this process. Yes, a door is closing. But the infinite universe that’s showing itself through the window is going to be a remarkably fertile playground.

One last thing before we move on... If you haven’t listened to Julia Whelan read IT’S ONE OF US, you really should. The entire time I was writing Olivia, I was hearing Julia’s narration. The real deal literally brought me to tears.