Few myths capture the tension between freedom and domination as vividly as the story of Theseus and the Minotaur. At its core, it is not simply a monster tale—it is about how societies build labyrinths of power to contain chaos, and how individuals are forced to navigate them. In my novel A Spy Inside the Castle, I reimagine this myth as a metaphor for the modern world of surveillance, intelligence networks, and geopolitical intrigue.

The labyrinth, as both symbol and structure, becomes a way to explore how nations manage chaos. Every superpower builds corridors of bureaucracy, secrecy, and manipulation in the name of safety. But the deeper you go, the more you realize the Minotaur is not just an enemy—it is a reflection of the system itself.

Theseus as the Reluctant Operative

Theseus enters the labyrinth not by choice but by necessity. He is a stand-in for the citizen or operative drawn into a system larger than himself. In my book, Ethan Briar embodies this role: a reluctant private intelligence consultant pulled into the shadow world where truth is fragmented and loyalties are uncertain. Like Theseus, he does not set out to slay monsters for glory; he enters because not entering means abandoning others to the beast.

What makes Theseus compelling is not his sword but his string—the ability to trace a path back out. In political terms, that string represents memory, accountability, and the possibility of escape from systems that threaten to consume us. Without it, heroism is indistinguishable from futility. Ethan’s version of the string is his pattern clarity, a perception sharpened by his miraculous recovery from a near-fatal illness—a thread of insight he carries into the labyrinth.

The Minotaur as Power Unchecked

In the myth, the Minotaur is a hybrid—part human, part beast. In political terms, it represents the hybrid nature of domination: partly rationalized by law, partly driven by raw appetite. Every labyrinth has its Minotaur: the secret police, the predictive algorithm, the charismatic tyrant. Sometimes it cannot even be seen. It is the part of the system that feeds on sacrifice and fear, yet is justified as the price of order.

In my novel, the Minotaur becomes a metaphor for technologies like ARCLIGHT, a quantum supercomputer capable of modeling human behavior and helping the American intelligence community predict crises before they erupt. To its architects, it promises safety and foresight. To its critics, it is a beast that consumes autonomy, demanding citizens offer up their privacy and agency as tribute. Like the Minotaur, it thrives in darkness—untouchable, unaccountable, yet nourished by our compliance.

The Labyrinth as System

The labyrinth is not incidental to the myth; it is the essential stage. A monster in an open field can be confronted. A monster in a maze forces disorientation. The labyrinth represents bureaucracy, secrecy, and the complexity of modern states. Its purpose is less to contain the monster than to confuse those who dare to face it.

For intelligence agencies, labyrinths are built through layers of classification, compartmentalization, and deliberate obfuscation. The citizen who tries to see through the maze is quickly lost. Even those inside—the analysts, case officers, policymakers—often cannot see the whole. The system perpetuates itself by making navigation more important than resolution.

At the core of my novel lies the premise that only a handful of secret societies truly create and control this labyrinth. In the lore, they have operated since the fall of the Church in the 17th century and the birth of the modern world, pulling the threads of power behind the scenes.

Ariadne’s String: The Hope of Agency

The myth would be tragic without Ariadne’s intervention. Her string is the counterbalance to the labyrinth: a simple tool of orientation that restores autonomy. In fiction and in life, Ariadne’s string can take many forms: whistleblowers, constitutional safeguards, free press, or moral conscience. They provide a way back to clarity when the system seems designed only to entrap.

Ethan Briar, like Theseus, must decide whether to trust the thread offered to him—whether from allies, from his own sense of morality, or from something beyond politics. The question becomes not only whether he can defeat the Minotaur, but whether he can find his way out of the labyrinth without becoming part of it. His own Ariadne comes in the unlikely form of the female operative he is sent to expose as a mole, codenamed FOXGLOVE.

World Domination and the Mythic Echo

Why does this ancient myth still resonate in a world of satellites and quantum computers? Because the dream of world domination is not new—it has always worn the mask of order. The Athenians sent their youth as tribute believing it was the price of peace. Modern societies hand over data, liberties, and conscience believing the same.

The Minotaur is never fully slain. Every generation must re-enter the labyrinth, sword in hand, string in pocket. The danger is not just the beast, but the belief that labyrinths are inevitable and that power cannot be escaped. My novel uses the myth to show that the true test of politics is not whether we can build better labyrinths, but whether we can remember the way out.

Bringing It All Together

The Theseus and Minotaur myth offers more than imagery—it is a framework for thinking about politics, power, and personal agency. In the age of surveillance and global rivalry, the labyrinth has grown larger, the Minotaur more complex, but the questions remain the same: Who controls the maze? Who decides the sacrifices? And who holds the string?

Fiction allows us to dramatize these questions. Philosophy helps us wrestle with their meaning. And for writers, myth offers a wellspring of craft: archetypes and symbols that can be reimagined to reflect the anxieties of any age. The Theseus story reminds us that every narrative, like every labyrinth, needs both a monster to face and a thread to find the way through.

Check out M. B. Courtenay’s A Spy Inside the Castle here:

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In this interview, Croydon discusses the inspiration for his debut novel, how research enhanced his story, and more.

Name: Nick Croydon
Literary agent: Shane Salerno The Story Factory
Book title: The Turing Protocol
Publisher: Harper Collins
Release date: December 1, 2025
Genre/category: Fiction, Thriller
Elevator pitch for the book: Alan Turing, codebreaker, invents a machine that can send a Morse code message back in time, 8 weeks. We follow Turing and his descendants through 80 years of history in this fast-paced action thriller. What would you do?

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What prompted you to write this book?

A deep appreciation for what Alan Turing achieved and the regret at how he was treated culminating in the loss of his life and his potential.

How long did it take to go from idea to publication? And did the idea change during the process?

2 1/2 years. The main idea did not change, but the more research I did allowed me to shape the fiction to the history.

Were there any surprises or learning moments in the publishing process for this title?

Because of my day job, I had to be very disciplined in the output. I followed a chapter plan and set myself weekly targets which of course I did not meet.

Were there any surprises in the writing process for this book?

As a debut author, I had no concept of the editing process. Thankfully this is what my agent and the publishers understand. Seeing the cuts and deletions, the structural notes were at first painful to see, but ultimately made the book so much better.

What do you hope readers will get out of your book?

I hope they get entertained and I hope it sparks their interest in history and a realization of how fragile peace can be.

If you could share one piece of advice with other writers, what would it be?

Trust in your agent, they have done it before.

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(What Writing Mysteries Taught Me About Fiction Writing.)

But how exactly did he do this? The answer is a lot simpler than you think. With information.

Showing the audience the impending danger that the character doesn’t know about, leaves the viewer on the edge of their seat waiting to see what will happen.

An example of this, one that I learned in a Writer’s Digest conference no less, is imagine having a group of people sitting at a table. If you put a bomb in the middle of the table, everyone will scatter and run away. This is merely shock. But, if you put it under the table unbeknownst to the people in the room, then you have suspense. The audience doesn’t know when the bomb is going to go off. Maybe the real bad guy the bomb is intended for gets up to go to the bathroom. Will they be spared? What if someone’s child walks into the room, will they be a casualty?

Agatha Christie is another example of how you can write a very suspenseful book without resorting to gore. In her novel, And Then There Were None, Christie focuses on the psychological elements. She builds masterful suspense as a group of people who arrive on the island anxiously await their host, only to find themselves getting picked off one by one. There isn’t a need to describe a gruesome scene when you are writing from the next potential victim’s perspective. For them it isn’t nearly as important. All they know is they might be next, and they want to figure out how they can stop it.

For my novel, The Tutor, one of the ways in which I create suspense throughout the book is through revelations and intentions. My story follows a character Isabel who very purposely edges her way into this particular family by becoming the son’s tutor. During that time, the reader has no idea why she has become obsessed with this family or what her intentions are. They can only assume it is to harm them in some way, leaving the readers to wonder why she wants to hurt them and how does she intend to do it, allowing them to fill in the gaps with maybe their own fears.

The boy’s mother, Rose, is a widow who meets Grant Caldwell, a very wealthy man who unlike her former husband, is attentive and caring to her. He offers her a life she never could’ve dreamed of before not only for herself, but for her son James, whose elevated education will open doors he never would have thought to go through before.

But Rose has a dark secret from her past. One she has kept buried for years. No one could possibly know about it, because the others are dead. But when she’s forced to move in with her ailing mother-in-law, Evelyn, she realizes that her secret has been found out. But rather than come out with it, through manipulation and veiled threats we have a cat and mouse game between the two. A bomb that Evelyn is threatening to detonate, but the readers don’t know when it will go off.

By switching points of view between Isabel, Rose, and Evelyn, we can create hooks that leave the reader in suspense to what will happen next with that character. This keeps the reader turning the page, waiting to get back to that person, only to discover yet another hook with someone else and ultimately tearing through the pages eager to know what will happen next.

Through each character’s psyche we see snippets of a past that the reader will ultimately piece together and understand their true meaning. But by leaving breadcrumbs throughout the novel, especially at the end of a chapter, they are left in suspense, wanting more. It leads them to draw up their own conclusions by putting themselves in that position, wondering what they might do if they were them.

Ultimately, one of the reasons to write a thriller without graphic violence is so it appeals to a wider audience. I have children and enjoy putting on Hitchcock movies, because when I want to watch something in the other room, I know that I won’t have to sit there with the remote in hand ready to lower the volume when someone curses or skip over graphic violence or sex scenes should my kid walk in. All Hitchcock does is tell the story. If someone is shot, they grab their chest and fall down. It gets the point across, and they move on.

In the famous scene in Psycho, all you see is someone holding a knife, the knife coming down, a scream and a dark color liquid going down the drain. Nothing gruesome, nothing dramatic, but tell me that didn’t strike fear into you every time you were in a hotel shower.

The same can be done with writing. You obviously would have to describe how a person died, but you can keep it right to the point. You can lose your readers in the details. It’s always important to set the scene, but you don’t want your reader to be unable to see the forest through the trees.

Instead, focus on the reactions of others in that scene. If it’s the killer’s perspective, expand more on their satisfaction, and what this death means to them. If they are a witness to the murder, what’s running through their mind right now? It can be the fear that they might be next and need to escape, or instead what the loss of this person means to them.

For someone who just happens stumble upon the murder, they will be asking themselves who did this and why did this happen. If it was an accident or someone in the wrong place at the wrong time. And the biggest question of all, will there be more? And that is exactly what the intention should be in a suspenseful thriller, to keep the reader wanting more.

Check out Courtney Psak’s The Tutor here:

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(Find more Killer Writers conversations here.)

“Otto, after reading and editing thousands of mysteries over your career, what do you think most writers still misunderstand about what actually makes a mystery work?”

“I think a lot of unpublished writers still believe that all mysteries are plot-driven, when in fact the same elements that elevate literary fiction are essential in mystery writing too. The first priority isn’t plot; it’s character. You need people readers want to know. Even if readers hate them, they still have to care what happens. That’s what drives a story forward. If you don’t care about the people on the page, no twist or revelation will save it. Developing believable, memorable characters is the first job of any novelist. Always.”

“When you first start reading a manuscript, what tells you within a few pages whether the writer truly understands suspense?”

“What I learn in the first five or 10 pages isn’t usually about plot or suspense; it’s about whether the writer can write. Does the prose have rhythm? Does the voice make me want to turn the page? Suspense can come in many forms: Sometimes it’s immediate, a body on page one, but sometimes it builds layer by layer. Either approach can work if the writing itself is alive. In those first pages, I’m looking to see if I’m in the hands of someone who knows how to use language, how to build a scene, how to create a sense of curiosity. If I feel that pull, the suspense will take care of itself.”

“How do you define the difference between a story that merely surprises you and one that truly satisfies?”

“It’s the difference between a trick and a truth. A surprise can make you jump, but satisfaction comes from understanding why it happened. That’s character. If I’m interested in the person, almost anything that happens to them will matter. You can fill a book with shocks, but if the people are cardboard, it’s empty noise. Real suspense is emotional, not mechanical. I want to care who the bullet hits, not just see the bullet fired.”

“What’s the single most common craft mistake you see writers make when they’re building a mystery?”

“They rush the ending. They’re so eager to reach the big reveal that they don’t give it time to breathe. A strong mystery builds to a conclusion that feels inevitable when you get there, but that inevitability comes from structure and patience. New writers often tie everything up in the final five pages or dump a flood of explanations that feel forced. The best writers earn their endings. They let the story unfold naturally. You never want to feel the author pushing you toward a solution; you want to feel the story leading you there.”

“You’ve said again and again that character drives everything. How can writers make sure their characters create the mystery rather than simply walk through it?”

“The characters must be active participants in their own story. Their decisions, flaws, and blind spots should generate the mystery’s complications. In a detective story, for example, you don’t want a flawless genius who solves everything by deduction alone. That might have worked a century ago, but readers today expect complexity. They want to see intelligence mixed with vulnerability. You need a detective who’s human: curious, sometimes wrong, maybe a little arrogant, maybe broken. The villain or culprit must be equally smart, setting traps that the detective doesn’t immediately see through. That’s how you create tension: two intelligent forces, each with blind spots, moving against one another. The story grows out of their humanity, not the author’s cleverness.”

Check out Otto Penzler’s The Best Mystery Stories of the Year 2025 here:

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“What makes atmosphere feel authentic in a mystery instead of decorative?”

“The key is knowing your world. Research deeply, then use restraint. Dick Francis was brilliant at this. He and his wife explored new subjects for every book—wineries, photography, horse racing—and he always used just enough detail to make it real without showing off his homework. Many writers, especially in historical mysteries, feel they have to prove what they’ve learned. They fill the story with facts about the year 1815 in Athens or what kind of buttons were on a soldier’s coat. That kind of information belongs in the writer’s notebook, not on the page. What makes atmosphere believable is suggestion. A few precise details do more than a paragraph of description. It’s about creating a sensory truth, not a catalog of facts. You want the reader to feel the world, not study it.”

“What gives a mystery its pulse from the first page?”

“Character, again. If I’m interested in the person from the first few lines, I’m already invested. The pulse of a mystery isn’t always action; it’s empathy, or fascination, or a spark of curiosity about who this person is and what’s about to happen to them. And of course, it’s style. I want to see poetry in prose. Writing should have a rhythm, a turn of phrase that catches the ear. I remember once telling Shel Silverstein I’d never heard anyone phrase something quite the way he did. He smiled and said, ‘That’s why they call me a poet.’ That’s what I want on the page, that freshness of language that makes you stop and say, yes, that’s it.”

“Across the many subgenres—cozy, hard-boiled, procedural—what are the universal elements that make a story great?”

“Style, always. Even in a fast-paced police procedural or an international thriller, there’s room for elegance. Not every line can sing, but there should be moments that do. Thomas H. Cook does that beautifully. You’ll be reading along and suddenly there’s a paragraph so lyrical you have to stop and reread it. James Lee Burke can do it. James Crumley could do it. Those are writers whose sentences you want to share out loud. It’s not about making every word ornate; it’s about caring how it sounds.”

“How can writers make their work feel both original and classic without falling into formula?”

“Find what’s unexpected: an unusual murder method, a distinctive setting, a fresh perspective. A mystery doesn’t need to reinvent the genre, but it does need to offer readers a reason to care again. You can set a story in a familiar city but show it from a new angle. You can give us a detective who feels familiar but makes us see the world differently through their eyes. And sometimes originality comes down to voice. James Ellroy is a good example. When I first edited him, his manuscript was wild, L.A. Death Trip, which became Blood on the Moon. It was relentless violence, page after page. But his style, his energy, his rhythm, was unmistakable. We cut about two-thirds of the gore, and suddenly his storytelling had space to breathe. That style gave the book life. It’s what carried him forward as a writer.”

“What storytelling instincts or elements do you think are timeless?”

“Books with good characters. Always. Without them, it’s not a story; it’s a puzzle. That was the flaw in many Golden Age mysteries. They were intricate, clever, and cold. You can admire the puzzle, but you don’t feel anything. Most of those books are forgotten now. They were too mechanical, too dependent on plot alone. A story lasts when the reader is emotionally involved. That’s what carries across generations. Readers will forgive almost anything—structure, pacing, even an imperfect ending—if they love the people in the book. That’s what lasts.”

“If a new writer came to you and said, ‘Otto, I want to move from competent to unforgettable,’ what would you tell them?”

“Create a character no one can forget. That’s number one. Then develop your style. Read constantly. Read the best writers you can find. Read Raymond Chandler, Ross Macdonald, Charles McCarry, Robert B. Parker, James Lee Burke, Michael Connelly, Dennis Lehane. Every one of them wrote mysteries, but they also wrote literature. You follow their characters, you care about the plot, and then you find these moments—maybe one sentence, maybe a paragraph—where the writing itself takes your breath away. That’s what separates an ordinary writer from a memorable one. It’s not about tricks or formulas; it’s about artistry.”

“Do you think writers can learn that kind of artistry, or is it innate?”

“You can learn to recognize it, but you have to want it. It comes from reading widely and writing constantly. You start hearing what works. You start noticing the music in language. You stop imitating and start listening to yourself, to your characters, to the rhythm of your story. Craft can be taught, but voice must be found. That’s the hard truth, and it’s what keeps the work alive. The thing is: Mystery writers sometimes think they’re in a lesser form of art. They’re not. The best crime fiction stands alongside the best literary work. It’s not about the crime, it’s about how human beings respond to the crime, what it reveals about them. If a writer can capture that truth, they’ll never have to worry about being forgotten.”

_________________________

Otto Penzler is the proprietor of The Mysterious Bookshop and the president and CEO of Penzler Publishers. He has won a Raven, the Ellery Queen Award, two Edgars, and lifetime achievement awards from Noircon and The Strand Magazine. He has edited more than 80 anthologies and written extensively about mystery fiction. https://penzlerpublishers.com/

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(Find more Killer Writers conversations here.)

“Lauren, you’ve written everything from picture books to edgy young adult novels to stories for adults. How do you mentally shift gears between those audiences without losing your creative center?”

“Only one book for adults so far, though I’m working on another. Plays Well with Others was my first. That book took forever, but I loved it. Writing for kids comes naturally. Part of it is that I remember my childhood so vividly. My husband doesn’t remember his at all, but I can name every teacher I had, every friend’s last name, even the small humiliations and kindnesses. That makes it easy for me to slip into a child’s head. When I write for kids, that’s the gift. I can still be nine or 11 without much effort. The challenge is plot and structure. I’m strong on character, voice, and emotions. With adults, the big hurdle was pacing. The joy was that with adults, I could finally write the ugly thoughts in a character’s head without censoring myself. With kids, you don’t want to crush their souls. But with adults, I could push into darkness. That was liberating.”

“When you sit down to begin a project, what tells you it’s a middle-grade story, a teen story, or an adult story?”

“Honestly, when I first started, I didn’t know. I was so naïve about publishing categories. I didn’t understand aspirational reading, that if your audience is nine, your protagonist should probably be 11, acting slightly younger but aspirational. I just wrote age-true characters. Now I realize it depends on whose story it is. If the central concern is a 10-year-old worried about fifth grade, that’s a children’s book. If the focus is on the mother trying to manage her child’s disability, that’s an adult book. The perspective of the character with the most at stake tells you who the audience is.”

“Writers are often told to stick to one lane and build a brand. How have you resisted that pressure?”

“People always asked, ‘What’s your brand?’ And I’d say, ‘I’m not a brand. I’m a human.’ The truth is, I’ve never been a savvy marketer. I’m just a storyteller. I write the stories that call to me. That’s not always the smartest career choice. If you want to build a reliable income, sticking to one lane probably helps. But I couldn’t. And maybe it’s stubbornness. When I was young, I was told over and over that I wasn’t good enough. In college, I wasn’t chosen for the advanced classes. In grad school, same story. Back then, we mailed physical manuscripts. I’d spend hours in the library with the publisher database, typing up query letters. Over the course of five years, I sent 148 queries for five different novels that will never see the light of day. Finally, I got one ‘nice’ rejection letter. That rejection led to my first publication. So, when people started telling me, ‘Pick a lane,’ I thought, ‘I’ve been told no all my life. Why would I start listening now?’”

“That’s interesting. My career’s been eclectic too. I’ve bounced between film, television, books, and teaching. People ask, ‘Why so many jumps?’ Honestly, it’s because I love stories. I grew up in Appalachia, Eastern Tennessee. We weren’t wealthy, but we had stories to tell. That was what kept us going. My relatives didn’t have running water or electricity. We slept in feather beds made from our own chickens. But everyone could tell a story, and that oral storytelling culture shaped me.”

“My dad grew up that way too: Brevard, North Carolina, then Milan, Tennessee, the son of cotton farmers. No electricity, no plumbing. He’s a wonderful storyteller, gentle and thoughtful, who taught me to love books and nature and to have the courage to write. I think those Southern roots matter. They make us storytellers first.”

Check out Lauren Myracle’s Plays Well With Others here:

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“They do. And sometimes that means breaking rules.”

“Absolutely. Speaking of chickens, did your family chop or swing?”

“We chopped. Quick and clean. Then you throw them away from you because they run. You don’t want them running back at you, spurting blood.”

“My mom did the swing-around thing. I never killed a chicken myself. But see? Already we’ve got blood, hatchets, corpses running amok. That’s what makes us Southern Gothic storytellers.”

“Next thing, we’ll be quoting Flannery O’Connor.”

“And I’d be fine with that.”

“Don’t you think readers are more intelligent than the industry gives them credit for? That they don’t always want the same predictable thing?”

“Yes, but we have to be careful not to be snobby. Some readers want the Olive Garden of books. They want the breadsticks. They want the comfort of knowing exactly what’s coming. That’s valid. But for me, I’d rather surprise people. I want to write something unexpected. Stephen King has done that brilliantly. He writes across genres, and readers follow him. That’s what I admire, the freedom to go wherever the story leads.”

“You mentioned challenges with plotting. How do you think about craft when you move between audiences?”

“For me, it’s like method acting. I’m not an actor, but I try to become that person. When I write for kids, I slip easily into an 11-year-old’s head. The difficulty is plot. With adults, structure is everything. But the joy was that I could go darker. I could show thoughts that kids’ books can’t hold. That felt like being given full rein, no speed limit.”

“I think you’ve got a little bit of Napoleon in you. ‘I am the brand.’”

“I wish. I didn’t succeed. I didn’t conquer. And I didn’t have an elephant. But yes, I suppose that spirit is in there.”

“What about editors?”

“Editors make the world go round. I’m a terrible first drafter and a strong reviser. For years, I had one editor who trusted me completely. I’d hand her a messy manuscript with a seed of something good, and together we’d make it flourish. That gave me the courage to write freely. Now that I’m writing adult fiction, I have to think more strategically about reader expectations, about market realities. That feels strange. But I still protect the messy, playful first draft space.”

“And you’ve had your books banned and challenged. How did that affect you?”

“The first time I got an email saying ttyl was the third most banned book in the country, my stomach dropped. I was a good Southern girl. I thought, ‘Oh my God, I’ve been bad.’ Then my editor and publicist said, ‘This is great news.’ Since then, I’ve been the number one most-banned author in the country. Weekly, I get a notice: ‘Brownsville, Tennessee, is really on your case.’ It’s almost always about female sexuality or LGBTQ themes. Because my teenage characters, guess what, talk about sex. And apparently, that’s dangerous.”

“From a publicity perspective, scandal sells.”

“Exactly. It hurt, but it also raised my profile. That’s the paradox.”

“What’s your sweet spot as a writer?”

“Nine to 11. I adore that age. They’re curious, open, not yet swallowed by phones. Technology complicates teen fiction. TikTok and Snapchat are fertile ground, but I don’t know that landscape as well as teens do. But the life of a nine-year-old today isn’t that different from mine at nine. Adult fiction feels like a game. You know your readers are experienced. They’ve read a thousand books. My job is to surprise them, delight them, maybe even make them cry, but never bore them.”

“You’ve resisted rules your whole career. Have you paid a price for that?”

“I’ve been slapped on the wrist plenty of times. But I’d rather take the heat than follow rules that don’t serve the story.”

“That’s the rebellion, then.”

“Persistence. You can’t give up. Writing isn’t waiting for the muse. It’s a profession. You improve with practice. You show up. You don’t burn bridges. And sometimes the riskiest project is the one readers are most eager for. Take Legends & Lattes. People thought it would never succeed. It exploded. Readers want freshness. They want to be surprised.”

“Do you see a through line in your work?”

“Maybe resilience. Maybe quirky, irreverent characters who are secretly Anne of Green Gables, wanting to be good, but forced to deal with creepy, messy worlds. Flannery O’Connor is an influence, too. I love Southern Gothic. When I got my MFA, they told us that every children’s book had to have a happy ending. I thought, ‘Why? That’s not life.’ My work doesn’t always end happily, but it ends with resilience. That’s my through line.”

“Woody Allen was once the only person at Universal who could turn in a project without even telling them what it was. That kind of freedom is rare.”

“And enviable. That’s the dream: to earn the freedom to write whatever story comes.”

“For writers who want to cross genres, what’s your parting advice?”

“Be aware of your choices. If you want stability, it may be harder if you jump around. Some authors publish under different names to cater to different audiences. That’s a smart strategy. But at the end of the day, if you write what you truly want, you’re more likely to create something amazing. Writing isn’t just about strategy. It’s about joy. If you’re enjoying yourself, that joy is evident in your work.”

“Then let’s call it what it is: a rebellion.”

“Let’s start it right now.”

_____________________________________________

Lauren Myracle is a #1 New York Times bestselling author. She lives in Madison, Wisconsin, with her husband and three cats, who may or may not be plotting to frame her for their next act of mischief. https://www.laurenmyracle.com/books-for-adults

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(6 Lists to Make Writers More Efficient.)

Over the next two decades, we swapped parenting advice, books, recipes, and even a Carolina Herrera cocktail dress (co-purchased at an outlet mall and passed back and forth for fancy events). We joined the same book group and writing group. Though our professional paths diverged—Christina taught and published six more novels; Anne worked in communications while writing essays, short fiction, and eventually her debut novel—we often found ourselves talking about the kind of stories we were drawn to: layered, character-driven narratives with emotional depth and moral ambiguity.

Our first collaboration was editing a book of essays. Later, we developed a pitch for a television series, which taught us two important things: We could build a shared story world, and we were both energized by the process. What surprised us most, though, was how naturally our narrative instincts aligned. We spoke the same creative language. And as we worked, something unexpected emerged: a third voice—distinct from either of our solo writing styles—began to take shape. That discovery became the catalyst for Please Don’t Lie, the first in a series of psychological thrillers set in the fictional Adirondack town of Crystal River. 

This third voice turned out to be more than just a blend of our styles. It has its own tempo, its own sharpness, its own appetite for tension. On our own, we both tend to linger in interiority, in mood and reflection. Together, we gravitate toward momentum. That joint voice moves fast. It’s less hesitant, more ruthless. We discovered we could go darker, be twistier, and take bolder narrative risks because we had each other as both sounding board and safety net. 

We began Please Don’t Lie by mapping out the entire story—creating a detailed outline that included key scenes, emotional turning points, major plot twists, and even sections of dialogue. That roadmap gave us structure and clarity while leaving room for discovery. We co-wrote the first three chapters and sold the novel—along with a second book—on the strength of that material and the outline. Anne then drafted the remaining chapters; Christina wrote the second draft. We came together to revise in person, sitting across from each other at our dining tables in South Harlem—Google docs open, coffee brewing, soup-and-salad lunches breaking up the day—and read the entire manuscript aloud multiple times. That step was central to our process. Reading aloud exposed rhythm, tone, and pacing issues in ways silent reading never could. It also helped us calibrate character voice and emotional resonance.

Though neither of us outlines so extensively in our solo projects, we found that thriller writing demands a different kind of rigor. Suspense demands precision: where you place reveals, how you build tension, when you let the bottom drop out. We mapped out the plot in granular detail—beats, reversals, red herrings, character arcs, even the emotional temperature of each character. For two writers used to letting a story unfold more organically, this level of planning was unexpectedly freeing. It gave us a scaffolding we could trust, and within it, the freedom to experiment and surprise each other. 

Of course, working this closely isn’t without its challenges. We have different cadences, habits, and fears. But those differences have become part of the engine. We question each other’s assumptions, push each other to dig deeper, and take risks we might not take alone. We’ve learned to trust each other’s instincts. When one of us tosses out a “What if…?” the other responds with, “Yes, and…” That improv principle has become a guiding force. It keeps us in flow. It moves the story forward. It allows us to build on each other’s ideas without hesitation or ego.

Please Don’t Lie centers on the dark secrets beneath the surface of a seemingly idyllic mountain town. At its heart, it’s a story about friendship, betrayal, trust, and survival. Writing it together gave us the chance to explore the kinds of stories we love to read—twisty, character-driven thrillers with high emotional stakes—while drawing on our shared fascination with the masks people wear and the truths they try to bury.

The characters in Please Don’t Lie navigate deception and disloyalty, testing the bonds that hold them together. But for us, the process revealed the opposite: how vulnerability can strengthen a relationship. We had to trust each other with our wildest ideas, our narrative instincts, and our willingness to be wrong. We learned to lean into each other’s strengths, to let go of individual ownership, and to embrace the messy, exhilarating process of building something together.

And perhaps that’s the real surprise: In a profession defined by isolation, we found connection. Writing is usually a solitary pursuit. But in this project, we discovered a creative space where two longtime friends could invent a world that neither of us could have written alone.

Check out Christina Baker Kline and Anne Burt’s Please Don’t Lie here:

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(Find more Killer Writers conversations here.)

“Janelle, you’ve written a thriller novel set around the early internet. Tell me the moment the idea clicked. What were you doing when it came together?”

“The seed lived in me for a long time. I’d spent the 90s covering technology, stints at a magazine, at Salon.com during the dot-com boom, then drifted into freelance journalism and fiction. Watching that idealism rise and then warp over time felt like witnessing the skeleton of a story. But for a long time, I couldn’t find the right way into it. I knew the era mattered; I just didn’t know which human heart to hang it on. The spark arrived in small, conversational moments. A friend of mine, Stephanie Danler, was working on a novel set in the 90s and kept pestering me to describe what everyday life felt like then. Telling those scenes aloud, what it sounded like in a newsroom, what people believed, made me realize the internet itself could be a setting, but the book needed to be about people who were pushed and changed by it. Later, listening to a podcast about the Unabomber and thinking about the Luddite reaction framed against Wired-era evangelism, an image popped into my head: a woman raised without technology who later lands inside the tech world. That collision, people vs. ideology, intimacy vs. platforms, gave the story its emotional center. Once I had that, the book started to feel alive.”

“You set a big part of the novel in the 90s. A period setting can risk feeling dated. How did you make it feel contemporary?”

“I was conscious of that risk, so I used a structural trick: I bookended the main story with contemporary time. The heart of the novel lives in the 90s because that’s where certain ideas about progress and goodness crystallized, but the contemporary frame gives readers an immediate reason to care. It signals that what we’re reading isn’t nostalgia for its own sake; it’s a history that still shapes the present. People have called it a historical novel and, in a sense, that’s fair. But by giving readers a present-day vantage point, you allow them to draw the line from then to now. That’s what keeps it feeling relevant.”

“You lived through that moment: Wired, San Francisco, the early web. How did firsthand experience shape the novel?”

“Immensely. There’s no substitute for having been there: the rhythms, the hubris, the sloppiness of early tech culture are hard to conjure authentically without that muscle memory. That said, lived experience is a starting point, not an instruction manual. I leaned on my memories for tone: how we talked, the metaphors people used, the optimism that felt invincible, and then I cross-checked against reporting and archives to avoid romanticizing or misremembering. I also went back to colleagues and interviews. Those conversations reminded me of lines we used, small rituals in the office, the way people justified their faith in the future. Those textures feed the scenes in a way research alone cannot.”

“For writers who can’t live the particular time or place they want to depict, whether it is the 1990s or the 1790s, what’s your research advice without getting lost in rabbit holes?”

“Start with essentials: a handful of well-chosen nonfiction histories, a few contemporary journalistic pieces, and interviews with people who were there. Contemporary journalism is gold because it captures what people thought at the time rather than what we think in hindsight. Don’t try to master everything; focus on what the reader will notice. Ask yourself: What will make this world feel credible? If you can’t visit, talk to those who can. Oral history is as valuable as archives. And set limits: If your prewriting becomes an excuse to avoid drafting, you’re researching as procrastination. Do enough to feel safe, enough to write scenes, and then research more as concrete problems arise in the manuscript.”

“You mentioned the lack of photographs from pre-digital life. How did you handle physical details when Instagram and Google Images let you down?”

“It’s true. There’s a weird gap. A lot of everyday images weren’t digitized, and social media didn’t archive those personal, mundane moments. I leaned on friends’ shoebox photos, old point-and-shoot prints people had scanned, and, importantly, memory. That sounds risky, but memory guided me to the sort of emotional truths that images don’t capture. For concrete details, what a particular library aisle looked like in 1985, or the cadence of a newsroom, I dug into magazines and newspapers from the time. Libraries, microfilm, and archival web captures turned out to be more useful than I expected. When a physical fact mattered to a scene, I chased it; otherwise, plausibility did the heavy lifting.”

“How do you balance factual accuracy with the freedom of fiction?”

“I try to keep the balance pragmatic. Fiction’s job is invention, truths that feel true emotionally, even if every fact is altered. Use real people, places, and events as anchors when it helps readers believe in the world, but don’t feel enslaved to them. If a real detail exists and readers are likely to recognize it, get it right. If not, invent whatever serves the characters and the scene. My research is there to create plausibility, not to produce a museum piece. That said, when real injustices or harms are involved, I err on the side of carefulness. Ethics matter.”

“When should a writer stop researching and start writing?”

“Be brutal. If you’re doing six months of prewriting with nothing drafted, ask whether you’re actually avoiding the work. For most projects, one to two months of focused research is plenty; older historical projects might need more. The key is to research in the service of writing. Start writing when you have a character and a question you care about. Then research fills in dead spots while you draft. I learned that the hard way: Front-loading research can make you an expert in everything except the one thing readers want, your story.”

Check out Janelle Brown’s What Kind of Paradise here:

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“How do you begin a new book? Are you an outliner?”

“I’m hybrid. I’m not a strict outliner, but I don’t romanticize pure spontaneity either. Usually, I have a character, a central contradiction, and an emotional arc, an idea of the beginning and the end. That’s enough to start. Often, an ‘aha’ moment arrives in the car or on a walk and gives me a rough internal outline: a handful of scenes or beats that feel inevitable. Once I begin, characters take on momentum and push the plot in directions I wouldn’t have planned. I allow myself that flexibility, but I also keep a loose map, so I don’t wander aimlessly.”

“How do you know you’re going in the right direction when you don’t use a tight outline?”

“You feel it. When I’m excited to sit down and I can see the next step, I’m probably on a good path. If I slog, if every day is a blank, that’s a signal something’s off, a scene is indulgent, or the throughline is muddy. My journalism background disciplined me: It taught me to ask whether every scene advances the central thread. If it doesn’t, it gets cut. The goal is to preserve momentum in the manuscript; the only way that happens is by being honest with yourself about what serves the story.”

“What tools help you collect ideas and research?”

“Scrivener is indispensable for me. I keep a notes file, a hodgepodge of quotes, links, character sketches, and my rough beats. When I’m out of the house, I text myself lines or record voice memos; those often end up being the most surprising, useful material. Everything eventually gets funneled into Scrivener, where it’s organized by scene or chapter. The discipline of a single repository keeps me from scattering my work across a thousand apps.”

“Research can derail a manuscript. How do you prevent that?”

“Set rules. If a question pops up while you’re drafting, mark it with a note, don’t stop the scene. Only investigate if you truly need the answer to finish the moment. Research as an excuse is a real thing: you can spend years feeling productive while the draft remains skeletal. I also pay attention to my emotional investment. If I’m more excited about researching a subject than about writing the characters, it’s a sign; either switch to a project that excites you or force yourself to write through the boredom and trust revision to fix the rough parts.”

“You’ve spent years watching technology reshape culture. How did that sensibility inform the stakes of the novel?”

“The stakes in the book are cultural and ethical as much as they are personal. The 90s weren’t just about new gadgets; they were about a set of beliefs, tech as salvation, disruption as moral force. I wanted to explore who profits from that optimism and who gets left behind. By placing characters at the intersection of resistance and evangelism, the novel dramatizes how ideology can eclipse consequences. That tension makes the stakes bigger than any single plot twist.”

“For writers tackling fast-moving subjects like technology, any practical tips?”

“Anchor the story in human relationships and emotions; those don’t date the way hardware does. If you must use technical detail, prefer general plausibility over hyper-specific gadgetry. Another useful device is to set the story slightly in the past, where the meaning of the technology has begun to clarify. If immediacy is essential, bookend background action with a present frame so readers can see why historical detail matters. Above all, don’t let the tech outshine the people.”

“What habit helps you finish a book?”

“Daily practice. Write regularly, even badly. Momentum compounds: ten imperfect pages a week become a draft you can fix. Consistency builds both confidence and material. If you wait for inspiration, you’ll often wait forever.”

______________________________

Janelle Brown is the New York Times bestselling author of What Kind of Paradise, I’ll Be You, Pretty Things, Watch Me Disappear, All We Ever Wanted Was Everything, and This Is Where We Live. An essayist and journalist, she has written for Vogue, The New York Times, Elle, Wired, Self, Los Angeles Times, Salon, and more. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and their two children. https://www.janellebrown.com/home

The post A Conversation With Janelle Brown on Writing and Historical Mystery/Thrillers (Killer Writers) appeared first on Writer's Digest.

(Writing What I Know and Feel.)

Case in point. My son and I were watching a match on the outer courts when something on the concourse caught my eye. I bolted. Pushing through the stand and upsetting the court usher by my abrupt exit. When I returned to the seats, my son asked me what was so intriguing. I pulled out my phone and showed him a photo of a giant refrigerator being wheeled toward the exit on a dolly.

“What a great place to hide a body,” I whispered, with a big smile.

Sure, I was at the match to remind myself of the spectacle and grandeur of one of the most electrifying sporting events in the United States. An event filled with athletic prowess, celebrity sightings, and player tantrums. The greatest professional tennis players in the world who put it all on the line in single elimination battles on the biggest stage in the country. But still, a thriller writer is constantly looking at things sideways.

And it’s not just about finding the perfect place to hide a body. Sometimes it’s about the smaller things. The minuscule detail that can transport a setting through the pages to the reader. Personally, I’m looking for a nugget that is so specific it can bring a place to life. Add color and vibrancy. The 20-something man in a suit who knocks into my main character, spilling beer on her, and then acting like she’s at fault. Or the way a player taps her toe with the racquet before every game point. 

In Close Call, the tennis stars’ entourages play a pivotal role in the story. So while my son’s eyes were on the action on the court, I kept my gaze on the players’ boxes. Did the coach show emotion after each point? Did the spouse pay attention to his wife or scroll through his phone? What went unsaid during the changeovers? And where were private areas to collude?

We found one when we opted for ice cream for lunch. Instead of going to the main food court, we wandered to a more isolated area toward the edges of the grounds and discovered the oddest thing. Lawn furniture set up under the stands of one of the smaller courts. It was the kind of furniture you’d expect to find in someone’s backyard during a BBQ.

What a great place for Kate to bring someone for a private conversation, I thought to myself as I ate my coffee ice cream. An unusual spot at a highly visible event. A good place to contemplate a response to a kidnapping, perhaps? 

Now don’t get me wrong, I also took note of the regular stuff. Paying particular attention not just to the sights, but the sounds and the smells. The crack of a forehand as a player hit a winner down the line. The smell of hot pretzels at the concession stands.              

But still. As a crime writer, we are who we are. So while my son watched the third set of a tight match at the great Arthur Ashe Stadium, I couldn’t help but look upward. My eyes studying the skycams suspended by cables. And I found myself wondering–what if the cable broke? What if it was sabotage? Maybe a conspiracy? Murder? Hmmm…

Check out Elise Hart Kipness’ Close Call here:

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That was the conundrum I found myself in when I started writing my latest thriller, The Deepest Fake.

(Live-writing My Thriller Novel.)

As a practicing physician, I’ve always felt confident fictionalizing medical topics, where my background lends an air of authority, deserved or not. But when The Deepest Fake plunged me into the world of artificial intelligence, I couldn’t rely on my day job anymore. Readers wouldn’t, and shouldn’t, give me the same benefit of the doubt. I’m, at best, tech literate adjacent.

Through researching and writing this book, I stumbled on some important lessons—many of them the hard way—about weaving AI and emerging technology into a story that feels authentic. The biggest takeaway? I didn’t have to be a neural network engineer to tell a convincing story about the human consequences of high-tech innovation.

Readers expect credibility, but in fiction, they don’t need a deep technical breakdown of the subject matter. In other words, they don’t have to see under the hood to enjoy the ride. Overexplaining science slows the pace and pulls readers out of the story. Instead of delving into cloud infrastructure, I opted to show the emotional fallout from a deepfake: the devastation, helplessness, and shame of a victim whose voice and image have been twisted beyond their control.

All genre fiction—whether it’s historical romance, legal thriller, or Nordic noir—requires some world-building. That challenge becomes even trickier with AI and technology, where it’s easy to overwhelm or confuse readers. What helped me most was using the characters to explain the science to one another, rather than rely on the narrator. Dialogue gave me the freedom to simplify, generalize, and take creative liberties.

For example, instead of paragraphs of prose explaining the complexities of AI versus artificial general intelligence—the kind that could truly think and reason—I let the characters unpack it in conversation. Paraphrased, it sounds like this:

“So Generative AI doesn’t really ‘think’ for itself?”
“Exactly. It stitches complex patterns together. As convincing as it is, it only simulates intelligence and creativity. True general intelligence—like you or me—actually understands and decides. Unlike AI, it has agency. And we’re not there yet. Thank God.”

After all, I wasn’t trying to teach computer science. I was exploring how big, abstract ideas can tear through ordinary lives.

Another common trap in writing about AI is chasing headlines. But advances in the field happen so quickly that today’s breakthroughs would probably feel passé before the book even hits the shelves. I found it better to treat tech news as inspiration rather than a blueprint—to let it spark “what if?” scenarios while making sure the plot still stands on its own.

For instance, when I first read about so-called “deathbots”—AI chatbots trained on a person’s digital footprint to simulate posthumous conversations—I was floored. The idea of interacting with a digital echo of a lost loved one, almost like having a Zoom call with the dead, was both fascinating and deeply unsettling. But rather than fixate on how the technology actually works, I found myself asking more personal questions: What if this tool unraveled someone’s life? What if it became the gateway to an even greater deception?

Another key lesson I learned is that while technology always marches—sometimes rockets—forward, the underlying themes remain unchanged. Deepfakes may one day give way to even more immersive deceptions, but the deeper questions (who controls the truth, who profits from lies) are perennial. Technology may provide the means, but it’s rarely the motive or the killer, though it does make for a convincing red herring.

Click to continue.

One other key takeaway: Technology can enhance a story’s atmosphere, much like setting does, but it can’t replace character or plot. Consider Jurassic Park: Those genetically re-engineered dinosaurs hooked us, but the story’s heart lay in its tension, stakes, and complex, believable characters. The same holds true for stories about AI. Without fully realized people, even the flashiest innovation falls flat.

In the end, what matters most is emotional resonance. A character willing to risk everything—their life, their identity, their integrity—will always be more memorable than the most sophisticated technology or gadgetry. That’s true even in the Bond franchise. What gave the AI real impact in my story was anchoring it in the characters’ emotions, struggles, and sometimes survival. That made it matter to me and, hopefully, to my readers.

As for where AI is headed, I’m as curious as I am cautious. The possibilities are thrilling, but the risks are just as real. And terrifying. I wanted to bring that tension into my story. To do that, I needed the right lens: a Cassandra, a protagonist who speaks the truth but isn’t believed by those around her. Through her voice, I could explore my own doubts, questions, and hopes.

What I’ve learned is this: When you root complex technology in genuine human stakes, it becomes not just plausible; it becomes meaningful. And that approach works far beyond AI. By focusing on the universal elements of story—trust, betrayal, identity, connection—you can write with confidence about any fast-changing field, even one outside your expertise.

Quick Tips for Writing Fiction Involving Emerging Tech

• Let dialogue do the heavy lifting. Use character conversations to explain complex ideas in natural, relatable ways.
• Don’t chase headlines. Let recent news inspire you, but don’t tether your plot to tech that might age out quickly.
• Focus on emotion. Highlight the personal consequences of the technology—where the stakes feel real.
• Keep it light but plausible. Do your research, but don’t overload the narrative with jargon.
• Lean on timeless themes. Whether your subject is AI, biotech, or law, the emotional core—trust, betrayal, fear, hope—will always resonate.

Check out Daniel Kalla’s The Deepest Fake here:

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I started my professional career 20 years ago on a group blog called Murderati. Group blogs were all the rage—we were pre-social media at that moment—and I was lucky enough to fall in with a group of writers who were exploring all facets of crime fiction. I was the tech-savvy one of the bunch, so I learned how to code and design the website in addition to being the Friday blogger. It was incredible fun, but also a tremendous amount of work.

(How Substack Helped Me Publish My Novel at 55.)

I grew up on Murderati. Late to the writing game (I started blogging in 2003 at age 34, three years before my first book was published), I knew very little about how the industry worked, and even less about what it took to have a career in writing. I learned the ropes experimenting with voice, analyzing writing trends, and otherwise baring my soul for the world every week. It taught me the discipline of meeting deadlines and how important it was to think about writing, even when I wasn’t creating. I ate up every ounce of advice and insight the other bloggers were sharing. I learned; we all did. Over the years, I published book after book, and yes, blog after blog.

33 books and 22 years later, I’ve learned a little bit about what it takes to have a career in publishing. I’d like to think I know how to write a compelling story. And I’ve never been able to break the habit of a weekly blog. Now it’s called Friday Reads, lives on Substack, and is an amalgamation of writing advice, book recommendations, and genial chit chat between me and my readers, many of whom, after all these years, are dear friends.

When Substack appeared on the scene, I jumped in with both feet. The current iteration of social media, with its brevity, incessant scrolling, and performative nature, can be challenging for me. Long-form writing has always been my forte. After all, I am a writer—not a producer, photographer, videographer, or actor—and Substack seemed like a great place to explore a deeper connection with my readers. I arrived a little earlier than most; I was writing on Medium and wasn’t happy with the changes that were in place, and I loved the simple, clean interface that Substack provided. I built the site with my most treasured essays, making it beautiful, functional, and easily readable, transferred my small but loyal weekly blog readership, and continued writing.

(An Honest Review of the Medium Publishing Platform.)

But Substack has a subscription model. And I’ve always wanted to write a book on writing. I’ve collected all the blogs I’ve ever written into a file that I’ve been trying to get off the ground for a long time, but it’s never worked. Publishing has changed so dramatically over the past 20-plus years that much of my older publishing and marketing advice is no longer relevant.

But the actual craft of book writing…well, that’s advice people always want to hear.

I was just starting to work on a new book—Last Seen. And it hit me—why not try live writing the process of writing the novel, from concept to publication day. Multiple birds with one stone. A – It would be great fun, B – It would give me a legitimate reason to put work behind a paywall, and C – I could focus on building my nonfiction book at the same time as writing the fictional one.

Click to continue.

I started by examining the lifecycle of a book. I wrote down all the steps it takes from concept to publication and realized that for me, a story moves through 22 distinct phases. I decided to document them all, allowing readers deep insight into my process and encouraging writers to follow along as they built their current work in progress. Admittedly, deconstructing my process is something I’ve been doing since I started blogging, but nothing like this. This was my book journal come to life, as intimate, realistic, and honest as I could possibly be.

I even taught myself how to outline so I could explore and express that part of the process for those of us who aren’t inveterate pantsers. I hate to admit it, but I actually think it helped the book in the long run (though I did go rogue at one point because the whole thing fell apart on me).

I’m now nearly to publication day, the end of this series, with only a few posts left. It has burgeoned into almost 75,000 words of craft advice, story development, progress reports, behind-the-scenes looks at the day-to-day writing life—what’s worked, what hasn’t, where I pulled my hair out, where I wept for joy—and everything in between. It’s a living, breathing memoir; a craft book; a year-long journal, all rolled into one. And, of course, I realized there are more than 22 steps; I’d missed a few along the way, so I also included a number of essays labeled Interim Steps, which are designed to encourage and illuminate. In these, I discuss ego, the psychology of writing, what to do when you get blocked, and how to develop new stories. They round out the book’s lifecycle.

Writing is hard. There’s no question about that. And the more you do, the longer you’re in this game, the harder it gets. There’s no secret handshake, no magic. It’s just diligent, steady work, grinding out the words, day by day. I thought it would be fun for people to see what it actually takes to write a novel. Judging by the response I’ve had, I was right.

Check out J.T. Ellison’s Last Seen here:

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