There’s something funny that happens the moment you get a publishing deal: suddenly, you’re overflowing with ideas.
My interests have always run wide across history, science, culture, and the odd corners of human experience, but lately I find myself lying awake at night, my mind racing through pitches and premises across half a dozen genres. A twisting, propulsive thriller in the vein of Dan Brown. A quietly devastating, character-driven novel with the emotional weight of Steinbeck. A sprawling, witty science fiction series somewhere between John Scalzi and James S.A. Corey.
The problem, of course, is that I am not Dan Brown, Steinbeck, or Scalzi. Wanting to write those books and actually being able to pull them off are very different things, and the gap between ambition and ability is something I’m learning to sit with, however uncomfortably.
In the meantime, the list keeps growing. And my sleep keeps suffering for it.