BOOKING AND COOKING!

Hank Phillippi Ryan:

 

First, fanfare fanfare, BOOKING first. The trade paperback of THE HOUSE GUEST is available today! I always wonder how much difference that makes in anyone's lives, but I hope it does!

 

 And I am going on a tiny little whirlwind book tour to make sure everybody knows: tonight I will be at Brookline Booksmith with the superb Shari Lapena!  Whoa. If you have not read her book EVERYONE HERE IS LYING, it is an absolute page turner. Honestly, if I hadn't had to make dinner yesterday, I would not have budged from my chair. (SO fun to have my paperback launch day be with such a superstar--and we get to talk about HER book! Perfect.)

 

Wednesday I go to Jacksonville, Florida to appear at the Jacksonville Public Library.

Thursday off to Atlanta, for the Atlanta Authors series at the Roswell Cultural Arts Center.

Thursday, still in Atlanta, at the Sandy Springs Library.

Saturday, racing back to Massachusetts to appear at the Barnes & Noble Hingham. (With some names you will recognize!)

 And then Sunday, in Plainville, at An Unlikely Story Bookstore, with Patty Callahan Henry to talk about her brilliant THE SECRET BOOK OF FLORA LEA.

And then zooming back home to zoom for The Back Room, with Kathy Reichs, Polly Stewart, Tosca Lee and Don Bentley!

 

Whoa. And you can get all the deets here.

 

But on to COOKING!  Last week we went to get our farm shares, and we got zucchini and eggplant and golden yellow squash, which meant... make something up.

Something Parmesan? Something Ratatouille?

 

 So here's what I did.

 

I sliced the zucchini and eggplant and squash and salted them liberally, and left them for two hours so the water would come out. So much water comes out, and that makes a huge difference.  (I cut the eggplant  and golden like coins,  and the zucchini in strips. Whatever.)

 

Then I roasted the zucchini and eggplant and squash in olive oil till they were brownish around the edges, then I topped that with parmesan cheese and popped it under the broiler until the cheese browned.

 

Then I took the whole thing out of the oven.

 

Then I lightly olive-oiled a LeCreuset enamel oval pan, put the cheesy veggies carefully along the bottom. Then I sprinkled that with halves of cherry tomatoes from our own garden, then tiny bits of mozzarella cheese, then sprinkled with parmesan cheese, then bacon bits, then snipped basil and fresh parsley from our garden. Popped that back into the oven until the cheese burbled--you can tell it's done.

 

 And wow wow wow it was delicious. Here's a picture.

 

And then –although it was completely unnecessary, I served it with sautéed shrimp.

 

BOOKING AND COOKING! Reds and Readers, either of those things on your schedule this week?

(And oh, because it's August 1, "rabbit rabbit." SO much to remember!)

What Hank's Writing: Deadlines and Book Tour

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: I wish you could see me. Or maybe not. I’m kinda…frazzled.

No matter how organized I try to be, I know that how matter how much I plan, I will be typing typing typing right up till the final manuscript deadline.

Why is it that somehow my writer brains calculates the amount of time remaining to do a certain task, and makes the task last right up to that exact second?

What I am writing/editing is my 15th novel, and… Well, before we get to that:

I have just come back from three fantastic, hilarious, exhilarating, exhausting weeks on book tour, almost in a different city every day.

 When I left Boston in February, the world was slushy and snowy, and the skies were gray. As I arrived back home, weary, but thrilled, our crocuses had arrived, and the soft spring wind was making ripples in our backyard swimming pool. (No ducks yet, though.) And I saw this this squirrel on our back fence, brazenly eating a tulip bulb! 

I unpacked immediately, because that is civilized. And..laundry. You should know that book tour is not the same as a tourist tour. I saw the Liberty Bell through the window of an Uber. And the Washington DC monuments, well, I flew over them.

But so many people came to hear about THE HOUSE GUEST! Here are a few photos...

 

And there were snags, oh yes, indeed. Like when my books were shipped not to Alexandria, Virginia, where the big signing was, but to Arlington, Texas. It’s still a mystery! But it all worked out fine. Eventually.

And look look look, is this not the most hilarious thing you’ve ever seen?

Book clubs and readers are dressing up like the cover of THE HOUSE GUEST! I laugh and laugh when I see these, and some of these cover faces, you might even recognize. But I am endlessly delighted by them.

This entire book club, look! Dressed up like the cover. Got to adore that. SO many darling friends here!

You know THE HOUSE GUEST went into a second printing after six days, and that is absolutely thrilling. ( If you care about having a first edition, just saying, this might be the time to snag it. Oh, and also parenthetically, if you are Kindle Unlimited, HER PERFECT LIFE is now free! I’m not sure for how long, but if you have not read that, and you are KU, now is definitely the time. )

So onward, onward, and the reason I am frazzled is that the edits of the first draft of my new novel were due yesterday at… Well, yesterday.

I was tempted to pretend I am on California time, thereby giving me three more hours until close of business. (I mean, I might live in California, right?)

But no time zone finessing was necessary, and at 6:09 PM Monday, I hit “ send” on the new book. I cut– drum roll-- 8924 words.  And it was so much fun.

Part of the joy of writing  for me is after I get that first draft done, then being able to tweak and polish and edit and streamline and see the book I meant to write. And, crossing fingers, I think that has happened. Here is a sample page. You can kinda see how much was deleted.

Too hard to read? Rats. I am too tired to figure out how to make this work. Any ideas? 

But soon, if all goes as planned, there'll be the real thing. And now I sit at my desk, frazzled and frumpled with hair askew, proud of myself for making my deadline, hooray! But knowing, now, I need another idea. Oh dear. I need another idea.

Do you always work right up to your deadline, Reds and Readers? Or are you so organized that you send things in early?

Hank surprises us (again)! THE HOUSE GUEST

HALLIE EPHRON: I confess, when I saw the name of HANK'S new book, THE HOUSE GUEST, it gave me the shivers. I immediately thought, what if someone you trust enough to invite them to stay in your home turns out to be not who they claim to be? It’s so scary. I’m wondering if that’s where you started. 

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: Oh gosh, that’s a great idea for an inspiration! But… Not exactly. 

The idea came from the experience of an acquaintance of mine who said goodbye to her husband every morning as she went off to her office and he went off to his office, he was something like an accountant or an insurance salesman. Something like that.

His next big deal was always around the corner, and the next big sale was always about to happen, and she was incredibly supportive. I’m talking about – – a really smart savvy woman who thought she was happily married.

And then the police arrived at the door.

And turned out--wait for it--he had never been to work at all! The job was imaginary. And he had been home doing illegal things on his computer that I don’t even want to describe.

Now, that’s not what happens in THE HOUSE GUEST at all. Not at all. But it made me wonder: how well do we know the people who are sleeping next to us? The very ones we trust the most? Could they be doing something we have no idea about? And I found out a lot of fascinating info about that too — like the family of the BTK killer, and the wife of a hideous serial killer in Indiana. They had no idea what their spouses were doing!

But there are no serial killers in this book either. Either. It’s just about how even a smart person can be completely fooled.

HALLIE: Your book has been called a "thrilling cat-and-mouse game". Did you know all along who was the cat?

HANK: Did I know all along? Who was the cat? Absolutely not. No. I didn’t know anything all along!

A story just unfolds every day at the computer, so when the surprises happen – –I’m just as surprised as the reader. Sue Grafton used to call that the magic, and that is exactly how I think of it ,too. I rely on it, and embrace it, and worry every day that it will vanish. But no, I don’t know anything! Can you believe who the cat turns out to be? Or are there several?

HALLIE: Alyssa is super privileged, gorgeous, and wealthy, and she’s been dumped by her wealthy husband. In the opening scene she’s having a pity party alone in a suburban bar. By the end of the scene you have us rooting for her. It’s what’s so compelling about the book, and I wonder how you get inside your characters to bring them to the page.

HANK: Alyssa was intriguing to me, and that’s a great question. My first thought was: how many of us have been utterly, and totally heartbroken?

There’s a moment at the beginning of that, especially if you are surprised and baffled and have had the rug yanked out from under you, when you are incredibly vulnerable. You go through the stages of well, not grief, but shock. Disbelief. Your life has totally changed, and it was a surprise, and out of the clear blue surprise.

So I tried to channel Alyssa, how she might feel at that moment, being shocked and baffled about being dumped by her husband. And suddenly – – there she is, with Bill threatening to take the money and the house, and who has all already taken all of her friends.

She’s fearful and alone with a terribly uncertain future. (This is all on page 1.)

But then, at the end of Chapter 1, and this is not a spoiler, she meet someone who is in worse shape than she is. Alyssa recognizes that even though she’s unhappy, she’s privileged, and her life will be fine.

So she decides to stop the pity party, take the focus off of herself, and focus on helping someone else.

We like her for that, right? As I’m writing a character, I try to channel how they feel. And if I’m lucky, that comes out on the page. I really become Alyssa. And see through her eyes and feel through her heart.

HALLIE: Then you create Bree, who has so much in common with Alyssa and yet is her polar opposite. Did you set that up deliberately?

HANK: Bree. No idea about Bree. Of course I had some ideas about who she was from the beginning, and--being careful here--that changed quite a bit as the book evolved. Because if you don’t know who’s good and who’s bad from the start, you have to go back and adjust, right? Once you have gotten to the end and have decided.

But absolutely, I set up deliberately that Alyssa is from hardscrabble origins, but now has wealth and comfort, but that Bree is still battling her way through ugly corporate pressures and harassment, and seems to have lost everything. They are both alone, they are both struggling, they both have demons and they both have necessities. Can they help each other?

So--is she her polar opposite? Maybe not.

That’s why some have called this Thelma And Louise… meets Gaslight.

HALLIE: The house in the book is as much a character as the women. Did you base the house on any particular house?

HANK: Oh, thank you! I know you are fond of houses :-) . I am, too. but no, it’s not based on any particular house.

That is such an interesting process, though isn’t it? I can absolutely see every room, every book, every piece of crystal and chandelier and marble and mahogany, the glorious kitchen, and the expensive chintz upholstery on the comfy chairs on the screened-in porch, and the rolled up Egyptian cotton bath towels, and the… compartment in the closet. All made up. 

But wow, I could see the entire thing in my head. Love that.

HALLIE: Your Publisher’s Weekly rave review calls you a “master of suspense.” Do you have an insider tips on writing suspense as well as you do?

HANK: Wasn’t that a terrific review? I almost fainted.

Insider tips on writing suspense. Hmm. I just burst out laughing! But honestly, a tip? This always always works, I have to say. And I wrote a whole article about it here.

But basically, suspense is a progression, a repeated progression, of: 1.What does someone want. 2. Why do they want it? 3. How would they think about getting it, and what do they decide to do. 4. Then they do it! 5. Then something happens to make that be unsuccessful and they have to start over.

Then 1. What do they want now? And you see how that repeats? It’s ever-changing, always different, and never a formula. I repeat that mantra to myself every day.

And thank you for the compliment!

HALLIE: You’re now up to (how many?!?) books with a ton of awards along the way. What do you know now about writing a suspense/thriller that you didn’t know early on?

HANK: Yes, THE HOUSE GUEST is my 14th book! Amazing. Who’d a thought. Especially when you and I met, that very first moment, before PRIME TIME even came out. Remember? And you took me aside, and told me Hey… This is a really good book. I have never forgotten that moment, and it still makes me cry.

What do I know now? Gosh.

I understand patience.

I allow myself to have terrible writing days, and I actually laugh and embrace them. There are no wasted drafts. There are no wasted attempts, even the pages I write that I think wow, this is absolutely 100% the worst thing anybody has ever written in the entire universe --I laugh and think, okay then! Really bad. Fix it later. But now, advance the story. Keep writing keep going do not falter. Just keep writing.

It seems silly, but because I am in search of the story, as I write, who knows what will happen. Then, after I’m finished with that first draft, which is 50% ridiculously terrible, and 50% full of potential, I cut all the parts that are clearly me trying to figure out what to do. You know? All those thoughts the character has that are really me having them. All those go.

What I have learned is killing your darlings is an oxymoron… I hate those. They are not my darlings if they clog up my pacing and suspense. I love to kill them. Their demise means the birth of my book. 

 And so excited to meet you all on book tour!

HALLIE: Hank has a jam packed book tour. Her Events are here. 

Today's question: Think about that description that a reviewer gave THE HOUSEGUEST:

THELMA AND LOUISE MEETS GASLIGHT

What does it suggest to you?? No fair if you've read the book... no spoilers, please!

What We're Writing: Hank Takes A Risk

HANK PHILLLIPI RYAN: So. I took a risk on THE HOUSE GUEST. Yes, a risk.

I decided, drumroll, that I would try something I have not ever done.

I would try, I challenged myself, to write this story from one point of view, in past tense, in chronological order, with no flashbacks or befores or fancy structure.

Just: tell Alyssa’s story the way Alyssa is living it. We know what she knows and we know it when she knows it. We know what she sees, and hears, exactly when she does. We know what she decides, for better or for worse.

Easy peasy, huh?

No way, Reds and readers! It was the most difficult book I have ever written.

No “earlier” or “before” to create a history. No other points of view to offer information or brand new settings or insight or dramatic irony.

We go where she goes, see what she sees.

AHHHHHH!

So difficult.

Here’s a bit of it. There are no spoilers, and nothing that will alter your reading of the whole book. And by February, you'll have forgotten this, anyway.

In this chapter, Alyssa is coming home from having a solitary drink in a hotel bar. And She’s met a woman called Bree. A woman who is running from something. Here's just a part of it.

Chapter 3

Alyssa fished her house keys out of her jacket pocket as she climbed the three brick steps to her red-lacquered front door. The forsythia flanking Alyssa’s flagstone front walk had gone from bare branches to flowering yellow almost overnight, and blooming crocuses made a ribbon of white along each edge, some blossoming brighter in the sudden glow of the motion-activated security lighting. The front steps, cleanly swept caramel-colored brick, were as pristine as when she had left them. 

One forsythia flower, the one she had carefully positioned on the center of the second step, was still there, as perfectly formed as when she had placed it. No one had stepped on it.

Sometimes, when the lights came on, she imagined that Bill had actually flipped the switch, welcoming her home. She imagined his eyes lighting up, too, when he saw her. Sometimes the loving memories of Bill emerged unbidden, the good Bill, and they threatened to engulf her. She would tamp them down, stomp them, destroy them. She could not allow that.

Those days were gone.

She thought about the woman in the bar. Bree. Whatever else Alyssa had to complain about, it was nothing compared to what Bree Lorrance had described. Hounding bill collectors, a harassing boss, and an abusive boyfriend who used the phone as a weapon.

Her key turned in the front door, and she clicked it open, the lights now on and the alarm clamoring. She tapped in the code. She’d changed it, in case Bill tried to sneak in. It had been his idea, the separation, so now he had to live with it.

He'd signed a legal agreement promising he’d only come to the house if he called in advance. Promises. As if Bill knew the meaning of that word. As if he cared about a piece of paper. As if he cared about an alarm. It was still, technically, his house.

She felt the silence. There were some times of day ––and night, especially night––when the house seemed to have a life of its own. Sixty-five hundred square feet, Bill had proudly told her. And anyone else who would listen. Which was everyone of course, he was Bill Macallen. They even laughed when he said size matters, as if that stupid joke was funny to anyone but a 14-year-old.

Those little things, things she had forgiven him when they were happy, seemed teeth-grittingly annoying now, pompous and even embarrassing. She’d never corrected him, though. She’d seen what happened when someone crossed her husband, a thing that once impressed her and now repulsed her. That was power. Only impressive when it was on your side.

Sixty-five hundred square feet. The living room, the movie room, the extra party room, and what Bill called the reception room, where long tables covered in white damask often served as bars or dinner buffets or arrays of fountains gushing dark chocolate with chefs creating dessert crepes to order, stuffed with fresh raspberry or lemon curd or brandied peaches.

Bill’s office-study, all dark rainbows of immaculately shelved books, with mahogany paneled walls and elaborate furniture. Bill thought it showed strength. Alyssa thought it showed arrogance.

Her glorious kitchen, restaurant-worthy and shiny with stainless steel, then the screened-in porch and redwood deck and, upstairs, an array of bedrooms and bathrooms. The pool in the back, randomly shaped like a shimmering turquoise island. Gardens, a changing cabana, and the guest house in the back. All that, and now it was just her, alone, in this expanse of terrifying excess.

She set her bag on the slim hall table, an act of defiance. Bill never liked her to put it there. Said it ruined the ambience of the entryway.

It was always Bill’s house, though he told her he’d bought it for her. For them. But, she thought now, more accurately, it was for Bill and his possessions. As it had turned out, she was one of them.

The ambience of the entryway. Bill words. So many things in the house were described by Bill words, Including herself.

She’d been Alice until the night they’d met—but he’d whispered she was “more like an Alyssa,” and persisted, even teasingly, intimately, introducing her as Alyssa, and soon she’d felt like Alyssa, too; glamorous, beloved, to the manner born Alyssa. And eventually she’d embraced her Bill words: her names, first and last. No longer Alice Westland. But Bill’s possession, Alyssa Macallen.

She’d loved it, once, as she’d loved him. Until the division. Or again more accurately, the subtraction. Her mother had warned her, in the days before she died. “Be careful,” Mama said as she’d clutched her daughter’s arm. Alyssa could hear it now, an evil queen’s menacing admonition. “If he leaves you, you’ll have nothing again.”

HANK: The House Guest comes out February 7, 2023. With blurbs from Lisa Scottoline and Tamron Hall and Lisa Unger and Wanda Morris–and more!--on the cover.

I am dying of nervousness.

Reds and readers, what do you think about this just-plow-ahead structure?

WHAT WE'RE WRITING: Hank has breaking news, a sneak peek, and an experiment!

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: A sneak peek at my new book below! But first, breaking news. First, I have been named Guest of Honor at next year’s Malice Domestic convention. SO AMAZING! (Julia and Rhys were this year’s and the year before, and can you imagine that powerhouse duo at the podium this year? So now, they will be able to tell me the secret handshake.) I am still floating.

Second: My new book THE HOUSE GUEST has a cover! YAY! And it will be revealed on Wednesday. So watch for it! All the Reds shepherded me through the decision, of course, and I am incredibly thrilled. If you want to help me reveal it, just email me at Hank@HankPhillippiRyan.com and I will give you all the deets.

Also: Do NOT buy HER PERFECT LIFE. Seriously. I mean–not yet. It’s going on sale for a pittance on May 10. And you will hear about it, you can be sure. So get ready to click the buy button.

And! THE HOUSE GUEST advance review copies are being printed right now. Yay. (Gilly Macmillan, who read a bound manuscript, just called it “propulsive, smart, twisty, and impossible to predict”” and “A thriller-lover’s treat!” So, again, yay.)

So the whole thing has been a process, and the other day I looked back at several versions of the manuscript for THE HOUSE GUEST. I keep every day's version, maybe that’s silly, but it’s truly instructive. If you compare the versions, you can really see the thought process, the emergence of character, the appearance of theme and motivation.

So here's an experiment.  First, here's the version of page one that existed in May, 2021. Essentially a year ago.

Then, after that, the current version. Which probably won’t change.

What can you tell about the differences? What do you think?

Version from May 2021

Chapter 1

Ailsa swirled the icy olives in her martini, thinking about division. She stared through the chilled glass at the lighted bottles lined up on the shiny aluminum bar shelves in front of her. Division, as in divorce. Not only the obvious division, hers from Bill, but the division of their property. On her side of the ledger, she was supposed get the mortgage-free Weston house (but not the Osterville cottage), the jewelry, two of the important paintings, gym membership for life, and some other stuff. Money, certainly. The lawyers were discussing it, she’d been told. She jiggled the fragments of disappearing ice. Discussing.

What did Bill get? Besides everything else, he got the friends.

All the friends. Ailsa felt her shoulders sag, calculating the parts of her life now grouped on his side of the ledger. She understood, she did, it was difficult when a couple split. Allegiances were tested. Loyalties strained. She jabbed at the closest green olive with the little plastic stick. She’d have thought some of them, some of the friends at least, would’ve stuck with her.

The music from the speakers in each corner of the Vermillion Hotel’s earnestly chic dark-paneled bar floated down over her, some unrecognizable jazz, all piano and promises, muffling conversations and filling the silences. A couple sat at one end of the bar, knee to knee. On vacation, on business, clandestine. Impossible to tell. At the other end, a sport-coated man, tie loosened, used one finger to fish the maraschino cherry out of his brown drink, popped it into his mouth, and licked his fingers before he went back to scrolling the phone in front of him. 


Written January 2022

Chapter 1

Alyssa swirled the icy olives in her martini, thinking about division. She stared through her chilled glass to the mirrored shelves of multi-colored bottles in front of her at the hotel bar. Division, as in divorce.  Not only the physical division, hers from Bill, but thinking about what would happen after the lawyers finished. They’d already created a ledger of their lives together, then started the financial division. Which would be followed by the devastating subtraction.

Bill had subtracted her from his life, that was easy math. With a lift of his chin and a slam of the front door and a squeal of Mercedes brakes. She’d asked him why he was leaving her, begged to know, yearned to understand. But Bill always got what he wanted, no explanation offered or obligatory. She had done nothing wrong. Zero. That’s what baffled her. Terrified her.

She jiggled the fragments of disappearing ice. Division. The Weston house. The Osterville cottage. The jewelry. Her jewelry. The first editions. The important paintings. Club membership. The silver. Money. The lawyers, human calculators who cared nothing about her, would discuss and divide and then, Bill Macallen would win. Bill always won.

All she’d done for the past eight years was addition. She’d added to their lives, added to their social sphere, organizing and planning as “Bill’s wife,” fulfilling her job to make him comfortable and enviable and the image of benevolent success. She’d more than accepted it, she’d embraced it, and all that came with it. And then, this.

I need a break, he’d told her that day. She pictured that moment, a month ago now, could almost smell him, a seductive mixture of leathery orange-green aftershave and personal power. Bill talking down to her, literally and figuratively, wearing one of his pale blue shirts, elegant yellow tie all loose and careless, khaki pants and loafers. A break! As if his life with her was a video he could casually put on pause while he did other things. What things?


HANK: So again, Reds and readers, what can you tell about the differences? What do you think?

Don’t forget to email me for the cover reveal! And stand by for the wonderful sale on Her Perfect Life.

What Hank's "writing"? Relying on Big Magic

What’s happening in my writing world? I'm in the writing cycle. The fun news, the great news, and the scary news. And the big magic.

The fun news? HER PERFECT LIFE is out in trade paperback today! (This is me with the hardcovers on that launch day, which was either yesterday or a million years ago.

The great news? The new book has a title! You know how complicated it can be to title a book. It’s incredibly meaningful, and incredibly powerful, and once it is final, incredibly unchangeable. Did you know The Great Gatsby once was called The High-Bouncing Lover? Tomorrow Is Another Day became Gone with the Wind. Strangers From Within became Lord of the Flies. And First Impressions became Pride and Prejudice. Her Perfect Life was once The Next Caller.

So. The first title for my new book was Her Next Best Friend. Then it became Her New Best Friend. Then it became The New Best Friend. Then—briefly—it became The Guest House.

Then it became… (Drumroll. Fanfare. Applause.)

THE HOUSE GUEST

Isn’t it fascinating to see the evolution? And it's clear what you would expect each book to be about, right? (Crossing fingers you love it—and think it's sinister and foreboding.)

Here is the official announcement in the trade journal—such a pivotal moment!






So THE HOUSE GUEST will be available in January of 2023. Or maybe February. (Any thoughts about that?)

So does that mean I prop my feet up on the ottoman, and have a nice cup of tea? Or even champagne? No. Not yet.

I sent in the second round of edits for THE HOUSE GUEST. Soon, the editor sent me an email that used words like Sophisticated! Lyrical! Amazing! Bravo! And once I decided to believe her, which took me a bit, THEN did I relax and celebrate? No.

Because then I was back at Ground Zero. This is the scary news. Because Reds and readers, I do mean zero. I have to write another book – I get to write another book!--by November, and, I will tell you, because it is just us: I have no idea.

I have a file in my email labeled Book Ideas. With much joy and glee, I opened it to see what I could use. And the file was empty. Empty! Just like my brain.

But yesterday we were talking about chatting with people on planes, and it reminded me that once I was on a plane to somewhere, and there was a man sitting next to me who, I knew, was determined to talk to me. Determined! So I thought okay, Hank. Be a good person, talk to him.

He asked what I did, and I said writer. He seemed to think that was a good thing. I asked what he did, and he said was a consultant who taught emergent design.

Of course I asked–what’s that?

And he said: Do you know the ending of your books when you write them?

And I said no.

He said: Do you trust that you eventually will know the ending?

I said yes, I do.

And he said well, that is emergent design. Your brain is willing to let you work on a project without really knowing what the end will be, but knowing you have to get there. And having trust that you will.

I know my eyes widened and my jaw dropped because–what a profound thing.

I asked: Do you teach that? And he said yes, because some people absolutely cannot think that way. They need to know what the end will be, and then they could work to get there. And sometimes that’s a good thing.

But he said a painter doesn’t know what their painting will look like until it is finished, right? And they trust it will be done, and to stop when it is.

(And silly me, no, I didn’t ask my fellow passenger how he taught it. But I did describe plotters and pantsers.)

Anyway, I’m hoping the same thing happens with ideas. I have written 14 novels now, and for each one there was a moment that I had no idea what the book would be about. Then, something magical or mystical or universal happened–and I DID know!

I’m reading Elizabeth Gilbert’s book Big Magic right now, and it is riveting and compelling. She says “art is a crushing chore and a wonderful privilege.” She says “the work wants to be made, and it wants to be made through you.”

So I will channel that, and let my ideas emerge, and trust that they will. And next year at this time, perhaps I will be revealing another new title.

What do you think about the concept of emergent design? Do you worry, like I do, that you will never get another good idea? Do you trust that good ideas will come?