Some novels begin with a bang. Then there are novels that begin with a beer stain — on a beige linen shirt, in an overcrowded theater lobby in Brooklyn — and don’t let you go after that.
I’m writing that novel right now.
It doesn’t have a title yet. The first draft is still in progress. But I find myself wanting to talk about it already — not because the book is finished, but because it’s got its hooks in me. Because writing it keeps pushing me into corners I didn’t plan to go. And I’ve learned to take that as a good sign.
New York, Carroll Gardens, a Wrong Number
Two people meet by chance. Or what looks like chance. He spills beer on her shirt. She gives him the wrong number — and watches to see if he notices.
He notices.
That’s the first sentence of this book that really counts. Not what’s said. But who catches what’s off.
From that moment, something unfolds that I could call a love story — except that wouldn’t be quite honest. It’s also a family story. And a story about how families aren’t guarantees; they’re decisions. Along for the ride is a small boy named Paul, who carries a green plastic dinosaur everywhere he goes. One leg is missing. And he looks at strangers the way adults stopped doing a long time ago: directly, without calculation, without any interest in being liked.
Brooklyn, Williamsburg, Carroll Gardens, Atlantic Avenue. I don’t know these streets as backdrop. I know them as pressure. The bus that groans at the corner. Neon light trembling in black rainwater. The warmth of a kitchen too small for the number of people sitting around the table, all of them pretending that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be.
What I Want to Do Differently With This Book
I write contemporary psychological fiction rooted in the one place where nerves are always exposed: New York City. In The Delilah Principle, my debut, the subject was the invisible architecture of control inside a relationship — how power operates when it doesn’t shout, but smiles.
This new book is meant to go deeper. Or more precisely: inward.
My tension doesn’t need explosions. It lives in tone, in pauses, in implication — in the moment you realize: that wasn’t an accident. That was deliberate.
In this story, the intent is present from the beginning, but never clear-cut. Two people who’ve both learned to map the world by its exits. Who both know something is wrong. Who both — for reasons I don’t want to explain too quickly — stay silent when they should speak.
And Paul, who sees all of it.
Children read the mood before they understand the meaning. Paul is proof of that. Toward the end, he asks a question. What happens after that question is one of the scenes I’m still shaping — and the one that occupies me most. I’ll leave it at that for now.
If you’re drawn to books like Normal People, Beautiful World, Where Are You, or Conversations with Friends, I hope this one will find its way to you.
The Blow That Goes Unsaid
The story has a turning point. It arrives late. I don’t want to dramatize it. I don’t want to over-explain it. There’s a sentence — three words — that one of the characters sends to her friend. No exclamation mark. No explanation.
And then: a bathroom. A mirror. A red mark on a cheek that will be darker by morning.
I’m writing that scene right now, and I know what I want it to do: show that violence doesn’t get its weight from volume. It gets it from the silence that follows. From the looking. From the clear-eyed examination that no one can afford once they’ve decided to keep hoping it was harmless.
What becomes of the characters. What Paul asks at the end. And what it costs to answer him: that’s the book I’m writing.
When Does It Come Out?
It’s too early for a date. But I’ll post here as soon as there’s more to share — a title, a release date, maybe a first look at the manuscript. If you don’t want to miss it, you can sign up for updates.
In the meantime: my first book, The Delilah Principle, is already available — on Amazon and in my shop. It’s a good entry point into a way of writing that, in this new novel, I’m pushing to become quieter, sharper, and harder to shake.
