Reflections on writing, fear, and a bachelorette party that goes very, very wrong
I’m doing my very last round of edits before handing this book to my wife, who will give it the final pass and tell me exactly where I’ve gone off the rails and believe me, she will. After that… it’s time to publish. Gulp.
The goal? The weekend of October 3rd.
The reality? I’ve given myself permission to slip to Halloween if I need to. Honestly, Halloween feels perfect. By late October, everyone’s ready to get a little spooked, a little unsettled, a little tickled by things that go bump in the night. And this is definitely a book that goes bump with a few laughs in between so you don’t soil your pants.
Right now, it’s hovering around 40,000 words. Maybe a little more when I’m done poking at it and yes, I will keep poking. Definitely not 50,000, at least, I hope not. This book has been with me for a very long time. I started writing it when I was sixteen. Sixteen! At sixteen, I was simultaneously dramatic, terrified of everything, and secretly convinced I could be a ghost whisperer if I just concentrated hard enough. Not that I knew it at the time. I just knew I wanted this story out of my head and onto the page.
I was too scared to put it out into the world. Not scared of the ghosts that would have been easier. I was scared of putting my name on it. Scared of judgment, of failure, of people seeing this weird, haunted little corner of my brain and thinking it was silly or worse, thinking I was silly.
So I’m publishing under a pen name: Harlo Malone.
Fun disguise, right? A superhero mask, but less cape, more keyboard. It feels safer. It lets me step into this author thing without baring all the nerves and scars that come along with my “real” life. And honestly? It’s a good name. Rolls off the tongue. Sounds slightly mysterious. Also, it’s fun to say, euphonious and mellifluous even.
Wrestling Myself (and My Sentences)
Editing is mostly about wrestling myself, not the book. The book is fine. It’s my brain that’s messy.
I wait for this magical moment where the words sing on the page. Rarely do they cooperate on the first try or the second, or the thirteenth. So I pick apart sentences. Rewrite. Slice. Dice. Chew them into pulp. Not literally. Please, don’t eat your prose. Hyperbole, yes, but that’s exactly what it feels like. I start with this fresh, shiny sentence, a newborn thought, bright and full of promise and by the time I’m done, it’s a slightly traumatized shadow of its former self.
Still, there are moments where the work makes me laugh out loud. Mostly when Dani, my main character, gets to be funny. She’s my pressure valve. The humor keeps the horror in check. Otherwise, a scene could tip from spooky mystery to full on nightmare real quick. Nobody wants that. I hope readers come for the suspense but stay for the jokes. Yes, jokes. You’ll see.
Why It Took Me This Long
Why did it take me so long to publish a book I’ve carried around for years? Well, if you want the short answer: life, school, and me being me.
I’ve spent most of my life in school. Undergraduate took forever. Then graduate school. Then… let’s just say I spent a lot of time in libraries and labs, occasionally staring out windows wondering if I was doing it right. I got my doctorate a few years ago. But even after all that, I had some hard stops, mental health breakdowns that rerouted my life more than once, like a GPS recalculating every few months.
Publishing under a pen name feels like a way to move forward safely. I don’t have to show all of me yet just this story, just this part of me. And honestly? I need a win. I need a “look, I did this, and it’s out there” moment. Maybe getting this book into the world will be it. Maybe it’ll feel like I finally caught up with that sixteen year old me who desperately wanted this story to exist.
What Dani’s Teaching Me
This edit has been about letting Dani give more of herself to the reader. She’s the steady rock in her friend group, the one everyone relies on, but she’s also quietly grieving and terrified she might lose everyone she loves. The bachelorette party that sets the story in motion isn’t just a fun, chaotic weekend, it scars her in ways she doesn’t yet fully understand. And it gives her some unusual abilities to see and communicate with the departed. Yes, ghosts. Not exactly casual hobby stuff.
Her fiancée, Bex, only appears in the prologue and epilogue, but she’s Dani’s anchor, the voice of reason, the hand to hold, the one who reminds Dani that love isn’t just about risk; it’s about staying. Dani can be mischievous, impulsive, and occasionally reckless, but Bex balances her perfectly. She’s there when Dani gets carried away with pranks, when Dani’s grief bubbles up, or when the ghosts from the party threaten to drown her in fear. Dani has a sense of humor about it all. She jokes to keep the darkness at bay, to protect herself and her friends. And honestly? That’s one of the parts I love most about her she’s scary, she’s clever, she’s funny, and she’s heartbreakingly human all at once.
When readers finish this book, I want them to feel like they’ve been through something spooky, funny, and heartfelt. I want them to leave thinking, “Damn, I want to know what happens next for them and maybe I’d better double check the attic tonight, just in case.”
This story has been a companion, a teacher, and a mirror for me. It’s a little scary, a little funny, and a lot personal. And finally, after all these years, it’s just about ready to meet the world.
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