Courage is another beast entirely. Courage is wild. It is required for every writer. Courage is what allows you to say exactly what you wish to say, in the exact way you want to say it. Courage is what you feel when no one understands the purpose of your writing, yet you continue to project your voice until the world learns to comprehend it. Courage is what wakes you up in the early morning hours and convinces you to write a new story. Writers need courage long before they form a writing routine, before their first piece is sold, and even before they have a polished draft. It’s what convinces you that your consistent effort will eventually build a body of work the world will accept.

Can you have one without the other? Yes! You can have courage without confidence. But no, you cannot have confidence without courage.

A confident writer can read and reread their manuscript 35 times. They can feel satisfied with the polished draft, yet still lack the courage to share it with a friend, relative, or editor. Without courage, the goal remains simply completing the draft, and the manuscript stays a private collection forever.

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and prevents my mind from filling in the gaps during self-edits on the laptop screen. This ensures a more accurate edit.

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Andrew Johnston

Andrew Johnston is a self-published fantasy author and elementary school custodian from southwestern Pennsylvania. He joins The Blue Snowsuit Literary Series for an in-depth author interview that explores the private emotional pressures, creative discipline, and personal growth behind building his Iron Frost Universe.

In this candid conversation, Johnston reflects on writing stories drawn from his own experiences, protecting his confidence and dream of becoming an author, the surprising discoveries about his growth and maturity after twelve years of writing, and his hope that readers finish his books feeling they can overcome their circumstances and achieve anything.

Interview

1. When writing The Discarded Knight, what pressure were you under, not externally, but privately?

I didn’t feel any pressure. I wanted to write a novella that tackled bullying and father/son issues. I lived that story.

2. What did you have to protect internally to continue writing, especially when your belief in the work was challenged?

I had to keep telling myself that writing is my dream. I looked for support beyond my hometown. I had to protect my confidence and the only way to do that was to never quit.

3. Where did the writing resist you the most emotionally, particularly when the story began to move in a direction you didn’t expect, and what did that reveal about you?

I both outline and free hand my stories. They go where they want to go most of the time. My stories have revealed that I am capable of something great.

4. What question does your work continue to ask you, even now?

My work asks all the time why you are holding yourself back.

5. Did writing these stories reveal anything about yourself that you didn’t expect or weren’t comfortable confronting?

Writing these stories revealed how much I have grown in both intelligence and maturity. It was a relief.

6. What part of your writing reflects something you’ve had to process or understand about yourself over time?

My writing revealed how impatient and anxious I was as a person. I have been writing for twelve years. My patience has grown dramatically with each book and passage of time.

7. What would you lose if readers stopped reading your work tomorrow, and what would you gain?

I would gain nothing and lose everything. I need to be an author. I have worked too hard at my craft and took too many risks for people to stop reading altogether.

8. Do you trust your readers to sit with discomfort, or do you feel pressure to resolve things for them?

The readers will feel what they do as they read. I trust my readers to enjoy or not enjoy what they read. My goal is to entertain and build from it.

9. What do you hope stays with the reader after the story ends, beyond the plot itself?

A sense of hope. I want readers to feel hope that they can achieve anything. I want them to realize that your appearance and life circumstances can be overcome.

Andrew Johnston is a fantasy author from Pennsylvania.
Andrew Johnston’s Website

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Each feature is part of a growing literary archive exploring psychological tension, creative discipline, and the interior forces shaping contemporary storytelling.

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Nilakshi Garg

Nilakshi Garg, debut author of the psychological novel Mirage, joins The Blue Snowsuit Literary Series for an in-depth author interview that dives deep into the private pressures and psychological challenges behind writing her gripping debut.

In this conversation, the first-time author reflects on creative resistance, self-doubt, the delicate balance between personal trauma and character originality, and the surprising discoveries she made about her own storytelling instincts while crafting a story filled with romance, mental health, suspense, and emotional intelligence.

Interview

1. What pressure were you under when this writing was done, not externally, but privately?

I had no resources and no mentorship for post-publishing marketing. So, I was unsure how the book release would do in the market. I was battling multiple self-doubts, but they were debunked or demystified the moment readers started pouring in their genuine reviews.

2. What did you have to protect in order to finish Mirage, whether it was time, clarity, relationships, or belief in the work itself?

I had to protect my own personality because as a first-time author, you just want to dump all the trauma, insecurities, fears, dreams, etc., onto your characters. But that’s like killing the originality of your characters because it then becomes some sort of biography. So, I had to protect my own lived experiences and give my characters their own experiences. It took me time to get into the skin, but once I was inside my characters’ heads, I knew where I had to land them and how.

3. Where did the writing resist you the most, and what did that resistance teach you?

I gave publishing rights and money to my publisher even before completing the entire first draft of Mirage. I had only written three chapters by then. So, I was rather dubious and scared for this project.

It took me six odd months to complete the first draft and I was constantly battling myself. I was unsure if I could even pull this project through but the fact that I had already invested money for publishing this book and announced it into my private social circle gave me the pressure I needed to overcome the resistance as a first-time author.

Also, my publisher kept haggling me to complete the project because they too had their own commitments. That’s the lesson for me as a beginner. I had to put an external pressure on me, otherwise this book would have never made it.

4. What question does this book keep asking you, even now?

To normalize therapy, to stay grounded, to stay true to ourselves, to exercise the art or law of being sure of something or someone in life, to be patient with someone who is meant forever but is currently not capable of that commitment, to close the loose ends of the past before committing forever to someone.

5. Did writing this book reveal anything about yourself that surprised you?

Yes. Interesting question, by the way. I wasn’t sure I would be able to write a book with so many characters. I had no idea I had a funny or suspenseful bone in my mind, if that’s even biologically possible. But people gave me a very surprising review that the first few chapters were really smooth and funny and that Mirage’s twist or suspense was totally unexpected. No reader had even for once guessed the suspense about Bethany’s past while reading the book.

6. What are some interpretations of your work that you find most interesting or unexpected?

I love to write about polar opposites. I definitely love giving happy endings to my characters because I too want a happy ending for myself in real life. Also, the first sentence and the first paragraph of the book that I write is always the most important to me. Even the dedication page. That has to pull the reader in right away.

7. How has your experience as a reader (having read over 500 novels) shaped your voice as an author?

It certainly has. I read most of the American fictional novels while growing up. I think that impacted the way I imagined my characters and their love affairs.

8. As someone who writes across genres, including fiction, poetry, and film, how does your creative approach shift depending on the medium?

Quite an intriguing question here. I have a flexible mindset, like that of a dilettante, director, actor, or polymath.

I have interest in various topics, subjects, and formats of content. I used to do freelancing earlier and I have built muscle from there by writing content for various niches and genres. So, it’s easy for me to switch from romance novels to workbooks, poetry, screenplays, or essay books. It’s like there is a creative switch within me that I need to turn on.

For that, I might have to sit in silence for like 5-10 minutes, listen to the music that suits the genre, and get on with writing randomly for half an hour, and then get deeper into the skin of the genre or demand of that book.

9. What themes do you find yourself returning to across your books?

Romance, mental health, and emotional intelligence.

10. What do you hope readers feel after the final page of Mirage, not immediately, but days later?

That they are not as lonely or alone as they tend to be. Everyone is just one call, one message, or one DM away to reach out for help in the darkest hours of their day or night.

When we do not give ourselves the leverage of receiving help from our near and dear ones, that’s when we struggle the most. It’s what happened with Bethany in the novel. And readers will recognize that even days after finishing the book.

It applies to finding true love as well. Most of the time, people who love us genuinely and truly are lurking around waiting for us to reach out. When we do, magic happens, and the all-so-consuming darkness within shatters.

Nilakshi Garg is a Delhi-born creative entrepreneur, passionate writer, and author who debuted with her novel Mirage in 2020 while founding the digital magazine Popularity.world and One Seven Creative Solutions, driven by her lifelong love for content and creativity.

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CHER SMITH

Cher Smith, author of the faith-infused psychological novel Justified Means, joins The Blue Snowsuit Literary Series for an in-depth author interview that explores the personal and psychological foundations behind her story.

In this conversation, she examines writing vulnerability, the tension between faith and doubt, imposter syndrome, and how her lived experience shaped the emotional truth at the core of her story.

Interview

1. When writing Justified Means, what private pressure shaped the work beyond external expectations?

Justified Means started off as an interesting writing experiment. Until then, the books I had written were meticulously outlined so I wouldn’t get stuck. A friend challenged me to throw out the outline and write Justified Means on the fly. I enjoyed the process, even though it made editing a bit more difficult as I had to make sure all the transitions worked. That was the first pressure. The second pressure was telling the story of Katie Means in first person. Katie’s story is my own, and while that made it easy to narrate, it at times felt vulnerable. I was taking my emotional clothes off!

2. You have said you want readers to feel changed after finishing your book. In Justified Means, what internal transformation were you trying to create on the page?

Often in conservative churches, expressing your feelings can be dangerous. Don’t question God, don’t express anger especially at God, simply pretend you don’t feel those things. Through Katie, I wanted readers to feel that they aren’t alone. At one point, Katie’s friend says that Katie is standing in an open field, flipping the bird at God and daring him to hit her with lightning. I want readers to recognize themselves in that metaphor, especially if they’ve never felt safe enough to express that. The internal transformation I wanted to create was the knowledge that God can handle it. You can flip the bird at him, and he’s still going to love you just the same.

3. Where does your writing resist you the most, in structure, language, or emotional truth, and what has that resistance revealed about you?

It’s interesting the way this question is phrased, because it makes the writing sound so external, almost like we (the author and the writing) are sparring partners. And that’s true! The writing takes on a life of its own. So it might be in the structure. It’s the story telling me it wants to go somewhere like a wayward toddler, and I’m the controlling mother pulling and pushing and cajoling to get that toddler in line. That’s what the resistance has revealed about me—I’m a control freak when it comes to my writing. The problem with that is the writing should always win. I have an unfinished manuscript I abandoned because my main character started to fall in love with someone I hadn’t planned in the book. I stopped writing it, and I regret that. I should let my characters have their own lives. After all, that’s why I’m a writer.

4. What part of your creative voice took the longest to trust?

It’s a difficult question. I don’t think I recognized parts of my voice until a friend was reading the drafts of my children’s picture books, and he commented on a similar theme through them that I hadn’t even noticed. The longest to trust? Possibly the expression of myself, my perception of the world and of my experiences, and that they have value. In many ways, it’s easier to copy someone else’s writing style rather than develop or find your own voice. But it’s more fun when it’s your own, even if it is a little scarier. Does it matter if anyone reads my writing? In the long run, not really. What does matter is that I get the story out of my heart and onto the page.

5. As someone who values grammar and precision, do you see language as a form of control within storytelling?

I think of it as the structure of a house. Your vision, your “story” is of a finished house, painted in your colors, decorated with your own personality. The structure is the foundation, the beams, the walls, the roof. Without those, the house is unlivable. Correctly used, the frame shows off the beauty and shine of the house. Through the structure of language, the reader notices only the beauty of the story. I do try to be flexible with grammar, but that’s difficult, because I love it. My friends call me “the comma queen.” I wear that proudly!

6. What fear surfaces most often when you are deep inside a manuscript?

That’s a great question, and it has so many answers! Probably the fear that surfaces most often is the fear that what I’m writing is just crap. The imposter syndrome. The feeling of “What makes me think anyone is going to want to read this slop?” And then the next day, I think, “Hey, that’s pretty good.” That happened a lot in Justified Means, because it was such a personal book, and why would anyone want that peek into my life? Then it became Katie’s life, not mine. Although I do have some friends who hold their purses close when I’m around.

7. After finishing Justified Means, what lingered longer, relief, doubt, or a quiet sense of exposure?

I had a great sense of relief. The manuscript I had started with no outline and no real sense of flow was finished. While editing, I had to fix a couple of missteps with timing, but I was relieved it finished well and that I hadn’t given up.

8. What do you hope readers carry with them days after closing Justified Means?

I hope they were moved by Katie’s story and perhaps understand their own struggles with life’s expectations. What I want most, and this might seem simple, I want them to smile when they think about the book. I want them to remember the absurdity of this preacher’s wife becoming a thief. Life is short, and life is difficult. I want them to smile.

Cher Smith, who writes novels, short stories, and children's picture books, lives in Colorado with her son, dog, and her husband's ghost.

Website: deadkeypublishing.com

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Every story grows stronger when the reader becomes part of the conversation.

The Blue Snowsuit is built around psychological thrillers in verse, letters in verse, and interviews with writers and creatives. As the newsletter grows, I want to make sure the work I publish here is the work you enjoy reading the most.

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More than one answer can apply where indicated.

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The Weight

This chapter follows The Record.
Begin with The Record.

The envelopes continue.
Some are thin.
Some are thick with photographs.

A father emails at 2:17 a.m.

“I watched your interview twice.
You understand how they move.”

Mothers send school pictures
with height and weight written on the back.

Birthmarks circled.
Last known clothing listed.

I stack the photographs on your side of the table.

Forfeit’s publicity calendar expands.
Radio appearances.
Community panels.
A regional conference at Layton Springs High School.

The first speaking offer is $2,000.

They call it awareness.

Forfeit releases the statement,
“We regret all association with Andrew Layton.”

The second speaking offer arrives a week later.

$4,000.

They call it a cover up.

Search traffic increases.
My name, Andrew Layton, trends in small bursts.
Clips circulate.

Television clips circulate across social media.

Someone posts:

“Who helped him find the money?”

I scroll past it.
It does not disappear.

Once, I asked why you typed so late.
You did not look up.

“The house is clearer after midnight,” you said.

“Less interference.”

At night I wake
and go downstairs,
expecting the rhythm of your typing.

The sound would reach the hallway
before I reached the stairs.
I arrive at your desk.

No lamp light glowing.
No “I’ll be up soon.”

I open Mariam’s laptop.
Folders nested inside folders.
Encrypted files I cannot access.
A channel linked to a name I do not recognize.
I send a message.

No reply.

Inside one document I find a note:

“If he is removed,
release incrementally.”

You anticipated disappearance.
Just not yours.

I sleep on your side of the bed.

All the envelopes are stacked by date.

A project of Redtail Turtle Publishing

Reckoning (Chosen Pt 17)

A Thriller-in-Verse from The Blue Snowsuit

This chapter follows Chosen Part 16.
Begin with Part 16.

Outside, the sunlight blinds.

Sabrina taps me from behind.
I turn.
I take the vehicle keys.

The suitcase doesn’t feel like a win.

If Vin were here,
he would call this another chip to play.

I step onto the driveway.
A grey cat crosses the pavement.
A headless mouse hangs from its mouth.

I open the vehicle door.
My phone lights up in my hand.

She was beautiful.
She was happy.
Now I have to save Marcus.

On the next block,
a car drives beside me.
His window lowers.

“Pull over.”

I lower mine.

“You have the money.”

I raise the suitcase.

“Time to see Luke.”

I step out.
Walk toward his vehicle.

He pats my front pockets.
Then my back.
His hand presses my stomach.

“No. Please stop.”

He lifts my shirt.
“Not my problem.”

His fingers press into the wound.
My breath tightens.

“I’ll take the money.”

He grabs the suitcase.

A woman opens a door nearby.
“Officer, can you open my lock?
It’s broken.”

His hand moves toward his waist.
“Go back inside.
I’m off duty.”

The woman steps closer.
“My father was in the military,” she says.
“That’s a twenty-four-hour job.”

He stares at her.
“I’ll send someone,” he says.
“Right now this suspect has evidence to process.”

He opens the car door.
I sit.

The engine hums.
I rest my head against the window.
Small bumps move through the tires.
Soft turns.
Quiet streets.

“Get up.”

His hand presses my shoulder.
“Vin cost me a lot.”

I open my eyes.
“He’s gone.”

The car stops.

Luke sits at a table.
A laptop opens.
A ledger beside it.

Behind his chair stands a large man in a suit.

The fake detective places the suitcase on the table.
“He has the money.”

Luke smiles faintly.
The bodyguard loosens his stance.

The detective opens the case.
Bills stacked tight.
Luke counts.

“Where is Vin?”

“Murdered,” the detective says.
“Seems they owed more than one debt.”

The fake detective lifts my shirt.
Luke watches the wound.

“All expenses must be paid,” Luke says.
“Very unfortunate.”

I look at him.
“No. It’s all there.”

Luke finishes counting.
“This is extra,” he says.
“The surplus will be returned to you.
We are not thieves.”

Luke lifts his phone.

A waitress in a blue and white uniform approaches.
She carries a small plastic bag.

The bodyguard gathers the extra bills.
He places them inside the bag.
The waitress waits.

Luke nods once.
She takes the bag
and places it on my side of the table.

Luke returns to his ledger.
The bodyguard steps toward the back entrance.

A door opens.
He leads her forward.

Shayla.

Her hair is longer.
Her steps are slow.

Then she sees me.
Her eyes widen.
She runs.

He releases her arm.
She reaches me
and she holds on tight.

Her breath shakes.
“I knew you’d come back,” she says.

I stare at her.
I thought she was gone.

She pulls back slightly.
Her hazel eyes bright.
Her hand still holding mine.

Luke closes the ledger.

A project of Redtail Turtle Publishing

KYLIGHTS

KYLIGHTS joins The Blue Snowsuit Literary Series for an author interview discussing perception, sovereignty, and the internal discipline required to think clearly in destabilizing times. In this conversation the author of The Book of Revolution reflects on urgency, responsibility, and the psychological tension between clarity and manipulation that shaped the work.

Interview

1. When writing The Book of Revolution, what pressure were you under, not externally, but privately?

Privately, I felt a deep urgency. Not panic, but an awareness and a sense that the world was shifting in ways that were confusing and destabilising for many people. I didn’t want thoughtful, well-meaning individuals to feel powerless or alone in that. I wanted them to know their power and advantage relative to the forces attempting to take humanity back to the dark ages. So, the pressure was internal: to articulate something truthful, steady and empowering in the midst of all the noise. I also wanted to place a map in people’s hands. Something that helps them understand how energy works, how focus works, how perception works, how emotions work… so they can navigate their own lives and this eye-opening timeline with clarity, rather than fear.

2. What did you have to protect in order to complete this work, whether time, clarity, or belief in the message itself?

Clarity and accuracy for sure. Those were absolutely sacred. The Book of Revolution moves across science, philosophy, religion, alchemy, psychology. When you weave that many threads together the responsibility is enormous. I fact-checked constantly, but in doing so I also became aware of how much of what we inherit as “fact” has travelled through so many layers of translation, interpretation and sometimes distortion. So, I had to protect two things simultaneously: intellectual precision and intuitive integrity. The facts had to hold up, but the deeper current – what I call the golden thread – had to feel true in the body. That balance required discipline and humility.

3. Where did the writing resist you the most, and what did that resistance teach you?

Whenever I felt resistance it showed up as a feeling of murkiness. A sentence that wouldn’t land or a concept that felt slightly off. I’ve learned to trust and even revere that sensation. For me, resistance isn’t the enemy it’s information. It means I’m not yet seeing clearly enough, or I’m slightly “out of tune” with respect to homing in on the truth. Instead of forcing the paragraph, I would step back, let my mind clear and then return when I felt less frustrated. That practice taught me patience and absolutely sharpened my intuition. Clarity is not something you wrestle into existence. It arrives when you’re aligned with it.

4. What question does The Book of Revolution continue to ask you, even now?

It’s constantly a question of timing. I felt a powerful urgency to release the book when I did in July 2025. Since then, watching global events unfold I often reflect on how the themes of consciousness, sovereignty and perception are becoming more even relevant, not less. The ongoing question for me is not “Was I right?” but “What is my responsibility now?” How do we proactively and positively participate in this moment of history? How do we consciously build what’s next with integrity? The book opened that conversation for me. It didn’t close it.

5. Did writing this book reveal anything about your own perception that surprised you?

Yes absolutely. It revealed how interconnected everything truly is. As I traced ideas and the golden thread across cultures, eras and disciplines, I began to see how often the same core truths were being expressed in different languages. That was profoundly moving. It shifted my perception from fragmentation and human-made siloes to coherence and universality. It also reminded me how much of reality exists beyond our immediate five-sensory perception. We truly see only a sliver of the full spectrum and becoming aware of that limitation is both humbling, and exhilarating.

6. Your blog frequently explores the unseen structures shaping everyday life. How does that sustained practice of reflection influence the psychological depth of your books?

My blog and vlog are essentially an open and inclusive conversation for reflection, understanding and expansiveness. It trains me to tune beneath the surface of events, image and narratives. The Book of Revolution is certainly ambitious in scope, but psychologically it remains based in something very human: how we perceive, how we interpret, how we respond, and the consequences of it all. I’m not interested in superficial spectacle. I’m interested in depth and the truth, in character and substance, because that’s where the true identity and strength of an individual lives. The more I contemplate and stretch myself daily the more attuned I become to subtle patterns, and that sustained practice allows me to explore complex ideas without losing emotional nuance and the ability to discern fact from fiction.

7. As a photographer working closely with light and shadow, how does visual perception shape the atmosphere and emotional tension within your writing?

I love this question! Photography taught me that light is relational – it only reveals form because shadow exists. The same is true in writing. I’m deeply aware of how focus works: a camera can zoom in and intensify a moment or pull back and create context. Writing, and just being human in general, operates the same way. Emotional tension depends on what you choose to illuminate and what you allow to remain peripheral, almost insulated from. As a photographer, I’m constantly noticing beauty, texture and contrast. That attentiveness carries into my writing and how I live life in general. It keeps the tone grounded in understanding and reverence, rather than cynicism.

8. Your work speaks about consciousness and light. Where does darkness enter your creative process?

Darkness is the beginning of the creative process. In both life and creativity, darkness represents the problem, the yearning, the void before form. It’s not the endpoint, it’s the question mark that creates space for us, and the wider Universe, to answer, solve and satisfy. Personally, some of my proudest growth came from painful experiences. I would not write the way I do without them. The difference is learning how to transform pain into insight rather than identity. Darkness becomes generative when you refuse to let it define you.

9. What do you hope readers feel after the final page, not immediately, but days later?

I hope they feel steadier, more sovereign, less easily manipulated by the insidious tendrils of propaganda and fear. Days later, I hope something subtle has started to shift. That they begin to notice their own agency more clearly. That they trust their discernment, that they recognise the intelligence within them. The revolution I speak about is internal – it’s not about aggression, it’s about alignment. When individuals reclaim their inner authority, the external world inevitably changes. If someone closes The Book of Revolution and feels even slightly more inspired, expansive and empowered to live consciously and courageously, then it has done its work.

Sharing her creative work under the moniker KYLIGHTS, Kylie Speer is an Australian author, artist, photographer and television presenter whose work explores light, consciousness and the deeper structures shaping human experience.

Website: kylights.art

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A project of Redtail Turtle Publishing

Correction (Chosen Pt 16)

A Thriller-in-Verse from The Blue Snowsuit

This chapter follows Chosen Part 15.
Begin with Part 15.

Vin holds Red Three high.

The neon sign flickers.

Sabrina goes upstairs.
The basement door closes.

Vin laughs.

“Hot table,” he says.
“Everything on red.”

He sets Red Three on the couch.
Drops the suitcase beside it.
Opens it.
Counts.

I look down at the thin red lines across my swelling skin.

The door opens.

Sabrina comes down wearing a black shirt and dark jeans.
Her hair tied back.

A bottle of vodka in one hand.
A small purse in the other.

“Celebrate my victory,” Vin says.

She lowers the bottle between his legs.

I remove a glass. Then another.

Vin twists the cap.
Pours into two glasses.
He smiles.
Drinks straight from the bottle.

I step away.

She stares into his eyes.

Vin takes another shot.
Pours into the first glass.

Sabrina sets the purse beside Red Three on the couch.
Unzips it.

Vin looks at her.

“What’s that?”

She lifts a handgun.

Vin lowers the bottle. He stands.

“What’s this?”

The sound is small.

His body jerks.

Red marks her cheek.
The neon light hums.

The bottle falls.

It rolls.
Spills.
Stops.

Vin collapses backward onto the couch.

Sabrina lowers the gun.

She looks at him.

“I loved him.”

I raise my hands.

She turns to me.

“Pay Luke.”

The neon sign hums again.

The gun is pointed at Vin.

The story continues.
Reckoning (Chosen Part 17)

A project of Redtail Turtle Publishing

The Record

Four weeks ago
Forfeit Publishing releases my book.

They design a website.
They call it necessary.

The first envelope arrives two days later.

A high school portrait.
Blue background.
She is thirteen.

Her mother writes:

“You understand this world.
Please help us find her.”

The photograph rests on the kitchen table
where we once shared breakfast
and read spreadsheets.

Two weeks ago
the door camera shows
two men guiding you into a van.

No screaming.
No struggle.
Only a controlled exchange of words.

I watch your hands.
Four fingers raised.
Then two.

One week ago
the firm eliminates my position.

Restructuring.

Another clean word.

Forfeit sends flowers.

White lilies and orchids.

More envelopes arrive.

Parents asking for help.
Teachers sending personality sketches.
Coaches describing routines,
team involvement,
known friends.

I am cataloging.

The story continues.
The Weight (The Record Part 2)

A project of Redtail Turtle Publishing

Dear Justine

Every morning
your music moves through the walls
before my alarm starts.

I hit snooze twice.
Sometimes three times.
You say, “mom, time to go.”

You take the shower first,
using most of the hot water.
You sing
the same few lines.
I never catch the words.

I make breakfast.
Toast.
Fruit.
Something light.

You said, “my friends called me, heavy.”
I only fry eggs for myself.

No music in the kitchen,
Upstairs is enough.

Out the door.
I drive to work.
You head the opposite way
in your uniform,
skirt hem higher than I like.

I tell you to fix it.
You roll your eyes.

One kiss on your cheek.
You say, “one is enough.”

That was Monday.

Or Tuesday.

You asked for Wendy’s on the way home.
I remember that clearly.

Today the phone rang.
The receptionist spoke evenly.

“Hello, this is Ms. Carter from the school office.
We have your daughter’s items from her locker prepared for retrieval.
Would you prefer we mail them to your address,
or would you like to come by during office hours to pick them up?
Please let us know at your convenience.”

Your daughter’s items.

I laughed.
I told her she was mistaken.
I drove her Monday.
I packed fruit Tuesday.
I helped her with homework Wednesday.
We did her nails on Thursday.
I heard her music today.

Didn’t I?

Your room is quiet now.

Your door is open.
Your bed is made.
My alarm rings at 6:30 tomorrow.

No footsteps in the hall.
You take the shower first.
The shower stays cold.
You sing, the same few lines.

No steam on the mirror anymore.
I never catch the words.

The stairs creak under my weight alone.
Toast.
Fruit.
Something light.

The furnace rumbles.

I only fry eggs for myself.

The clock ticks.

The clock ticks louder.

Love,
Mom

If this letter in verse stayed with you, explore more intimate pieces in the same style:
• Missing: A young man writes from the library while awaiting trial.
• Deposit Box Letter: A mother’s private words, to be read at age 20.
• The Day She Chose Herself: A quiet rebellion in a house of men.

All free to read now. Which one are you reading next? Let me know in the comments.

— Oneal Walters

A project of Redtail Turtle Publishing

Victory (Chosen Pt 15)

A Thriller-in-Verse from The Blue Snowsuit

This chapter follows Chosen Part 14.
Begin with Part 14.

The basement smells like citrus cleaner and liquor.
A small bar stretches along the far wall.
Glasses hang upside down above it.
A neon beer sign hums faintly.

Warm light spills over the wood.
No sirens here.
No blood on the floor.

Vin drops the suitcase on the counter.
Red Three lands beside it.
“I won the bonus round,” he says.

Sabrina sets the rifle down carefully.
She disappears up the stairs.

Vin flips the suitcase open.
Stacks of cash glow under the yellow light.
He runs his fingers across the bands.

Sabrina returns with a small white towel
and a bottle of alcohol.
She steps closer to me.
“Hold still.”

She lifts my shirt.
The alcohol pours over the towel.
It touches my skin.
I tighten.
“Gentle,” I say.

Blood cements onto the white fabric.

“I’ve seen a lot as a child,” she says.
“I’ve patched worse wounds
back when my hands were smaller.”

My breath catches.
“Thanks,” I say.

Vin watches for a second.
Then his eyes return to the suitcase.

A car honks.
Tires peeling.
Vin doesn’t flinch.

“How?” I ask her.
She wipes higher.

Vin snaps the suitcase shut.
“And the brothers?”
“Cleaned up,” Sabrina answers.

Vin laughs.
“Parlay. Double the bet!”

“Where’s A2?” she asks.

His smile fades slightly.
“New players came. Took his friend and the gun.”

Silence lingers.
Sabrina looks at him.
“Should we get them next?”

Her fingers release the towel.
I hold it in place.
Our hands touch briefly.

“Police have Marcus,” I say.

Sabrina steps back.
Vin waves his hand.

Vin straightens.
Lifts Red Three high.
Sabrina steps to his side.
Nods once.

“What’s next?” she asks.

“Marcus gets out,” I say.

Vin cuts in.
“Best lawyer money buys.
Pay your father the debt.
Then we hit the tables…double this suitcase.”

He lifts Red Three higher.
“Table’s still hot.
We’re just getting started.”

The story continues.
Correction (Chosen Part 16)

A project of Redtail Turtle Publishing

Jaime Lynn Hendricks

Jaime Lynn Hendricks, bestselling thriller author of A Lovely lie, joins The Blue Snowsuit Literary Series for an in-depth author interview that dives deep into the private pressures and psychological challenges behind writing gripping psychological thrillers.

In this conversation, the acclaimed psychological thriller author reflects on creative resistance, vulnerability in storytelling, and how she sustains raw emotional tension long after the final page.

Interview

1. What pressure were you under when this writing was done, not externally, but privately?

None, really. This was actually my 4th completed manuscript, but I queried it under a different title and never got an agent for it, so it went in the metaphorical drawer. I got an agent on my 5th MS, the one right after this one, and I was writing so many books so fast…but I LOVED the secret in this one surrounding the car accident. After 3 traditionally published books, I went back to this one. I looked at it with new eyes and realized what wasn’t working the first time around, so I totally rewrote it. The only thing I kept was the situation surrounding the accident. Literally EVERYTHING else was different … the POVs used, their names, their jobs… total rewrite! My publisher loved it, we renamed it, and it got what it still to date my favorite cover.

2. What did you have to protect in order to finish this piece? (time, secrecy, sanity, relationships, belief)

Definitely my sanity! For a total rewrite, I still had in the back of my head how it was “supposed to be” so getting past all of that was difficult at first.

3. Where did the writing resist you the most, and what did that resistance teach you?

As said above, the resistance came from what the original version was. I kept saying “wait but…!” until I trained myself to understand this was an entirely new manuscript. My writing was definitely better by the time I came back to it, so “killing the darlings” really applied here. I learned that it’s OK to trash entire chunks of something I previously adored—I’m talking 30-40k words, gone, in two separate spots. I kept thinking they were needed, but they only worked with the original version.

4. What question does this book keep asking you, even now?

Did I do the right thing by letting one person “get off” without jail time? I don’t want to give anything away, but while it seems this person didn’t have to pay for what they did, they most certainly paid in their personal life.

5. What part of yourself did you not intend to reveal, but the writing forced it into the open anyway?

There’s a split timeline… now and 1999. I don’t have kids, and the main character in the “now” has a teenage son. I had to ask some friends if the behavior was in line with how teenagers act nowadays. I don’t like to rely on social media to see stuff like that because so much is posturing. I hope it came across authentic, otherwise I outed myself as someone who should never write about teenagers

This was my only book with a teenager prominently in the story. I think I did okay with the flashback part when the main characters were in high school. It wasn’t so far off my own senior year, so I understood their behavior more (i.e. no social media and no texting).

6. Who do you think misunderstands this book the most, and why?

That’s a difficult question. It’s a thriller, so most thrillers rely on the fantastical. Someone who takes things TOO literally might not be the right audience for this book (“But that can never happen!”). It’s not like I wrote about a barista who was forced to do an emergency appendectomy

Thrillers are supposed to be an escape, with crazy things happening to real people. I don’t think most things that I read in thrillers will happen to the average person, but that’s the fun of them!

7. What would you lose if readers stopped reading you tomorrow, and what would you gain?

Obviously, I’d lose sales, but what I’d miss the most is the thriller bookstagram community. I’ve developed some real friendships over the years but most of them are reading only targeted thrillers. What I’d gain…probably a new craft. I wouldn’t stop writing, but I’d have to write for a new audience, so I’d have to learn how to put together a women’s fiction novel—the expectations for readers in other genres is always different. And the craft of the book changes too, with Acts I, II, and III needing an entirely new way of writing (no twists, no cliffhangers- what?! Ha)

8. Do you trust your readers to sit with discomfort, or do you feel pressure to resolve things for them?

If I wrote a different genre, like romance for example, the readers expect everything to be resolved with a big bright now and a happily ever after. I write about murder, secrets, and lies, so I’m comfortable leaving them uncomfortable!

9. What do you hope readers feel after the final page, not immediately, but days later?

I hope they love the twist and they’re still thinking about it! As previously stated, I kept the entire secret about the accident the same from the first version. BUT. I added something new at the end of that part and actually ended up changing the final killer. I think it worked a lot better. Basically, after it’s resolved and you know what happened that night, stay tuned, because there’s one more final twist!

Jaime Lynn Hendricks is a bestselling thriller author with her works featured in the New York Times and People magazine, and they have been translated into six foreign markets.

If this conversation resonated with you, consider subscribing to The Blue Snowsuit.

Each feature is part of a growing literary archive exploring psychological tension, creative discipline, and the interior forces shaping contemporary storytelling.

Subscribe now

A project of Redtail Turtle Publishing

Missing

Dear Mom,

I am writing from the library,
so many stories, I keep reading until
I discover a story like mine.

I’m nineteen next month
and going to trial.
Coach couldn’t accept this
and he stopped coming,
neither did I.

Royal is inside.
He calls when he can.
The line crackles when we speak.
They record everything.

He tells me, “Prison is not safe,”
even when no one speaks.
He says, “fights start
over space,
over looks,
over being new and alone.”

He says, “Learn quickly
who you can stand near
and who you don’t.”

He doesn’t say gang.
He says protection.
He says alignment.
He says order.
“At the right time it will be your survival.”

No angels to rescue us.

I was cutting Mr. Glasson’s yard.
His wife waves from the window
like a traveler on a boat cruise.

“Four hundred dollars,” he says.
That is our agreement.

Some days he forgets
what day it is.
Some days he remembers my name.
Some days he calls me the wrong name.

On payday
he invites me into the house
for unsalted crackers and fruits.
I see the plastic seal on his laptop.
I say, “We don’t have one at home.”

He unwraps it and says,
“Knight, you are an angel.
You rescued my yard and me.
I don’t have the power to push the mower.”

He holds the receipt.
“564.98.
It’s yours.”

Two days pass.

Heavy knocks on the front door.
You answer.

“Does Knight Wilcome live here?”

One of them was holding a picture.
“It matches.” He says.

I arrive at the door.
“Yes, what is this about?” I ask.

Mrs. Glasson reported their laptop stolen.
“Do you have a laptop in your home?”

“I work for the Glassons…” I answer.

“Mr. Glasson reported
the laptop is missing.
The laptop was purchased by Mr. Glasson.”

You say, “They are good boys.”

You push me back inside the house.
“Could we return the laptop?”

One officer nods to the other.
I answer, “It was for payment.”

The officer places an envelope
in your hand.
I read the block letters:
Knight—$400.

“Damn,” I say.

Mr. Glasson reported,
“My laptop is missing.”

Mrs. Glasson reported,
The laptop was stolen by Knight.”

You sidestep.

I am taken.

Now I am here in the library
writing this third letter,
waiting for a trial date.

Fights happen.

You learn when to stand still.
When to look past someone.
When silence is not weakness.

I hear Royal’s voice.
I’m rehearsing his rules daily.
I’m sorry. All your sons are gone.

Was I born
to be locked in a cage?

To pay for a crime
because we couldn’t pay
for the right lawyer?

Thank you for the cards.
I read them weekly.

Thank you for the visits,
for sitting across from me
for hoping in my freedom
when innocence is missing.

I am writing because in this library
there are no stories like mine.

Love you,
Knight

If this letter in verse stayed with you, explore more intimate pieces in the same style:
• Deposit Box Letter: A mother’s private words, to be read at age 20.
• The Day She Chose Herself: A quiet rebellion in a house of men.

All free to read now. Which one are you reading next? Let me know in the comments.

— Oneal Walters

A project of Redtail Turtle Publishing

Suppression (Chosen Pt 14)

A Thriller-in-Verse from The Blue Snowsuit

This chapter follows Chosen Part 13.
Begin with Part 13.

The blade presses harder.

It’s the only feeling in my body.

Every swallow pushes against it.
Breathing is short and uneven.

I smell coffee.

A dog barks somewhere nearby.
Three sharp barks. Then quiet.

Vin’s head stays down.
His shoulders don’t move.
Red Three loose in his lap.

My stomach burns.
Skin is open and swelling.

I tremble.

The long-haired man doesn’t speak.
His breath heats my ear.
The blade shifts higher.

The sound cracks the air.

The long-haired man jerks forward.
The blade slips from my throat
and hits the ground.

I stumble, hands up,
my inhale bloats me.

Clap.

The broad man turns toward the sound,
then toward the leader.
He charges.

Clap. Clap.

His body snaps backward and drops.

I duck beside the car.
My heart pounds
like before a car crash.

The leader stands a few steps ahead.
He raises his hands halfway.

“I have a right to take what’s ours.”

Vin doesn’t look up.

“You have the power,” the leader says.
“Why are you here?”

I look up
through the narrow window
in the side door.

Sabrina stands near the three cars.

She’s holding a rifle.
She lowers the weapon.
Long, silent stare.

“We will reclaim
what belongs to us,”
the leader says.

The leader tries to step back.
One hand still raised.

Clap.

The dog barks again.
Three times.

Silence.

I’m shaking.

Vin doesn’t move.

Sabrina skips toward him.
Her black shoes matches
her dark outfit.

The leader’s body falls.

“This was so much fun,”
she says.

Vin waits.

Then he looks up.

“Perfect.”

Sirens alarm in the distant.

“Move,” Sabrina says.

She looks around once,
then back to me.

“Where’s Marcus?”

The story continues.
Victory (Chosen Part 15)

A project of Redtail Turtle Publishing

Years of Service

Wendell Wildom,

You have been here
five years.

Two hours on cash.
Three hours greeting customers.
Assisting staff
with company policies.

Customers ask for you by name.
They trust your hands.
They trust
your book-reads list.

Your attendance record holds.

In your second year,
a manager role opened.

It was filled by Mike Blue.

Mike asked questions.
You answered.

You remained on cash.

In your third year,
you applied.

The position was given
to Steve Green.

Reports were filed.
They were reviewed.

Steve was moved
to another location.

In your fourth year,
the role opened again.

You wrote to us.

I really know the job.
Could you give me a shot.

— Wendell Wildom

We read your letter.

The position was offered
to Amy Hazel.

You were assigned
to train her.

You did.

Amy brought cake.
She invited you
to a party.

Afterward,
you placed photographs
inside your locker.

They stayed there.

Amy sent messages.

The role did not change.

She left the company
three months later.

Her email went
to head office.

You remained.

Now,
after five years,

we believe your skills
may be used
at another location.

You may request
a transfer.

—

Your locker is open.

The photographs
are not there.

—

General Manager

If this letter in verse stayed with you, explore more intimate pieces in the same style:
• Missing: A young man writes from the library while awaiting trial.
• Deposit Box Letter: A mother’s private words, to be read at age 20.
• The Day She Chose Herself: A quiet rebellion in a house of men.

All free to read now. Which one are you reading next? Let me know in the comments.

— Oneal Walters

A project of Redtail Turtle Publishing

Power (Chosen Pt 13)

A Thriller-in-Verse from The Blue Snowsuit

This chapter follows Chosen Part 12.
Begin with Part 12.

Vin parks beside Marcus’s car.

I check my phone.
3:00 a.m.

Three vehicles park farther back.
Engines still running.
No one exits.

Vin gets out first.
I look back at the suitcase,
then at them,
then at Vin.

He grips a trash bin and swings.
On the second hit, glass bursts inward.

The trunk pops.

I exit the vehicle next.

Vin lifts Red Three.
His smile grows wider.

“The house never wins,” he says.

“Let’s rescue Marcus,” I say.

Car doors slam.
The sound ripples through the parking lot.

Six men march forward.
Uniformed.
Two by two.

The first wears a red-and-black jacket,
black jeans.

“This is where we depart,” he says.
He raises his hand, palm open.

The leader steps beneath a streetlamp.

“Thank you for returning corporate property,” he says.
“At this point, the poison is available,
but no one has been bitten.”

I take the device and press it to my chest.

“We are leaving with Red Three,”
says the man in the jacket.

“It belongs to us,”
the leader says.

Vin moves closer to me.

“You came at the wrong time,” he says.
“The round has already started.”

The six men hold position,
two at the back,
two in the middle,
two forward.

“Devin, who is this man?”
the jacket wearing man asks.

The leader doesn’t move.

The long-haired man steps out.

His blade flashes once in the dark.

The two men at the back turn,
too late.

The middle two raise their fists.
They swing and miss.
A kick is blocked.

The long-haired man slashes, cuts, stabs.

The broad man steps forward.
The man beside the jacket charges him.
One punch from the broad man.
Legs twist.
The man drops.
The broad man stomps his head.

The man in the jacket runs,
circling wide,
toward his car.

The blade man breaks into a sprint.

He catches him at the driver’s side door.
Locked.

A sharp motion.
Stomach pierced.

Blood pours.

Again.
And again.

The jacket man stiffens,
then drops.

“You can take it,” I say.

Vin stares at the bodies.

He sits.

The long-haired man wipes his blade on the jacket.

Luke.
Fake detective.
Marcus.
The leader.
Red Three.

Only Marcus matters.

The long-haired man and the broad man walk toward us.

I raise my hands.

The blade presses into my waist,
moves upward to my chest,
tears through my sweater.

I hold my breath,
looking at Vin.

The blade rests at my throat.

“Hand it to us,”
the leader says.

The broad man watches,
his fist wrapped in cloth.

Vin looks at me.

I look back.

“Vin.”

Vin lowers his eyes.

He releases Red Three.

The story continues.
Suppression (Chosen Part 14)

A project of Redtail Turtle Publishing

Can We Move?

Mom,

On the way home from school
the police stop me.
They ask for my first and last name.
They stop every teen on the street.

I submit — why, sir.
Here you go, sir.
Then I leave with my friends.

On the way to the grocery store,
7 p.m., when you send me outside,
coffee, milk, cheese, and fruits.
The police ask, where are you going,
who else is going to be there,
what’s your name?
I answer, okay, sir.
Groceries for my mom.
Here’s my name.

At the basketball court,
two on twos after it gets dark.
The police come to the court.
Wait, the police say, it’s late.
Everyone tell me your names.
I walk away. He confronts me —
don’t go anywhere, your name is.
He writes it down into a notebook.

Across the street, boarded houses,
no windows, no lights.
They exchange packs
for folded bills,
unchecked by the police.

On my way home
from a birthday,
dressed in a dress shirt,
no jeans, classic pants,
polished black shoes.
7 p.m., dark, no snow, walking.
A police car appears.
The window lowers.
The vehicle stops.
I step away from the curb.
A flashlight blinds me.

Why aren’t you at home?
Do you live here?

I shield my eyes.
No, sir. Hello, sir.
I’m the same kid.

How can I help you move?

If this letter in verse stayed with you, explore more intimate pieces in the same style:
• Missing: A young man writes from the library while awaiting trial.
• Deposit Box Letter: A mother’s private words, to be read at age 20.
• The Day She Chose Herself: A quiet rebellion in a house of men.

All free to read now. Which one are you reading next? Let me know in the comments.

— Oneal Walters

A project of Redtail Turtle Publishing

Full House (Chosen Pt 12)

A Thriller-in-Verse from The Blue Snowsuit

This chapter follows Chosen Part 11.
Begin with Part 11.

Vin drives.

Both hands on the wheel.
I stare at the road.
Everything feels blurry.

“What about Marcus?”
I ask.

Vin doesn’t look over.

“It’s our turn now,” he says.
“His turn comes later.”

The car hums.

“What if this doesn’t work?”
I say.

Vin smiles.
“I always win.”

He speeds up.

Streetlights blur.
The night thins.

Vin makes a call.

“We’ll be there in twenty.”

A pause.

“No,” he says.
“I want the money first.
Or it goes to another buyer tonight.”

He hangs up.

We pull into Smokefield’s Convenience.
Large fluorescent lights.
Windows full of snacks.

I don’t move.

I wipe my tears away with my sleeve.

Vin gets out.
I follow.

Inside, the store is narrow.
Crowded.
Clean.

A man waits near the counter.
Watching.

“This place belongs to my brother,”
he says.
“Honest man.
Family values.
He hates his life.”

Vin shrugs.
“They can’t all be me.”

“Do you have my money?”
Vin asks.

The man nods. We walk towards the back.

His brother appears.
A safe unlocks, then opens.
Bills stacked tightly.

A suitcase is placed on the counter.

“Where’s the device?”
the brother asks.

The man smiles.
“Vin is good.
Known him for seven years.”

“Five years. I’ll take the money,” Vin says.
“You get the device.”

The man’s phone rings.

“Yes,” he answers.
“Now.”

Vin lifts the suitcase.

I watch their faces.

The buyer stays calm.
The brother tugs at his shirt.
Checks his watch.

Family photos line the wall:
A young wife,
two daughters,
smiling in parks I don’t recognize.

Vin opens the door.

Outside, three cars idle.
Engines running.
Two men inside each car.

Vin turns back.

“You’re double-crossing me?”

The buyer shakes his head.
“My brother’s idea.
Don’t take it personally.”

The buyer extends his hand.

“Lead them to the device,”
the brother says.
“They’ll take it.”

Vin shakes the buyer’s hand.

“This is clean business,”

the buyer says.

I shake his hand too.

We leave.

Back in the car,
the suitcase sits between us.

“We’re the grand prize winners,”
Vin says.
“We have the money.”

I look at the case.

“I will be lost,” I say,
“like Shayla and Marcus.”

Vin keeps his eyes on the road.

“You’re chosen,”
he says.
“The others were optional.”

Three vehicles fall in behind us.

Vin’s phone rings again.

“Yes,” he says.
“We have a full house.
Meet me at the apartment.”

He hangs up.

The cars stay close.

Too close.

I press my forehead to the glass.

Marcus is gone.
Shayla is gone.

The lights are green. We keep moving.

The story continues.
Power (Chosen Part 13)

A project of Redtail Turtle Publishing