My Publishing Journey, Heather Chavez

When I was a child, my first book was about a family of rabbits celebrating Christmas. Told in rhyme of course. On the back, I scribbled one word: Hallmark. Even back then, I wanted a publisher. My first paycheck came from a poem I wrote for a local newspaper in Kansas. It was about socks. I think I got something like $3.

Then I read “Whispers” by Dean Koontz when I was 11, and my worldview shifted. No more bunnies or socks for me. This was what I wanted to write. 

Dark and twisted stories followed. A killer stalking campers. Very Bad Things happening at an orphanage. (I admit it, a total “Annie” ripoff, but with a far less happy ending.) 

Back then, I wrote for the joy of it. 

Then, as an adult, that joy was replaced by something else: Doubt. I stopped believing in my dark and twisted stories. I still wrote them of course – writing is something I’ll always need to do even if no one else reads my words – but writing became a hobby. Something that still brought me some joy, sure, but something I did only when the dishes were done ,the bills paid and the car serviced. And as the working mom of two kids, I almost never had that extra time.

Still, I managed to write three “practice” thrillers. Which I promptly shoved in a plastic bin in my closet. After all, if I didn’t believe in them, how could anyone else? (Full disclosure: those three books are better off in the closet. You’re welcome, world.)

The doubt eventually grew to the point I stopped writing novels entirely. For years, I found other ways to express myself. I was a reporter. I wrote a TV blog for a newspaper. I created elaborate scavenger hunts for my kids. I made up bedtime stories. It was safer than putting myself out there in the way I wanted. 

Then as my kids got older, I noticed something. In them, I recognized the same joy I’d experienced when I was a child. They were flawed but fearless, and they believed they could do anything. I believe the same thing. They can do anything. So why should I let doubt prevent me from following my own dream?

I dusted off the keyboard, but I was out of practice. The first 20,000 words of my new manuscript were even worse than the ones hidden in my closet. But I embraced every one of those terrible words. I grew braver about my writing. Sometimes, I would even close the door to protect my creative time. I stole the moments where I could: in the car, at my kids’ games, sometimes even hiding in the bathroom. Each fifteen-minute block felt like a victory—take that, doubt—and the words went from terrible to merely bad. (First drafts are rough, right?)

More than that, because I was writing again, I was finally open when The Idea came. One afternoon, I was picking my daughter up from afterschool care when we witnessed a fight between a trio of teen boys. It lasted only a second, ending as abruptly as it had started, but my writing brain was primed now, and the what if questions came: What if my daughter hadn’t been with me? Would I have gotten out of the car? And then – What if something horrible had preceded the attack?

I wrote the book. This time, I revised it too. Then I edited it again. And again. When I didn’t hate it, I decided maybe it was time to start querying. 

Of course, my friend doubt slipped back in. Are you sure it’s good enough? doubt asked. Maybe you should stick it in the closet with the others. Doubt snickered a little when it said that last part.

This time, I told that little voice to shut up.

Twenty days after querying one of my top-choice agents, I signed with him. A week into sub, I got my U.S. book deal in a pre-empt. Now, I try to remember some advice I was once given: If you’re going to believe the bad things, believe the good things, too. Better yet, don’t listen to any of it and just write.  

That’s what I try to do now. Just write. That doesn’t mean the doubt is gone. (Imposter syndrome is real.)  It’s more like doubt and I have formed a truce of sorts. Doubt is what makes me jump in to that third revision. It’s what makes me cut that section that isn’t quite right. And when it goes quiet, for just a moment, it helps me realize when something’s actually working.  

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A graduate of UC Berkeley’s English literature program, Heather Chavez has worked as a newspaper reporter and editor. She lives in Santa Rosa, California, with her husband and children. No Bad Deed is her first book.

Find out more about her on her website https://heatherchavez.com/

Follow her on Twitter https://twitter.com/iamHRChavez

NO BAD DEED

Now a mom, Cassie Larkin has long since outgrown the anger and recklessness of her own childhood – or so she believes until the night she witnesses a brutal attack.

Driving home on a remote Northern California road, Cassie spots a man and woman arguing. The fight escalates. After calling 911, Cassie does the one thing the dispatcher warns her against: She gets out of the car. The ensuing violence leaves her with a few bruises and the fleeing attacker’s threat: He’ll let Cassie live if she lets his victim die.

A veterinarian trained to heal, Cassie isn’t about to let the woman die. But while she’s examining the unconscious victim, the attacker steals her car. Now he has her name. Her address. And he knows about her children. Though they warn her to be careful, the police assure her that the perpetrator—a criminal named Carver Sweet—won’t get near her. Cassie isn’t so sure.

The next day—Halloween—her husband disappears while trick-or-treating with their six-year-old daughter. Is Cassie’s confrontation with the road-side attacker connected to her husband’s disappearance? Her husband has been growing distant—is it possible he’s become involved with another woman? Or, worse, one of his students?

As she desperately searches for answers, Cassie discovers that nothing is as random as it seems, and that she is more than willing to fight—to go to the most terrifying extremes— to save her family.

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