One Bad Cat is a novel that grew out of a simple premise and ended up somewhere far stranger, funnier, and more psychologically tangled than it first appeared. At its core, it’s an occult satire built around two intersecting storylines: a psychology professor who is turned into a cat by members of his coven, and a man trying to keep his life from falling apart after he lets a persistent stray cat into his apartment.
Dr. Stephen Scott begins the story in a position of intellectual authority. He’s a psychology professor with an interest in the occult, someone who believes he understands systems and people well enough to stay a step ahead. That control collapses when a group of female coven members cast a spell that transforms him into a cat. From there, his storyline tightens into something immediate and claustrophobic: a mind trapped in a body that no longer obeys it, focused on revenge, survival, and the recovery of a charm bag that contains the source of his power.
Nothing kills the momentum of an action scene faster than confusing choreography. Readers will forgive a lot in a fast-paced sequence. They’ll forgive impossible odds, dramatic coincidences, even a hero surviving injuries they probably shouldn’t. What they won’t forgive is not understanding where everyone is standing. One of the most common mistakes writers make in action scenes is putting events on the page out of sequence.
When action scenes lose their sequence, readers lose the thread. Clear choreography keeps readers inside the movement instead of forcing them to stop and untangle what happened.
The problem is usually small at the sentence level, but the effect on the reader is enormous because it forces them to stop, mentally rewind the scene, and reconstruct what actually happened. They’re no longer experiencing movement in real time—they’re translating it. And that translation breaks momentum.
The issue usually isn’t that the writing is unclear in isolation. Each sentence might make sense on its own. The problem is that the order of information doesn’t match the order of events as they happen in the scene. Readers don’t want to assemble a timeline. They want to experience it.
When do you decide if your novel is YA? Do you decide before you start writing or after you are done?
Answer: One of the questions writers ask constantly is whether a novel “counts” as Young Adult fiction. Sometimes the answer is obvious from page one. Other times, writers finish an entire manuscript before realizing they may have written for a different audience than they originally intended.
When does a novel become YA—and how much of that decision happens before you even write the first page? This graphic breaks down the key factors writers should consider, from voice and protagonist age to audience and market expectations, and why knowing who you’re writing for shapes every story choice you make.
The truth is that YA is both a category and a marketing designation, and those two things do not always align perfectly. At the most basic level, a Young Adult novel is written for teen readers, generally between the ages of twelve and eighteen. In publishing, though, that definition becomes much more flexible than people expect. A huge percentage of YA readers are adults, and many books with teen protagonists are actually shelved in adult fiction. That’s why YA is not determined by a single factor.
In this contributor interview, William M. Chippich—author of the upcoming novel Nevermore: The Heir, The Witch, and The Fool and contributor to Beautiful and Terrifying—shares the literary influences, writing habits, and creative philosophy that shape his character-driven fiction.
William M. Chippich brings a deep love of character-driven storytelling to every page he writes, whether he’s crafting the darkly atmospheric short story “Three or Four Miles, Mostly Flat” for Beautiful and Terrifying:Tales and Visions from the Edge of the Uncanny or building the richly imagined world of his forthcoming novel, Nevermore: The Heir, The Witch, and The Fool. In this interview, he reflects on the writers who first shaped his imagination, the discipline and creativity behind his process, and the themes of love, hope, and the unknown that continue to guide his work. From comic book legends and literary classics to the quiet rituals of everyday writing life, Chippich offers thoughtful insight into what it means to tell stories that truly connect with readers.
William M. Chippich, contributor to Beautiful and Terrifying and author of the upcoming Nevermore: The Heir, The Witch, and The Fool is pictured at Dunnottar Castle in Scotland.
Q: What/who were your early literary influences, and how do you think their writing has shaped you as a storyteller today. A: My earliest influences were writers like Stan Lee, Chris Claremont and John Byrne of Marvel comics. The great comic book writers of that era are very overlooked. Stan Lee in particular made comic writing and stories legitimate. After that, everything from Mary Shelley to Steinbeck, Hemingway, and too many classics to name. Guys like Stephen King, Dean Koontz, and Christopher Moore are definitely stand outs for me as well. Every one of these great writers build amazing worlds, but I think the real influence on me were their characters. They make fantastic, fictional beings seem real to people. You love them, you hate them, you feel for them. That’s the real magic of these greats.
The best plot twists in fiction rarely come out of nowhere—they feel surprising and inevitable at the same time. That paradox is usually the result of careful foreshadowing. When done well, foreshadowing prepares readers for events long before they happen, creating the sense that the story’s outcome was always embedded within the narrative. I was thinking about this recently while reading Ruins by Lily Brooks-Dalton. The novel includes a central revelation that attentive readers may begin to suspect early on, yet the author never makes the answer obvious. Instead, she carefully plants clues that guide the reader toward the truth without spoiling the experience. That balance is the essence of effective foreshadowing.
Foreshadowing is the quiet trail of clues that leads readers toward the ending long before they realize it.
Foreshadowing is a narrative technique in which an author plants subtle hints about events that will occur later in the story. These hints might appear as dialogue, imagery, symbolism, or even small details that initially seem unimportant. The goal isn’t to give the plot away. Instead, foreshadowing creates narrative cohesion. When the key event finally arrives, readers recognize the groundwork that made it possible. The story feels intentional rather than arbitrary.
In Ruins, for example, the opening sections contain small details that feel slightly out of place. The world seems familiar but not entirely so. Certain descriptions, structures, and assumptions about society invite questions. None of these clues explicitly reveal where the story is going, but together they form a pattern that becomes meaningful later. The result is a reading experience that rewards attention without demanding it.
While reading Ruins, the latest novel by Lily Brooks-Dalton, I found myself thinking less about the far-future world it imagines and more about the stories civilizations tell about themselves — and why those stories so often begin to unravel the moment someone steps outside their borders. Set in a distant future where American civilization is long gone and no written records survive, Ruins follows an archaeologist who begins to question the official histories preserved by Leadership. In this world, what is accepted as truth has been shaped over thousands of years of retelling, and stability depends on the population’s belief in those narratives.
Civilizations survive through stories — but whose stories get left out? Inspired by Lily Brooks-Dalton’s Ruins, this post explores rules, exceptions, and the hidden structures of society.
It wasn’t just the mystery at the heart of the novel that stayed with me, but the way it mirrors a recurring pattern in literature: civilizations rely on shared stories to create order. Without these stories, cooperation becomes fragile, meaning begins to fray, and identity itself can feel uncertain. But stories, by necessity, simplify. They smooth contradictions, minimize uncertainty, and quietly remove perspectives that do not fit the larger arc. And what disappears is often invisible to those living comfortably within the story.
If you spend enough time on bookish social media, you’ll eventually see someone point out an “easter egg” in a novel—and there’s a good chance they’re actually talking about something else entirely. This is the topic of today’s Ask the Author.
Dear Mandy,
Question: Are easter eggs in a novel just foreshadowing?
Not every hidden detail in a story is an “easter egg.” Some are clues, some are foreshadowing—and some are just there for readers who like looking a little closer. In today’s Ask the Author, I unpack the difference– and how the internet sometimes gets literary terms hilariously wrong.
Answer: Lately I’ve noticed a lot of readers on social media using the term easter egg when what they really mean is foreshadowing. The two are not the same thing, even though they both involve details hidden in a story.
Foreshadowing is a storytelling technique. It’s when an author plants clues early in the narrative that hint at something that will happen later. A seemingly harmless line of dialogue, an object that appears briefly in chapter two, a character’s odd reaction to something—these details quietly prepare the reader for future events. When the twist or revelation finally arrives, the earlier hints suddenly make sense. Good foreshadowing makes a story feel inevitable rather than random.
As the holidays approach, our lives often feel packed with family obligations, travel, and the endless bustle of preparation. It’s easy to get swept up in the chaos, but there’s a quiet refuge I return to every year: stories. Books have a way of anchoring us, even during the busiest, most stressful times, offering both comfort and connection.
Some of my favorite stories are those I’ve heard around the dinner table with family and friends!
I’m grateful for the ways reading bridges generations—like the book you lent your sister, or the series your grandma read to you as a child, which she also read to your father and that you eventually shared with your own kids. Stories create shared experiences across time, connecting us in ways that linger long after the last page is turned.
The holidays are supposed to be a time of joy and connection, but for many of us, they also bring a whirlwind of obligations: family gatherings, travel, shopping, cooking, and endless to-do lists. Amid the chaos, finding time to write, read, or simply pause can feel impossible. Yet even during the busiest season of the year, it’s possible to carve out moments for creativity and reflection—if you approach it with intention and compassion.
Amid the holiday bustle, it’s important to carve out a moment for yourself to write and reflect—even when life around you is loud.
Set smaller, achievable goals: When life is hectic, long writing sessions or ambitious reading lists can feel overwhelming. Break your projects into smaller, manageable chunks. Write for twenty minutes in the morning, read a chapter before bed, or jot down ideas in a notebook while sipping your coffee. Small, consistent efforts often add up more than you realize—and they keep your creative momentum alive.
Catherine Ryan Howard’s The Trap is a masterfully crafted psychological thriller that deserves far more attention than its underwhelming cover might suggest. Inspired by the real-life disappearances of women in 1990s Ireland, the novel is as unsettling as it is propulsive, offering a chilling and suspenseful exploration of grief, obsession, and the desperate human need for answers.
Get your copy of The Trap from my independent online bookstore today!
The story unfolds through three distinct perspectives: Lucy, a woman determined to catch her sister’s killer after her mysterious disappearance; Angela, a civilian working with the Irish police whose side investigation threatens both the case and her career; and a nameless predator whose terrifying narration will keep your heart pounding. These shifting points of view give the book its pace and emotional heft, and Howard moves between them with expert precision.
