Last September, I waved goodbye to the moving truck with relief. Not only did our new neighborhood seem to be friendly—many of the residents had come by to say hello as we were unpacking—our house was also located on a dead end street. With two kids under the age of six, the safety of a cul-de-sac was welcome.
It wasn’t only the location that was giving me a sense of peace. I had recently submitted the manuscript for what would become my second book to my editor. There is a special kind of joy in being freshly off deadline and the hum of completion buzzed in my veins.
But as I began unpacking our silverware, I realized that my second novel was set in a neighborhood a lot like the one where we were now living. Raven Lane, both the title of the book and the setting I had created for the story, was also a dead end street full of friendly neighbors. And by friendly, I mean actively involved in very . . . adult kind of relationships. With each other. The kind of relationships that made me embarrassed to give the book to my dad (but were pretty fun to write). I tried to put it out of my head. After all, the book wouldn’t be published for another fourteen months.
Fast forward to this moment, a year later. Two months from the official release of Raven Lane, I am asking myself a lot of questions. Will the book be well-received? Will readers like the book within a book (always a risky move)? But most importantly, will all my neighbors think that I want to have sex with them? I have always wanted my books to start a discourse, but this wasn’t exactly the one I had intended.
Amber Cowie will be appearing in the Domestic Thriller reading event, Sat. Oct. 19 4:45-6:15 pm.