Writing a novel is hard. Once it’s done, though, writing the acknowledgments for that novel is pure joy.
I would unquestionably write stories if I lived alone. I would plot to myself with abandon, out loud and pacing. I would compose dialogue with passionate stage presence for an audience of knickknacks and dust mites. I would crow and mutter my inspirations and frustrations to the empty rooms. I would stay up too late. Then sleep too late.
I mean, I’d still act sane in public. But it wouldn’t be as good. It wouldn’t be as true.
My husband, Art, and my daughters, Julia and Rianne, make life out of what I’d do alone. Their love, brilliance, and enthusiasm make the world better and bigger for everyone, but especially for me. Art has always been my first reader and advisor and he only gets better at it as the years spool out. And I thought it would be weird when my children were old enough to offer insight and input as I write. It’s not weird. It’s terrific.
My civilian friends who read for me and encourage me in my work, then entertain and move me with their own stories and confidences, they fill out my heart in a way I can only hope I do for them. Thank you Mary Rollins, Samantha Kappalman, Diane Lopez, Jessica Coffey, Katie Delgado, Kelly Coffey Colvin, Lisa Fitchett, Kristi McCullough, and Jenny and Dave Eccleston. Jeanne Miller-Mason, my mother, is unfailingly wonderful at keeping my writerly spirits up, as are my sisters, Carmen Mason and Natalie Sherwood, too.
On the business side, I am indebted to Karen Kosztolnyik for picking up the book for Gallery, Jen Bergstrom for letting me play in the sandbox again, and my editor, Jackie Cantor, for everything. Sara Quaranta is the Queen of Polishing Touches, and my copyeditor, Steve Boldt, is my conscience at each of our path crossings. So many thanks to every professional who added their expertise to this project. My admiration for what you do to bring stories to the shelves is boundless.
My agent, Amy Moore-Benson, makes business a pleasure. I learn from her, rely on her, collaborate with her, and adore her. My luck in this partnership is a big, shiny talisman against ever feeling too overwhelmed. Always and ever, thank you.
But every time I get to the point in the acknowledgments to where the job meets the soul, to the time for thinking toward my writer-friends, I get a lump in my throat. I am very lucky to know so many wonderful writers.
This book, like any and all of them, had some shepherding from my tribe, and some of that literally, if we capitalize it. I have to especially thank Jay Shepherd for a tireless ear, precision insights on structure and plotting, an inexhaustible well of what-if-this-es, and the not insignificant achievement of finding the perfect title (and epigraph) for this book. Thank you, thank you. My debt is heavy.
Josh Stallings and Nancy Matuszak have earned hazardous duty pay for reading multiple drafts of The Hidden Things, and since I pay in affection and admiration, they should prepare to be snowed under with love.
And I am lost without the advice and understanding of these brilliant writers: Lou Berney, Tana French, Elizabeth Little, Nadine Nettmann, Graeme Cameron, Brad Parks, Coleen Valentino, and Mark Pryor. Thank you, all the way thank you.
Finally, the other group of people who make me glow with gratitude—readers. Thank you for wanting stories. It’s not a small thing. It makes us better. I believe that. And I am one of you, too.