Three years ago, having finally caught my breath, I started my first new novel outside of the Warm Bodies series. There aren’t any zombies in this one, but I won’t say it’s not apocalyptic. THE OVERNOISE is about a more subtle end of the world, an end of quiet things, of solitude and intimacy, of soft beauty and deep human experiences, surrendered with a shrug for what’s easy, safe, and cheap.
More literally, it’s about a global drone that keeps getting louder, and a musician searching for her new place in the world as the overnoise relentlessly reshapes it.
The book is done. After three years of writing and rewriting while my own world collapsed around me, loss after loss, I find myself living in a snowbound shed on what feels like the outer rim of reality, preparing to send the final draft to my agent. This is the one he’ll take out to find me a new publisher and hopefully a new chapter of life. Maybe one where I don’t have to shit in a bucket.
It’s been a long time since I had something tangible to show for my days on earth. Five years since I had a new book to proclaim. I am very intertwined with my work—perhaps unhealthily so—and if I don’t have something to offer to justify my existence, I tend to lie low until I do. Living alone in the wilderness is my choice, not my punishment, and I don’t plan on recanting any time soon, but when I emerge from the hermitage to start pushing this book…it will be nice to see you all again.
