Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from To Dream in Darkness by Ann Liang, which releases on October 27th 2026.

China in the age of brilliance, where gods freely wander the three realms. Amongst them is the cruel and beautiful Death God, who has never failed to collect a soul on time. Until now. For when he seeks out Rujia, the noble god of healing—and the only god he is fated to kill with his own hands—she makes him an offer he can’t refuse: she will help lift the excruciating, century-old curse placed upon him if he gives her a one-month reprieve.

Rujia knows she isn’t as noble as everyone believes. Her deal with Death is merely an excuse to buy herself time while she figures out an escape plan. But when her plan causes the Celestial Palace’s collapse and the beloved crown prince’s disappearance, she and Death are both held responsible. The only way to avoid the wrath of all the other gods is to travel across the realms and safely retrieve the crown prince themselves.

Yet the journey proves far more treacherous than expected. As the unlikely alliance between them blooms into more, and Death’s resolve to kill Rujia weakens by the day, neither can outrun their intertwined fate without devastating consequences: A mysterious plague. An empire-destroying flood. A thousand deaths—and rising—to restore the balance Rujia’s disrupted. And if Rujia continues to live despite the will of the Heavens, this is only the beginning…

EXCERPT

PROLOGUE

Contrary to what those pesky mortals might believe, the Death God does not enjoy killing.

He does not even kill, really. Such violence is beneath him. He is the breeze that floats in through an opened lattice window, the gray smoke rising from a burned incense stick, the blood seeping from a fresh-made wound. He only appears when the last breath has already been drawn and the skin has already gone cold.

At least, that is how it has always been.

The truth is much less dramatic than the silly tales they tell at teahouses in the Mortal Realm about him arriving with a sword in his hand and murder on his mind. He had stayed once to listen out of morbid, misplaced curiosity, and while he hadn’t expected much in the first place, he still found himself scoffing at what he heard:

“He has horns and fangs and claws that can cut the body into clean halves.” He is not an animal.

“He will slaughter the husband first and seduce the wife second.” Mortal flesh holds as much temptation to him as the carcass of a lamb.

“He spends every waking minute planning out the most painful death possible for his next victim.” Perhaps, given their nature to make everything about themselves, the mortals would be disappointed to find that he barely thinks of them at all. That as he drifts through the crooked streets and alleys, passes from house to lantern-lit house, collecting the souls with weary expertise, he is most concerned about returning to the Night Realm as early as possible.

So it’s something of a relief to be stepping back through the enchanted doors, into the dim, empty halls of his palace. He brushes the dust from his sleeves, though the scent of mortal fruit and fire clings to him. He forces himself to tolerate it; he is al-most done now. His robes trail behind him, whispering against the smooth, polished stone, and the souls float a little farther behind, glowing softly, just as white as the eternal snow falling outside. Just as silent.

More sets of heavy doors heave open on their own when he approaches until at last, he finds himself standing before the gates to the Yellow Springs. The final destination for the souls and his final destination for the night.

He lifts a hand. For a moment, nothing happens—as expected. These gates are ancient, after all, hundreds of centuries older than he is, used by the Death God appointed before him and the Death God before that. He would not be surprised if they had been created at the very beginning of the Three Realms, the images of the dragons and lilies carved deep into the wood by the first immortal. Then the gates rumble. The dragons uncoil and slither to the sides as if alive, and he is greeted by a darkness so complete that the surrounding obsidian walls seem bright by comparison. That even he, dressed from head to toe in pure black, stands out against it. It is a darkness that stretches on and on, without shape, without edges. As a child, he had been terrified that he would enter and be swallowed whole by it. Simply step in and disappear.

But he has not been a child in eons.

He keeps walking, chin up, shoulders straight, the souls gathering closer around him, illuminating the way. There is a faint humming sound building in the background, like a thousand voices conversing quietly in a faraway room, and soon it merges with the rushing of water. He can taste the water on his tongue, the unpleasant blend of salt and ash and copper. He can feel it, too, the shock of plunging into those frozen depths, of sinking farther and farther as the darkness pours in over his head, the voices sharpening into screams, sobs, pleas . . .

The ever-present throbbing in his skull intensifies. He squeezes his eyes shut. Presses two fingers to his temple, as if he can physically drive out the pain.

Useless.

He does not know if he means himself, or the curse, or the hundreds of so-called cures that have promised everything and solved nothing.

But never mind that. He has a job to complete first; he will be free to suffer afterward.

The souls begin to quiver, their pale light glossing the Yellow Spring’s surface. Some seem to know the path forward and are eager to let themselves be swept away by the currents, into the next cycle of the afterlife. Others grow restless, flitting left and right like fireflies. These ones he guides downstream with his own hands.

When the very last soul has left the shore, he rises and turns to go, but a ripple in the air catches his eye.

The Death God frowns.

This is unusual, but not entirely unseen before. Most deaths are natural, inconsequential, no more worthy of attention than the dropping of flies. But some deaths are written out in the constellations in such a way that if they do not come to pass, the balance of the universe is disrupted. Like rocks to pebbles, these souls tend to weigh heavier, to cast stronger waves when they fall. So as the ripple expands outward, forming a mirage, he anticipates the death of an ancient god, perhaps one of the higher-ranked officials from the Celestial Realm.

Yet instead of shining gold pillars, red-crowned cranes, and dusk-painted clouds swirling around the steps to the Celestial Emperor’s throne, he is shown a vision of the sea.

The sea, a lone cottage on a floating island, and a god.

She is gathering herbs from the back garden, her long hair spilling over her shoulder as she plucks a peony and holds it up to the brilliant daylight, her robes the same blue and white as the foaming waves below her. He has never met a god from the Celestial Realm who could be described as kind before, yet there is something undeniably kind about her features. The harmony of her long lashes with her soft lips. The care with which she touches the petals.

Then the vision changes. The sea vanishes. The cottage disintegrates. Only the god remains, but she is crumpled on the floor, a crimson puddle spreading rapidly around her. A sword twisted deep into her chest while she lies there, mouth opening and closing, her face contorted in pain.

And he sees himself in the mirage, his hand around the weapon, his fingers stained red.

His frown deepens. His next breath comes out too fast, too sharp.

He is almost tempted to think it a mistake, except the Heavens are never wrong, never to be defied. He can feel the will of the Heavens pressing into his mind like a blade into flesh. This is the fate designed for the kind-faced god who picks flowers and lives on the sea, and he is the one who must see it through. It is insulting to know that he will be acting exactly as the mortals imagine him, that he will no longer be able to correct them when they say his hands are tainted. How uninspired. How inconvenient. And how deeply ironic.

The Death God does not enjoy killing. He has never killed at all—

Until now, that is.

To Dream in Darkness. Copyright © 2026 by Ann Liang. All rights reserved.

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Hi, Kathleen! Can you tell our readers a bit about yourself?

Sure! I’m a novelist, and I also teach first year composition at a local university. I live in the Boston area with my family and an anxious rescue dog. I love reading, playing board games and D&D, and going to the theatre!

When did you first discover your love for writing and stories?

I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love stories. Some of my earliest memories are of going to the children’s room at the local library. My mom would put me and my sister in a little wagon and pull us along to the library. On the way back, we’d have to sit on the books! That’s definintely where my love of reading began. The first time I thought, I want to be a writer, was in the 8^th grade. I wrote an essay about my grandmother’s dementia, and my teacher told me it made her cry. It was the moment I realized how much power a writer can have to make people feel things.

Quick lightning round! Tell us:

• The first book you ever remember reading: The Little Fur Family by Margaret Wise Brown
• The one that made you want to become an author: A Wrinkle In Time by Madeleine L’Engel
• The one that you can’t stop thinking about: The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern

Your debut novel, The Jewel of Corlivo, is out now! If you could only describe it in five words, what would they be?

Love, libraries, smash the patriarchy!

Where did the inspiration for The Jewel of Corlivo come from?

The idea for The Jewel of Corlivo came to me as I was falling asleep one night. I pictured a long table set for dinner on the terrace of a beautiful old building high in the mountains. It was sunset, and well-dressed people sat down to a candlelight meal. Most of the women were courtesans, and the guests had assembled to enjoy their sophisticated conversation as well as what might come after. Polite chatter could be heard up and down the table. However, one discussion wasn’t going as expected. After many years of attending dinners like this, the Emperor’s nephew sat down assuming he’d be bored by the young woman seated beside him. Instead, she said something completely surprising. I really wanted to find out who she was and what she said, so I started writing.

As I wrote, the story expanded from that table to the old building, and then to the city of Corlivo, and eventually to an entire empire at a moment of transition. I figured out what the young woman said, and what the Emperor’s nephew said in return, and then I realized that the conversation would become the key to finding a long-lost treasure and set something in motion that could threaten the empire and change the lives of all the other women around that table.

Were there any moments or characters you really enjoyed writing or exploring?

One of my favorite moments in the book is the first scene I wrote: the full version of the dinner table scene I describe above. It’s when Anna and Sebastianus meet, and I love the point in the conversation when she says something that stops him in his tracks. There’s a spark between them from the very first moment. I also love the character of Klaudia, Sebastianus’s cousin. I hadn’t initially intended to write her, but she strode into the opening scene and announced herself. She’s a bold, confident queer woman who is struggling against the limits society has placed on her. Her friendship with Anna is one of my favorite relationships in the book.

Did you face any challenges whilst writing? How did you overcome them?

At the beginning of the novel, Anna and Sebastianus have a huge power imbalance. It was important to me to find a way to gradually rebalance the dynamic of their relationship as they got to know each other. As I wrote each scene with the two of them together, I tried to think about how they viewed one another in that moment and how their relationship had evolved to that point.

This is your debut novel! What was the road to becoming a published author like for you?

It was long! I worked for many years on a novel that I ultimately had to shelve. It was hard to let that project go because of how much time and effort I had poured into it, but it was the right thing to do. Giving myself permission to start over with a new book, and to write something in the fantasy genre, was a huge step forward. I met my agent, Maggie Cooper, in the summer of 2023, and we worked together on some revisions to the book before going on submission in early 2024. The book went to auction later that year, and I’m so happy that Erewhon Books (Kensington) bought it. The team there has been amazing to work with.

What’s next for you?

I have a two-book contract with Erewhon, so I’m working on another stand-alone speculative novel. It’s about a young woman raising a child on her own who gets a job at an old theater in Boston, only to find herself caught up in a centuries-old Irish fairy story that is putting at risk the people she loves most in the world. The story moves from W. B. Yeats’ circle of friends in Galway in the 1890s to the vaudeville and burlesque stages of Boston in 1911 and 1943, to gritty 1995 South Boston, and finally to Tír na nÓg, the Other World of Irish legend. I’m having so much fun with the story!

Lastly, what books are you looking forward to picking up? Any you’ve read so far this year that you’ve enjoyed?

I recently read The Poet Empress by Shen Tao, which I really enjoyed, as well as Katherine Arden’s The Unicorn Hunters – amazing book. I love reading non-fiction also, and I thought Patrick Radden Keefe’s London Falling was un-put-downable. Next on my stack to read is The Court of Venus by Bel Banta.

Will you be picking up The Jewel of Corlivo? Tell us in the comments below!

The post Q&A: Kathleen Carr Foster, Author of ‘The Jewel of Corlivo’ appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

All Dan wants is to find a way home. He’d settle for a beer, a bite to eat, and a place to sleep off his hangover.

But, in an endless, ever-changing dungeon cobbled together from twisted carnivals, abandoned shopping malls, janky laundromats, and condemned insane asylums, getting a bit of shut-eye is harder than it sounds.

Dan has accidentally ‘Noclipped’ into the Backrooms – a bizarro, extra-dimensional world, overrun with nightmare creatures known as the Dwellers. No one ever gets out. Hell, forget about leaving, if Dan wants to survive the week, he’s going to need to harness the strange game-like magic of the Backrooms, make some very sketchy allies, and carve out a safe haven to call his own.

And he’s going to need to do it fast because Dan is being hunted. The Flayed Monarch of the 999th floor has marked him for death and no one walks away from the Skinless Court with their hide intact . . .

EXCERPT

CHAPTER ONE
THE HANGOVER

I was going to die. At least, that’s what the floating screen told me.

The prognosis for your long-term survival is vanishingly slim, the message read in bold, blocky letters. The words were scrawled across a semitransparent yellow window, which looked like one of those eight-bit Nintendo Game notifications from the late eighties. I suggest you come to terms with this reality and prepare yourself accordingly. If you happen to be a person of religious conviction, now would be an appropriate time to make amends with your preferred deity.

My eyes skipped frantically from word to word as I reread the prompt for the third time.

What in the absolute fuck is going on here?

A cold sweat broke out across my skin, and I momentarily pulled my gaze away from the prompt and looked down at the ground. The ghostly yellow screen remained frozen in the air.

I was in a wide hallway with short gray carpet—the kind they use in hotels and office buildings—and walls covered from floor to ceiling in stained yellow wallpaper, peeling in places and covered with water spots in others.

Directly behind me was a dead-end hallway with a blazing red exit sign, but no door.

Ahead was an open, empty conference room with high ceilings that could’ve belonged inside any of a thousand run-down hotels across America. The walls were plastered with more of the nondescript yellow wallpaper, and white columns rose to a drab white-tiled ceiling dotted with recessed fluorescent lights. Those lights flickered sporadically, casting pools of sterile illumination and oceans of darkness across the carpeted floor in turns.

There was no furniture in the room beyond. No end tables or cheap wing-backed chairs. No reception desk or receiving area.

Just an enormous, abandoned cavern of gray carpet and wallpaper, which reminded me of a yawning mouth. Hallways branched off from the vacant conference room, snaking out of view.

This couldn’t be real. It didn’t make sense. None of this made any sense.

For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out where I was, how I’d gotten here, or what in the name of sweet baby Jesus was happening to me.

Maybe I was going crazy.

Or maybe I’d died, and this was my own, personal version of hell. That was the most plausible option, all things considered.

The last thing I remembered was from the night before.

I’d been at the bachelor party to end all bachelor parties with the rest of the guys from the general contracting crew.

There’d been a stripper dressed as a clown for reasons I couldn’t quite recall. Although my well-known hatred of clowns probably had something to do with it. Also, fireworks. Well, maybe not fireworks per se, so much as sticks of Tannerite and a wee little bit of dynamite, which our buddy Jake had procured from a demo site in Dayton.

Cow tipping had definitely been involved at one point.

I vividly recalled cannonballing off my buddy Zack’s roof into an oversized kiddie pool filled with an unholy amalgamation of Natty Ice, Bud Lite, Corona, and whatever else the rest of the crew had lying around. Pretty sure Dave had dumped two or three boxes of Franzia red wine into the unspeakable alcohol concoction.

That probably explained why it felt like I’d slept in a churning cement mixer filled with boulders and broken beer bottles. Leaping into kiddie pools full of booze was a young man’s game, and I wasn’t as young as I used to be. Not old exactly, but even at thirty-six, I found I didn’t bounce back quite the way I had at twenty-six. Getting absolutely shitfaced also explained the raging hangover and the dull ache radiating through my skull.

But none of that gave me any insight, whatsoever, into where I was, how I’d gotten here, or what in heaven above was happening. There was just a blank hole, big enough to drive an Abrams tank through, between the party and waking up in this barren stretch of industrial hallway.

One minute I was laughing with Jake and Zack, telling old war stories about our time in the sandbox together, and the next I was peeling my ass off the gray carpet with the glare of harsh fluorescents stabbing into my eyeballs like an ice pick.

Guttural, inhuman roars and the sharp clang of steel clashing against steel drifted from a corridor just out of sight. This place might’ve appeared barren, but it wasn’t empty.

Something was in here with me. Something dangerous.

Which probably accounted for the ominous warning, tattooed on the air itself.

The sounds of battle were getting progressively closer by the second. Feeling the cold edge of panic creep into my chest, I turned my gaze back to the yellow screen and reread the message once more, this time from the beginning.

Warning! Temporal Boundary Displacement Breach!

As Standing Chair of the Variant Research Division, it is my responsibility to inform you that due to an unstable temporal anomaly

—and circumstances outside of VRD control—you have accidentally experienced a Temporal Displacement Event (TDE), sometimes referred to as “Noclipping.”

Fortunately, you survived the event and have NOT been integrated into the Progenitor Engine or reduced to “Meat Slurry” by the Influx Processing and Randomization System.

Unfortunately, the prognosis for your long-term survival is vanishingly slim. I suggest you come to terms with this reality and prepare yourself accordingly. If you happen to be a person of religious conviction, now would be an appropriate time to make amends with your preferred deity.

— The Researcher

Yeah… None of that was even remotely helpful.

I’d never heard of the Variant Research Division, and I couldn’t even begin to wrap my mind around what a temporal displacement event was. To me, the whole message was just a bunch of bullshit that sounded more or less like corporate speak for “go fuck yourself.”

I squinted, examining the box itself a little more closely.

I’d been so panicked and shocked by the message that I’d failed to notice there was a tiny “X” in the top right corner of the notification. I let my gaze linger on it for a beat, and when I mentally “clicked” the button, the window blinked away. Gone in an instant as though it had never been there at all.

A thunderous boom rattled the floor, sending fine dust motes spinning and dancing overhead. A moment later I heard an odd mewling noise followed in short order by the dull thump of footsteps and the whoomph of an explosion. Rolling tongues of flame blazed into view from a connecting corridor before quickly dissipating.

Every instinct screamed at me to turn tail and haul ass in the opposition direction, but there was nowhere for me to go. I was trapped in a hallway with no exit and the only way out was through the conference room ahead. I idly considered trying to climb up through the ceiling panels, but instantly knew that wasn’t an option. They were twelve feet up, easy. Even in my prime, I couldn’t have made that leap.

I turned back toward the conference room just in time to see two figures barrel into view from a hallway off to the left.

The first was human. The second was… not.

In a blaze of furious movement, a lanky man in a duster bolted forward and lashed out with a ridiculously oversized sword, slamming the weapon into what could only be called a monster. There was no other description that fit.

Though writhing crimson ball of nightmare fuel came close.

The sword blow batted the horror diagonally across the cavernous space like a baseline drive, and it collided with one of the square columns on the far side of the room. The impact violently shook the floor and cracked the pillar in two. More plaster particles swirled in the harsh blue-white light.

The attack would’ve snapped me in two, but it hardly seemed to phase the creature. It pulled itself from the ground with ease.

Although the monster was eighty feet away, I finally got my first good look at the thing. Problem was, even with it standing in clear view, my brain couldn’t quite comprehend what exactly I was seeing. It was a bit like looking at one of those MC Escher paintings where the perspective is all wrong and none of the lines come together the way they ought to. And the longer I stared, trying to puzzle it out, the more it hurt my eyes.

The eldritch horror was eight feet tall and vaguely man-shaped—though it wasn’t human even in the most liberal sense of the word.

An extra pair of arms jutted out from its muscled torso, and its whole body was bloody red and sinewy as if the creature had been crudely flayed alive. Its lower half was a mess of segmented legs protruding out from a writhing centipede body. A cruel obsidian mask covered its face and a crown of jagged black spikes hung suspended above its head. A cloak of thrashing scarlet tentacles trailed down its back, reaching all the way to the carpet.

Those tentacles were covered in oozing sores and glaring eyes.

Embedded in the center of the monster’s bloody chest cavity was a gleaming multifaceted gem with golden numbers engraved on its various faces. Encircling the glittering stone, were six glowing green sigils that looked like they’d been cribbed from the Necronomicon.

In one hand, the monster held a curved khopesh crafted from yellowed bone, and in the other, it wielded a whip made entirely of teeth and spinal vertebrae. Those weapons radiated a dark, almost malevolent aura that left me both nauseous and scared shitless.

I looked down, evaluating what I had to defend myself with. I was in trouble. A lot of trouble.

Turned out, drunk me had made some interesting fashion choices the night before. Choices that I was deeply, deeply regretting right now.

Slung around my shoulders and trailing down to my thighs was a knock-off red-and-gold, baroque Versace bathrobe. It was a hideous assault on taste and sensibility, and it actively made me despair for the future of humanity. I had never hated something so profoundly, or so quickly. Where it had come from or why on god’s green Earth I was wearing it were mysteries that beggared the imagination.

I had on a wife-beater beneath the robe and a pair of cut-off jean shorts—better known in trailer parks the world over as Daisy Dukes or jorts—that were so short and so tight they looked like faded blue denim spray-painted onto my nutsack. Instead of tennis shoes or flip-flops, Drunk Me had opted for my clunky work boots, which were missing the laces.

Then, to complete the look, I’d apparently decided to don my tool belt, which connected to a pair of leather suspenders. Although I didn’t have a mirror, I knew exactly how I must’ve looked. Like a strung-out hobo who’d managed to raid both a Home Depot and an upscale department store during a city-wide blackout. Of all the terrible life choices I’d made last night, however, grabbing my work belt had been the best of the lot.

I reached down and slid free my 19 oz rip claw hammer.

The shaft was hickory, the head worn from years of hard use. Its familiar weight was a comfort in my clammy hand, even though I doubted it would do much good against the walking nightmare. Certainly not as much good as a Glock with a full mag.

Not that a Glock would serve me much better.

Even though I’d spent eight years in the Marine Corps and done a couple pumps overseas to combat zones scattered across the Middle East, I’d served as a Motor-T driver. I’d spent most of my time behind the wheel of a troop carrier, pounding Rip Its and chainsmoking cigarettes, not kicking in doors or raiding insurgent stash houses.

And that was the better part of ten years and thirty pounds ago. Other than the occasional hunting trip with the boys, I hadn’t picked up a firearm in ages.

Besides, even if I were an expert shot and in peak physical condition, a handful of 9 mil rounds weren’t gonna do much against that thing. Hell, I was pretty sure a .50 cal and an anti-tank Javelin missile wouldn’t do much against that thing. If it wanted me dead, I wouldn’t last more than a handful of seconds before it gutted me like a trout.

My hand tightened around the handle anyway.

Fuck it. If I was going to die, at least I’d go down swinging.

But maybe it wouldn’t come to that. The big ol’ scary son of a bitch didn’t seem to be interested in me.

Not yet, anyway.

Its attention was entirely fixed on the lone figure swaggering through the conference room like an Old West gunslinger getting ready for a showdown at high noon.

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Hi, Taylah! Can you tell our readers a bit about yourself?

Hi The Nerd Daily! I would love to introduce myself to your readers. My name is Taylah and I am the author of The Song of the Sirens. I spent the last decade working in the video game industry, where I started as a 3D artist and most recently served as Vice President for Australia’s largest publicly listed video game company. During my time in this industry, I was able to work on some of the largest global IPs, including Game of Thrones and The Walking Dead. So, as you can imagine, I am a huge fan of all things fantasy and therefore wanted to create a universe of my own.

When did you first discover your love for writing and stories?

I started writing when I was 12. In fact, the first book I ever wrote is actually a version of what is now The Song of the Sirens. It has been rewritten close to 50 times, but there are characters and themes from the very first draft that remain. For fun throughout the years, I have also written a few screenplays in both the fantasy and horror genres. I have always loved stories across all different types of media—I read from a very early age, played video games and was fascinated by movies and TV shows.

Quick lightning round! Tell us:

• The first book you ever remember reading: The Magic Faraway Tree
• The one that made you want to become an author: The Hobbit
• The one that you can’t stop thinking about: Mistborn

Were there any moments or characters you really enjoyed writing or exploring?

While I was writing The Song of the Sirens, I wanted to explore as many morally grey characters as possible. The idea that ‘the hero is just the one telling the story’ was something I focused heavily on. I wanted these characters to be flawed, and I wanted to see how many of their actions the reader would be willing to justify simply because we are reading from their POV. I also loved writing the character of Kira. In a world filled with so many questionable characters, writing someone so pure and kind was refreshing.

Did you face any challenges whilst writing? How did you overcome them?

When I signed with my publisher, there were a lot of changes requested, including changing the tense from past to present. It would have been very easy for me to become overwhelmed by all the things that needed to be done. I felt attached to everything I had written but I took a moment to reflect on the feedback and understand why things needed to change or be removed. Ultimately, I could see how those changes would greatly improve the story I was trying to tell.

This is your debut novel! What was the road to becoming a published author like for you?

The road has been very long and unconventional. Originally, I had planned to self-publish. I promoted my book on TikTok and requested ARC readers for it. Before long, that video blew up and I had over 2,000 people asking to read my book early. Throughout my ARC campaign, I encouraged readers to post as much about my book as possible, and I created images and videos they could share with their communities. A week before my book was due to be self-published, one of my videos caught the attention of Atria Books and I got an email from them asking for a meeting. I delayed my launch in hopes of signing a deal with them, which is exactly what happened. I then spent six months rewriting the book after hours of feedback sessions with my editor. I am so thankful my journey happened this way because the story benefited immensely from it.

What’s next for you?

I have just finished writing book two in the Gatefall series, and we are currently in the process of editing it. I am very excited for readers to continue following the Valenor siblings’ story and see the consequences of everything that happened at the end of The Song of the Sirens. I am also currently writing two additional books within the Gatefall universe. I am excited to see where they go as I continue to write them.

Lastly, what books are you looking forward to picking up? Any you’ve read so far this year that you’ve enjoyed?

Well, I am lucky enough to share a release date with the next instalment of the incredible ACOTAR series. I, like many others, will be picking this up on release day to see what happens next in Prythian and what our inner circle are up to.

Will you be picking up The Song of the Sirens? Tell us in the comments below!

The post Q&A: Taylah Walker, Author of ‘The Song of the Sirens’ appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Hi, Matthew! Can you tell our readers a bit about yourself?

I’m a theater kid at heart, but I transitioned to writing for film & TV in 2001. My first job out of college was at the Sundance Institute, which was as good an introduction to the entertainment business as I could have hoped for. I try to bring the lessons I learned at Sundance to every project I work on, even if it’s a big studio franchise (or especially when). In 2011 I started working on COCO at Pixar, which brought me and my family to the Bay Area, where we’ve stayed ever since. When I’m not writing I’m baking bread and pastries.

When did you first discover your love for writing and stories?

I think I had a knack for writing at a young age, but I didn’t have the discipline for it until high school. I started writing plays in my drama classes, I wrote for the school paper, that kind of thing. I got good feedback from teachers and peers, which is huge at that age.

Quick lightning round! Tell us:

• The first book you ever remember reading: a Batman & Robin novella, don’t remember the name.
• The one that made you want to become an author: The World According to Garp
• The one that you can’t stop thinking about: East of Eden

Your debut novel, The Natural Order, is out October 27^th! If you could only describe it in five words, what would they be?

Time heals nothing. Butter does.

Where did the inspiration for The Natural Order come from?

I’ve long been fascinated by the modern longevity movement, and the characters it attracts. I’m also a sucker for fountain of youth stories. When my own father, from whom I’d been estranged my whole life, became ill and died, I started thinking about these longevity pioneers and who they will inevitably leave behind. The story of the novel took shape after that.

Were there any moments or characters you really enjoyed writing or exploring?

The whole thing was an exploration, but I had a good time writing about the titular organization.

Did you face any challenges whilst writing? How did you overcome them?

As this is my first book, the biggest challenge was self-doubt. So I kind of wrote it on the sly, and didn’t tell anyone about it until it was almost done.

This is your debut novel! What was the road to becoming a published author like for you?

There are a lot of similarities between getting a movie made and getting a book published. They both take time, a fair amount of luck, and most importantly, an army of people helping you push the rock uphill. I was lucky to work with a fantastic editor who helped me shape the first draft into a proper book, and for that I’ll be forever grateful.

Lastly, what books are you looking forward to picking up? Any you’ve read so far this year that you’ve enjoyed?

I’m reading the On the Calculation of Volume series by Solvej Bolle, and looking forward to book 5. I also just picked up Eating Behind Bars, a nonfiction book about prison food (I’m mildly obsessed with food and food security).

Will you be picking up The Natural Order? Tell us in the comments below!

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Eight Ways to Say I Love You by Amanda Elliot, which releases on October 27th 2026.

This Hanukkah, Shira Levinson is returning home to New Jersey riding the high of achieving major milestones. Though she only just graduated from college, she’s got her dream job and a perfect Los Angeles apartment—an actual miracle in the city of dreams.

Life has not been quite as kind to Leo David. Not only did he fail out of college, he was forced to move in with his estranged dad, who he still hates for cheating on his mom years ago. The only silver lining? Getting to see Shira, his childhood friend (and crush, though he’ll never tell her that) while she’s home for her family’s holiday party.

But that’s just the beginning. Over the next eight years, Shira’s and Leo’s lives spin them in all sorts of directions as they grow and change, taking them places they never imagined going. Sometimes those paths take them farther away from each other, and other times closer together. If they can only time it right, they might uncover a love that burns forever.

EXCERPT

She hesitated, then took a deep breath before saying, “I was so sad when you left.”

He was quiet for a moment. She glanced over to find him frowning at the road. “Yeah,” he said, sliding into the right-turn lane without a signal. She’d almost forgotten that, too—how it was almost a point of pride here to make turns without signals. Stupid. “I was, too.”

Stupid. Of course he’d been sad. She might have lost her best friend, but he’d lost his home, his dad, his sense of security, and all his friends. Hopefully he didn’t feel her stupid comment like itchy wool on his neck. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“I hear that in addition to working at a famous gallery, you’re a famous artist now.” He made a sharp right into a parking space before another car could swoop in; the place was packed, which she probably should have expected, considering it was only a few days before the holidays. “Your paintings are going to be in the Met? Something like that. Your mom had a lot to say.”

Shira rolled her eyes as they got out of the car and slammed the doors behind them. “None of that is true,” she said dryly. They walked up the row of the parking lot toward the front of the store. “I don’t have a—”

Leo flung his arm out, catching her across the front; she stopped short against it. Her mouth opened in a silent O of surprise just as a car flew past, so close the wind blew her hair back. “Sorry,” he said, glancing over. “You okay?”

His arm was still there, holding her back from the lane. She blinked and was suddenly thirteen years old again, and he’d slung his arm around her shoulders as he always did, but the feeling of his skin warm on hers was now something new and strange, something that brought warmth flushing her belly from the inside out. “Yeah,” she said. “Totally fine.”

Inside, she quirked a smile to see the supermarket displays featuring giant hams and bags of cranberries instead of an assortment of organic juices and salad kits. Some things she didn’t love about LA, chief among them being the food culture. Some-times she just wanted a muffin that wasn’t gluten-free or sugar-free or full of black beans but in a way you couldn’t taste them (you absolutely could taste them). “Okay,” she said, clapping her hands together. If they stood here in the entrance much longer, they’d get mowed down by a shopping cart. “So, where to?”

“Potatoes,” Leo said. He squinted off to the side. “Over there.” They headed off in the direction of the potatoes, dodging careening shopping carts and people arguing passionately about the difference between white and yellow onions. “How many do you think we need?” Shira asked once the mounds of delicious brown orbs were in sight.

“I don’t know, how many latkes per person? Three? Five?” “Let’s say two, because making five hundred latkes sounds

like the punishment some obscure Greek god might give you for overconfidence,” Shira said. “So . . . let’s google . . .” Her eyes nearly popped out of her head. “Sixty to seventy pounds of potatoes?” She blinked hard, as if trying to force her eyeballs back in. “Okay, maybe we can’t make our own latkes. Can we even carry sixty to seventy pounds of potatoes? Can we fit that in your car?”

But Leo was already shoveling up potatoes into his arms and piling them into their cart. “Google says that one potato weighs about one pound,” he said. “So that’s only sixty to seventy potatoes. Not bad.”

“I hope nobody else needs potatoes for the holiday. We’re about to clear out this store,” Shira said. She felt sorry for a second, then not. This was an emergency. A potato emergency.

Excerpted from EIGHT WAYS TO SAY I LOVE YOU by Amanda Elliot, published by Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Copyright © 2026

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Mark of the Warrior by Shannon Lee and Fonda Lee, which releases on October 27th 2026.

Two brothers. Two nations. One destiny.

Exiled as a traitor after the Guardian’s Tournament, Li Jun has vowed to retrieve the stolen Scroll of Heaven and to honor his father’s dying request: find his mother and twin brother, Sai.

Fleeing into the East in search of their friend Ren, Jun and his longtime rival Yin Yue have no choice but to trust the two breathmarked women who saved their lives but who answer to the mysterious and draconian Council of Virtue that tore Jun’s family apart and banished him and his father a decade ago.

Recovering the Scrolls of Heaven or Earth in order to stop the brewing war that threatens to devastate East and West alike isn’t Jun’s only seemingly insurmountable challenge. The twin he was separated from in childhood is now the High Keeper who resides in the Sun Pagoda, protecting the precious Scroll of Earth from all potential enemies…including Jun.

The fate of the entire land hinges on an inevitable reckoning between brothers that will test their skills, their loyalties, and everything they thought they knew about themselves and the nature of destiny.

EXCERPT

From Mark of the Warrior by Shannon Lee and Fonda Lee. Copyright © 2026 by the authors, and reprinted with permission of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.

ONE

The East was a place of falling leaves and memories.

The bite of autumn was in the air, the first threat of frost stirring the wind that tugged the red and orange leaves from their branches. It reminded Jun of a similar fall morning when he was six years old, when he’d been abruptly thrust into exile, his life torn asunder.

And here he was again.

“We’ll stop and rest here,” Water suggested, leading them away from the road into a nearby clearing. It was only midafternoon and they hadn’t gone more than a couple dozen li, but no one put up an argument. The grueling pace and injuries Jun and Yin Yue had sustained during their flight to reach the Snake Wall had taken a toll, and they needed time to recover. A week ago, Water and Lure had led them through a secret crossing in the Snake Wall under the cover of a cloudy, moonless night, passing shadowy patrolmen bribed to look the other way and keep their mouths shut. Since then, they’d been traveling slowly, taking the much- needed time to regain their strength and prepare themselves for whatever lay ahead.

Jun dropped onto a nearby fallen log and carefully eased off the sling that had been holding his injured left shoulder immobile. Gingerly, he rolled it out, feeling the joint protest with stiffness but no longer with pain. The puncture wound from Old Man Zhang’s spike- tipped cane had sealed up, leaving an unsightly scar but no lingering damage. Lure came over and had Jun lift his arm over his head and move it around as she examined it. “You’re a quick fix,” she observed, impressed.

“Thanks to you,” Jun said, stretching his shoulder across his body, trying to gently bring mobility back into his disused muscles. He was lucky to have made it through the Guardian’s tournament and the encounter against the Moon Righteous Sabers with his life, and without suffering far worse damage. With proper care, he’d always been able to heal quickly and bounce back from injury. Back in his Iron Core school training days, he’d noticed that some of his classmates would be aching for a week after heavy sparring and conditioning.

“Ah, to have the metabolism of a young man,” Water said with a smile, coming up next to her apprentice. “And you’re more fortunate than most, to have such an abundance of Dragon’s Breath. Chang said it was the most he’d ever seen in anyone who isn’t breathmarked.”

Sifu Chang. Worry twisted Jun’s stomach into knots. He could only hope the blind flutist and his daughter, Ren, were safe. They had escaped Cobu’s soldiers and fled into the East; Jun knew that much from Lure’s uncanny ability to lead them steadily and unerringly toward the owner of the silk scarf tied around her belt. Wherever Ren went, Lure could find her. But Jun had no way of knowing if Chang and Ren were sick or injured, if they’d found sanctuary somewhere, or if they were in as much danger on this side of the Snake Wall as they had been on the other.

If only Ren had shared her plans with him earlier, given him more than a cryptic clue to go on. He’d spent so much time with her yet had never really been brought into her confidence. To Chang and Ren and the rest of the Silent Flute Society, he’d been a convenient wrench in General Cobu’s otherwise uncontested plans to subvert the Guardian’s Tournament and seize complete power in the West. And even on that front, he’d failed. He’d been Guardian for less than a day, and now Cobu was on the march. War hung in the air as surely as the coming winter.

Not for the first time, Jun wished he’d never left Cheon. He wouldn’t have any more power to stop Cobu than he did now, but at least he’d be at home, training by day and working at the opera house by night, sitting down with his father for a late supper after the performances were over. The two of them would talk about the fighters in the Guardian’s Tournament without Jun ever having to set foot in the arena himself. And his father would be alive. Sad and resigned, perhaps, but still alive, instead of in the ground, buried by strangers, without even his disobedient son to pour libations on his grave. How deeply Jun wished he’d been more grateful for an uneventful day.

Jun got to his feet. Fighting for his life had at least kept him from thinking too much. Now that he wasn’t in immediate danger, he had far too much time on his hands to sink into worry and regret. Crossing the clearing, he went over to where Yin Yue was sitting on the ground, leaning his back against a tree, struggling to adjust the canvas straps around the stump where his right hand used to be.

“Need a hand?” Jun jested, hoping to make the older student smile. Instead, Yin Yue made a noise of frustration and dropped his false appendage to the ground. The pitchfork that Yin had lashed to his maimed limb in order to fight the Sabers was hardly practical for daily tasks, so one night Lure had whittled a piece of firewood into a fake hand for him. It only had two big fingers and a curved thumb, so it looked more like a crab claw than a hand, but at least it was semi- functional and not as heavy. The problem was keeping it stabilized on Yin’s arm without it coming loose while keeping the straps, which Lure had fashioned by tearing a grain sack into strips, from chafing against Yin’s still- healing limb.

“This is pointless,” Yin Yue exclaimed, and dropped his forehead onto his bent knees.

“I don’t know about you,” Jun said, “but I’m starting to get antsy. Feeling up for some light sparring?”

Training was where Jun could feel in control and centered. He could silence the doubts in his mind with physical exertion, find some measure of peace in the practice of violence. Recovery was all well and needed, but just because they were in the East didn’t mean they were out of danger. Far from it. He wouldn’t put it past General Cobu to send more bounty hunters like Old Man Zhang after him.

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Hi, Hugh! Can you tell our readers a bit about yourself?

What’s up, y’all! This questions always sets my mind to spinning. I was born and raised in Atlanta. I mostly write speculative fiction for teens and tweens. I’m a big fan of live music and true-crime. My favorite subject in school was history. I love vegan food, WNBA basketball, and all things spooky season!

When did you first discover your love for writing and stories?

In elementary school! My teachers were very encouraging and supportive of my love of reading. I always enjoyed telling stories and listening to others tell stories. I used to make up stories and write them down with my friends, then draw illustrations of the characters. I also played sports, which felt like my “main thing” until I finished college. Writing was always just a fun hobby. Sometimes I think back and I’m like, I could have been making so much progress if I would have taken writing more seriously. But, I also think letting writing be a hobby for so long helped me maintain a positive relationship with it.

Quick lightning round! Tell us:

• The first book you ever remember reading: Impossible to remember. But I do remember reading Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark no less than a million times.
• The one that made you want to become an author: The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe
• The one that you can’t stop thinking about: The Buffalo Hunter Hunter by Stephen Graham Jones

Your latest novel, A Lake with No Bottom, is out now! If you could only describe it in five words, what would they be?

Deep, dark,  cold, and gasping. 

Were there any moments or characters you really enjoyed writing or exploring?

Yeah! Jeremy Mackenzie is a really important character to the story. He’s young, but he has this loyal following of citizens who trust him with their lives and would do anything for him. I mentioned true-crime earlier, and one of my favorite documentary topics is cults. I studied some well-known cult leaders to develop aspects of Jeremy’s voice and personality. That’s not my usual headspace (thank goodness), so it was fun to really get into character as Jeremy.

Did you face any challenges whilst writing? How did you overcome them?

There are always challenges when trying to tell stories about difficult truths from the past. A Lake with No Bottom deals with some heavy events  that caused racial strife in Georgia in the early 1900s. I know that will make some people uncomfortable. But, I firmly believe that we heal as a community by talking about what has happened and how we can be better moving forward. I’m excited for people to read the book, form opinions, and start a dialogue about it so we can explore all the meanings!

What’s next for you?

I’ve got a few more cool, spooky, action-packed things up my sleeve that I hope I get to tell y’all about soon. My next big trip is to YALLfest in Charleston South Carolina, November 13-14, 2026. It’s such a cool festival. I can’t wait to meet the readers there and talk more about future projects.

Lastly, what books are you looking forward to picking up? Any you’ve read so far this year that you’ve enjoyed?

Michael Wehunt just dropped Nightjars. I can’t wait to get into that one. Same with Our Cut of Salt by Deena Helm. 2026 has been a good reading year for me. I can’t get out of here without mentioning From Our Blood by Shardai Smith, which I got to read an early copy of, and The Drakon King by Terry J. Benton-Walker, who’s co-hosting the A Lake with No Bottom launch with me!

Will you be picking up A Lake with No Bottom? Tell us in the comments below!

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Gilded Rose by Joanna Shupe, which is out now.

Love isn’t always a fairy tale.

Charming and popular, Orson Grey is the most sought-after bachelor in Manhattan. When Caroline pledges to spend her life with him, it feels like the beginning of a fairy tale.

The fairy tale quickly turns into a nightmare.

Behind closed doors, Orson is controlling and cruel. Trapped by laws that prevent women from leaving unhappy marriages, Caroline has no choice but to endure her husband’s behavior. Each day grows more intolerable, and her frustration and resentment mounts. Even her passion for rare books is stifled, leaving her isolated and lonely, a fading rose trapped under glass.

When Caroline is offered the opportunity to catalogue a private library, she seizes it like a lifeline. Exploring the literary treasures, she discovers a friend in the library’s owner, Zane Bishop—a brilliant, wealthy recluse who was disfigured in an explosion years ago.

Thoughtful and kind, Zane is everything Orson is not. As their trust builds, Zane realizes that Caroline’s pain runs much deeper than she lets on. He suffers with her, knowing precisely of Orson’s cruelty firsthand. Zane will stop at nothing to set Caroline free, even if it means risking everything.

The Gilded Rose is a story of resilience, passion, and the transformative power of love.

EXCERPT

September, 1898

“Smile,” my husband hissed under his breath as we moved through the ballroom. His fingers pressed into my wrist almost to the point of pain. “I won’t have people thinking you aren’t proud to be on my arm.”

As we walked through the crowd, I affixed a grin on my face as if John Singer Sargent himself had drawn it there. With my hair coiffed in an elegant sweep and my new Worth gown, I knew I looked perfect. But inside I was screaming, protesting, wishing to be anywhere but here. The pretense exhausted me, and the entire joyless and soul-crushing night stretched ahead like dark, fathomless depths, ready to swallow me whole.

After eight weeks of marriage, I’d lost faith in myself, as well as the world around me. I thought the situation would improve once Orson and I returned from our honeymoon two weeks ago. In New York, I hoped to gain distance from him and reclaim a bit of my former life.

It proved impossible. In fact, it was worse.

Orson wished to know where I was at all times. He hated when I left the house, even for the simplest errand, and insisted on coming with me. Then he complained and hurried me through every outing, including visits with my father. Callers to the house were refused, which didn’t bother me. To be honest, I had no desire to put on a brave face for anyone—including for tonight’s ball.

I elongated my spine and lifted my head. “I wish to leave, Orson.”

We happened to pass a mirror and Orson stopped to check his reflection. “Nonsense. We’ve just arrived and everyone is staring at us, so we must give them what they want—a peek at the most handsome couple in all of New York.” His eyes flicked to me. “Besides, aren’t you curious about this place?”

“This place” was the home of one of New York’s most reclusive tycoons, Mr. Zane Bishop. No one ever saw him and he didn’t receive guests at his seventy-five-room mansion. His sister, however, was active in society and charities, a well-known figure about town. Somehow Camilla Bishop Marshall had convinced her brother to host tonight’s ball as a benefit for the Association for Improving the Condition of the Poor.

Seizing at the rare opportunity, all of Manhattan’s upper crust had turned out tonight. The ballroom was packed with an impressive list of society’s elite, wealthy businessmen, and Broadway actors. Even European royalty were mingling amongst the ice sculptures and coupes.

The old Caroline would’ve circulated and chatted easily with acquaintances until the wee hours. Now my skin itched with betrayal, my sharp eyes spotting duplicity in every smile and greeting. These people . . . I used to feel comfortable around them. Nestled in the bosom of their privilege, I never imagined I would be led astray, swindled into such a marriage as this. Why hadn’t anyone warned me about Orson? Shouldn’t there have been signs? They must have known.

I couldn’t look at their faces without wanting to shout at them for ruining my life.

The crowd swallowed us as we ventured deeper into the ballroom. Men clapped Orson on the shoulder, jostling him in enthusiastic greeting. Young women giggled behind their fans as he passed, their eyes devouring him like a bon bon from Schrafft’s. The older women used every excuse to brush against his arm, then murmured their apologies in a husky, inviting tone.

“What a beautiful couple,” Rebecca Barbey murmured as Orson and I drifted past.

Wearing his most charming smile, Orson drew us to a halt and faced the woman, who was standing with her husband. “Mr. and Mrs. Barbey. Good evening.”

Mr. Barbey bowed over my hand. “Mr. and Mrs. Grey. Marriage certainly agrees with you two.”

Hardly. My marriage felt like Hell on earth.

Orson squeezed my waist in a not-so-subtle prompt to speak. I blurted, “How do you do, Mr. Barbey, Mrs. Barbey?”

Mrs. Barbey looked me up and down carefully, as if searching for flaws. “Here you are, the lucky new bride. The whole city had been angling to get Orson Grey to the altar for years, yet you managed it in a few short weeks.”

I swallowed hard as I forced a smile, a headache brewing behind my eyes. “Quite lucky, indeed.”

“We must catch up one of these days. I’ll call on you and we’ll visit over tea.”

Rebecca Barbey and I weren’t close and I had no desire to visit with her. Refusing was rude, however. I opened my mouth to say . . . something. Then promptly closed it.

My husband addressed me, his tone no doubt coming off adoring to those in earshot. “My dear, I see someone I must speak with. I wonder if you’ll stay put until I return?” It wasn’t phrased as a request. Nevertheless, I nodded, grateful for a reprieve. “Of course.”

My husband excused himself and disappeared into the crowd. I exhaled the breath I’d been holding since we walked inside the ballroom and regarded the older couple. Mr. Barbey said, “I hear you honeymooned in Bar Harbor, Mrs. Grey. I love the place. I confess to being a bit of an angler, and the waters off the coast of Maine are a favorite of mine.”

Mrs. Barbey made a face then walked away, likely to avoid discussing fish, but her rudeness didn’t bother me in the least. The woman smacked of disingenuous intentions.

“Bar Harbor was enjoyable,” I lied. “Do you travel there often?”

During the next few minutes, as Mr. Barbey waxed poetic about bluefish, halibut, and cod, my attention wandered. I stared at the night beyond the huge windows and wondered if I could escape for a few minutes of fresh air. My head throbbed painfully.

Suddenly, a tall man caught my attention at the side of the room. Orson. I watched as he slipped through the french doors and into the night. Where was he off to in the middle of the—

Mrs. Barbey followed not five seconds behind. That was odd. Were they . . . ?

No, it was impossible. He wouldn’t dare. We were newly married, recently repeating vows before God and most of the people in this room. Orson wouldn’t carry on with an affair. Would he?

I had to find out.

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What inspired you to write DINA GETS LUCKY?

I initially wrote this story as a screenplay, as a sort of creative exercise. It was so much fun, and I absolutely fell in love with Dina and Lucky. I knew from my work as a novelist that I could further explore their story by turning it into a book. It was a delight to revisit their love story!

You have a gift for taking tried and true genres and giving them your unique spin. What are some of your favorite tropes, and which tropes did you take on in DINA GETS LUCKY?

Every romance writer enjoys a good trope; they are the mainstays of the industry. In DINA GETS LUCKY, I made good use of one of my favs, the second-chance romance. Dina and Lucky were in love with each other in law school, but for various reasons, it didn’t work out. It was so fun to explore how they found their way back to each other over the course of the story. A few smaller tropes in the book are ‘he falls first’ and ‘wedding shenanigans.’

I love how you seamlessly interweave South Asian traditions and beliefs into the plot of DINA GETS LUCKY, especially the marriage preparations. Can you tell us what is typical for a traditional Muslim South Asian wedding? There are quite a lot of festivities involved!

South Asian weddings are as diverse as the sub-continent, and differ by region, faith, and preference. My family are originally from India, a vast and diverse country, though we have one thing in common – we all love a good party. In my experience, many South Asian/desi weddings are multi-day affairs. Three pillars of the South Asian Muslim wedding however are the mehndi, nikah and walima. The mehndi is a party held before the wedding ceremony. It was traditionally a time for the women in the family to gather, put henna on their hands and feet, sing folk songs, and dance. The event has evolved into a more elaborate party which includes both the bride and groom’s side, with no henna applied, but plenty of singing and dancing. Sometimes the dances are highly choreographed performances put on by both the bridal and groom’s party. The nikah is the traditional Muslim wedding ceremony, a relatively brief process officiated by an Imam or a trusted family or friend. This is followed by the walima, which is a large wedding reception. Some South Asian families have a rukhsati, when the bride officially leaves her family home with her new husband, as well as other smaller parties like a mayoon, and dholkis which occur before the wedding, and usually involve wedding prep, eating, dancing, and singing. It’s a lot, and plenty of fun.

You have a gift for writing laugh-out-loud moments, Uzma, and some of the funniest moments center around Dina’s baby sister and bride-to-be, Hania. Some of the scenes with Hania and her social media entourage are hilarious. Did you research Instagram and Tik Tok beauty influencers? Your descriptions are spot on!

Thank you! Like most people, I consume a fair bit of Instagram reels and videos. I think like a comedy writer, and have a tendency to find the ridiculous in every day moments. Most of my comedy comes out of my own reimagining of regular scenarios, taken to a silly and hilarious extreme. I’m glad Hania and her entourage were relatable and funny.

You don’t shy away from difficult subjects in this book. Lucky makes great sacrifices for his family, and people are judgmental of the profession he chose in order to rescue his family from homelessness. Why is this an important story for you to tell now?

Many of my stories are as much commentaries on social class, financial hardships, family challenges, discrimination and cultural expectations as they are about love and relationships. I want my characters to be nuanced, with complete lives that include family, friends, co-workers, and the realities of living in a complicated world. I hope readers will always enjoy my character portrayals of people who find love despite the challenges they face.

Your supporting characters are just as fully realized as your main protagonists. Are your rich cast of characters inspired by people you know?

I love writing side characters, and they have a tendency to sometimes overtake the main narrative with their quirks and hilarious one-liners. They aren’t inspired by anyone I know, but rather the funny things and situations I think about as I go about my day.

What were some things that surprised you while writing this book in terms of new plot twists or how the story developed while writing?

One of the things that surprised me was how different a screenplay is from a novel. I’ve had a few of my books optioned for film and tv, and the screenwriters hired have done a wonderful job, but they also changed a lot of details from my books in the process, which is normal of course. So, when I had the opportunity to turn my screenplay of DINA GETS LUCKY into a novel, I had the opposite experience – I had to add back the details that are sometimes stripped away in a screenplay. It’s really a question of math: A novel tends to have more interiority and exposition than a movie or show as a result of the word-real-estate. Full length adult novels are anywhere from 65,000 to 100,00 words or more, while feature length screenplays are usually in the 15,000 word range. One form is not better than the other, it’s just different. I enjoyed writing both versions of this story.

What are some of the key takeaways you hope readers will reap from this novel?

I always hope I leave my readers entertained. I have a soft spot for Dina, and the transformative journey she goes on over the course of the story. I also hope readers laugh at the funny beats, and perhaps even relate to the challenges both Dina and Lucky experience. Since the novel takes place over the course of an over-the-top and chaotic South Asian wedding, I hope they enjoy learning about the culture, or perhaps feel nostalgia about wedding festivities they have participated in themselves!

Will you be picking up Dina Gets Lucky? Tell us in the comments below!

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