Only Persist

A new thriller, notes on writing, and the pleasures of summer

1. PLEASE DON’T LIE!

The thriller I co-authored with Anne Burt hits shelves September 1 — in hardcover, paperback, audio, and e-book — and we’ll be on tour, in person and virtual, in the months ahead. More info here.

Our debut thriller began as a twisty, dark story we developed for a podcast commission – but we loved the concept so much we couldn't bear to hand it off. We kept it for ourselves and spent the next year immersed in the world of our characters. Please Don’t Lie is the result of this collaboration, and we can’t wait to share it with you.

Anne and I have long shared a fascination with how people construct narratives about themselves and their pasts, and what happens when those stories unravel. From the beginning, our friendship was built on long, winding conversations about narrative: how it works, why it matters, what makes it powerful. Eventually, those conversations evolved into a creative shorthand and a mutual obsession with psychological suspense.

If you’re interested in reading PLEASE DON’T LIE, please order it soon! Preorders make a huge difference to authors—and we’d truly appreciate your support!

2. And here’s some friendly advice…

Don’t give up before the miracle.

This week, two quotes struck a chord. In a New Yorker profile, Lena Dunham recalled a phrase often heard in recovery circles: “Don’t give up before the miracle.” And in a recent W interview, the singer Chappell Roan reflected on how she held on during the hardest moments of her career:

“Whenever I was working at my part-time jobs, like nannying or the drive-through or doughnut shop, I kept hope alive because I knew I was really good. I knew I had to just give it one more year. And I got that courage by, honestly, just being in hell for a very long time. I was like, this sucks so bad, but keep going. Every day I would think, Keep going, even if there was no sight of any light at the end of the tunnel. Zero! But I was like, what if it’s just around the corner? What if I stopped the day before that something is meant to happen? So I just kept going, and here we are!”

If there’s one thing that has carried me through as a writer, it’s persistence — that unglamorous habit. It’s also, I think, the foundation of my writing partnership with Anne. Over the years, we’ve worked on a number of projects together – an imprint at a small publishing house, a TV series, a podcast – none of which came to fruition. But we both believed that one day, something would. We kept showing up for each other, trying new forms, testing ideas. That shared commitment is what ultimately led us to Please Don’t Lie (and the next thriller in the series, which we’re writing now).

3. Try to praise the mutilated world.

This poem by Adam Zagajewski has stayed with me since the first time I read it. Its quiet insistence that even in darkness we must seek out grace and beauty feels especially resonant now. The poem doesn’t deny sorrow; it moves through it, naming what’s broken while celebrating what endures. In its evocation of wild strawberries, fluttering curtains, and the gray feather of a thrush, it leaves room for memory, music, and light. I return to it when I need reminding that the world, even in its brokenness, is still worth loving. Even in the ruins, something tender stirs.

Try to praise the mutilated world.

Remember June's long days,

and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.

The nettles that methodically overgrow

the abandoned homesteads of exiles.

You must praise the mutilated world.

You watched the stylish yachts and ships;

one of them had a long trip ahead of it,

while salty oblivion awaited others.

You've seen the refugees going nowhere,

you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.

You should praise the mutilated world.

Remember the moments when we were together

in a white room and the curtain fluttered.

Return in thought to the concert where music flared.

You gathered acorns in the park in autumn

and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.

Praise the mutilated world

and the gray feather a thrush lost,

and the gentle light that strays and vanishes

and returns.

4. Sip what delights you.

Here I am at a Paris café in June with an Aperol Spritz, my favorite summer cocktail. David and I spent five weeks this summer living, working, and wandering in London, Paris, and Ireland, and the spritz became a ritual: a celebratory punctuation mark at the end of a long walk, a long writing day, or both.

An Aperol Spritz tastes like summer – simple, refreshing, lightly bitter, effervescent, unapologetically orange. It’s best enjoyed outside, ideally with someone you like or possibly even love. It’s a celebration of small pleasures, golden-hour light, and finding joy in the moment you’re in.

Aperol Spritz (the classic recipe):

• 3 oz Prosecco

• 2 oz Aperol

• 1 oz soda water

• Serve over ice in a wine glass with an orange slice

5. Bring home something that gives you joy.

At Ballymaloe House in Ireland, in the middle of a sculpture garden dotted with many wild and wonderful creations, David and I spotted this ceramic bird. It’s by the Irish artist Eileen Singleton, who works in a studio deep in the countryside, where she sculpts animals and vessels inspired by the wind, water, and shape of the land.

We had the chance to visit her studio and see more of her work – a serene, elemental experience. Her bird came home with us in a padded box, and now it lives in our house in Maine, a reminder of those long green afternoons in county Cork. It makes me smile every time I pass it

Happy summer, everyone! And remember: if you’re stuck in the tunnel, keep going. The miracle might be closer than you think.

Yours,

Christina