It’s January, which means the internet is once again filled with people vowing to become Better Versions of Themselves.
More exercise.
Fewer carbs.
A spiritual awakening achieved through color-coded planners.
As an author, I feel it is my civic duty to offer an alternative set of New Year’s resolutions—specifically for readers. These are resolutions you can feel good about and abandon guilt-free by February.
Editing a thirteen-book Arthurian saga isn’t for the faint of heart. Mark pulls back the curtain on his years in the trenches with Once and Future Hearts—from navigating character continuity and protecting authorial voice to the diplomatic art of asking, “Are you sure, Tracy?” as the finale, Camlann, heads into its early-release Kickstarter celebration.
Christmas has a talent for going delightfully off the rails — and honestly, that’s half the charm. This week on Mark’s blog, we’re diving into the beautifully imperfect moments that make the season unforgettable. From last-minute chaos to wobbly traditions and the kind of family stories that only happen when everyone embraces the madness, it’s all fair game. What’s your most memorable Christmas — heartwarming, disastrous, or somewhere in between?
Mark Posey joins the long-running Uncollected Anthology with Bones of the Priory, a dark, atmospheric Sister Jacobine story in the new Monster Hunters issue. Jacobine returns to the ruins of her childhood nunnery expecting quiet reflection—but what she finds is her immortal sister Margaret, and a confrontation centuries in the making.
Readers aren’t toddlers in need of hand-holding—they’re highly skilled story-decoders who’ve been reading between the lines since grade school. They don’t need your theme underlined, highlighted, and surrounded by interpretive dance. In fact, the moment you over-explain, you kill the magic. Trust them to catch the subtext, feel the tension, and assemble the clues. Not only will your story be stronger for it—your readers will love you for letting them play along.
There’s a particular kind of magic that happens the moment you sit down in front of a fire with a warm drink and a good book. Suddenly the to-do list fades, the world shrinks to a soft glow, and some ancient part of your brain settles in with a satisfied Yes. Good. Time to read. In that light, mysteries get twistier, romances get swoonier, and even instruction manuals start looking a little seductive. It’s the universal ritual of readers everywhere — curl up, warm up, read on.
There was a glorious time — not as far back as dinosaurs, but far enough that you had to physically turn a page — when spy thrillers were built on tension. Real tension. The slow-burn, creeping dread variety that made you lean forward until you realized your spine was doing yoga poses you didn’t sign up for.
These were the days of The Bourne Identity, the early Bond novels, and le Carré’s Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy — stories powered by paranoia, not pyrotechnics. Today, spy thrillers have traded that slow dread for weaponized anxiety and smartwatch hacking. But both eras have something to teach us about how to build suspense that sticks.
Thanksgiving comes twice a year when you straddle both sides of the border — one quieter, one a full-blown production. But whether it’s turkey, pasta, or chili dogs, the heart of it never changes. Gratitude isn’t about the meal or the decor. It’s about the people at your table — literal and metaphorical — and remembering how lucky we are to have them.
Writers love to add more scenes, more twists, more explosions… but half the time the real problem is simpler: we don’t actually know what the story is about.
Once you can answer three deceptively basic questions — What’s it about? What will the protagonist learn? How will they change? — the whole book snaps into focus. Plot becomes purposeful. Scenes stop wandering. And suddenly you’re not writing 300 pages of Stuff That Happens™ — you’re writing a story with meaning.
Big explosions are fun, but they’re not what makes a thriller truly terrifying. The real fear hides in the silence—the still moments when nothing’s happening, yet you know something’s about to. From No Country for Old Men to Saving Grace, Mark Posey explores why quiet scenes hit harder than gunfire—and why the pause before the door opens is the scariest sound of all.
