May 2026

Dear ,

I saw Florence and the Machine at the end of last month, and from beginning to end, the experience was wholly magical.

First was the fact that acquiring the tickets was an act of rare spontaneity on my part. I’d talked myself out of buying tickets for this tour until they were sold out, then regretted it, so when a last-minute venue change gave me another chance, I took it.

Second was the Atlantic City boardwalk, which, in the off-season at least, has a dingy surrealness about it — the roaring ocean on one side, the neon flicker of faded shops and attractions on the other. It felt like a place that might disappear once you walked through it.

Third was Florence herself. Seeing celebrities in person usually has a spell-breaking effect for me — they’re always a little smaller than I expect, a little too self-aware to be effortless. But Florence, Florence was as wild and fae and beautiful as I ever imagined, and it made the entire experience transportive, like we’d stepped through a secret door into the version of reality where everything lives up to the hype.

And fourth, fourth was the moment. The moment was not really about Florence, and yet it couldn’t have happened without her.

She crossed the barrier to come into the crowd a few times, but she worked her way completely around the stage during One of the Greats, and I felt the mood of the crowd turn from excitement to something closer to apprehension — we couldn’t all be so close as to touch her, she couldn’t hug all of us, she couldn’t hold all our hands, and the collective yearning was raw, palpable.

But once, she came close enough for me to touch.

I was conscious of the crowd swelling like a wave, carrying me with it, all of us lifting and stretching toward the same thing. And yet, somehow, I was conscious of nothing but the possibility of contact, every cell in my body tuned to the anticipation of my hand meeting hers and blinkered to everything else. The effect was so strong that it felt like time had slipped; when she moved away, she might never have been there at all, and every detail of her face that my eyes must have just seen in startling clarity passed through my mind like a sand through a sieve. It was a strange, out-of-body experience to observe the memory forming and know I would remember not what was there, but what I missed.

Later, still humming and exhilarated, I couldn’t help but reflect on the moment in light of my publishing journey. Of course, the desire for Florence Welch to hold my hand was fleeting and unexamined, born out of whatever strange instinct urges us to hand babies to the Pope, and my desire to be a published author is longsuffering and rooted in the bedrock of who I am as a person, but the concert experience was brief and startling enough to be noticed, the full act of want and denial in the span of seconds. I wondered what else I had already missed, what had passed unseen while I was reaching for — what, exactly? Unlike a singular moment of contact with the Witch Herself, publishing is a series of milestones that feel consequential until you reach them. I said I would celebrate when I got an agent, then when the book went on submission, then when it sold, then when it was announced, then when the cover was revealed, and I started to resent people asking me if I was celebrating.

I’ll celebrate when it hits a list, I wanted to say. I’ll celebrate when it wins an award. I’ll celebrate when it earns out.

I’m an ambitious person — it’s part of what drew me to Florence’s music in the first place — and I don’t want a pat on the head. I don’t want to settle for just having done the thing. Being able to sit with the discomfort and embarrassment of being shitty at things is how you stick with them long enough to get good, and having stuck through a lot of shit means I no longer feel the need to throw myself a party for every damn baby step.

But after the concert, I started to wonder if every question about celebrating was really about noticing. I don’t want to pop champagne over everything, but I do want to notice it, to be present with it. Even with the definition of “success” being so nebulous and so beyond my control, I am the sort to pursue it to the exclusion of all else, and I don’t want time to slip and leave me with only the “before” and the “after.” I don’t want to look back on this and have only memories formed around the hollow core of what I missed.

Maybe the goalposts will continue to move, or maybe the bottom will fall out so completely that there are no more goalposts. Either way, I want to notice it all. I want to remember it with startling clarity.

News and Events

In case you missed it, the UK version of my book was revealed in April!

I’m not exaggerating when I say I gasped aloud the first time I saw this cover. It’s everything I could’ve wanted: simple, powerful, unsettling. Best of all, I think readers will finish the book and see some of the details in a new light.

There has been some confusion around the title difference, but between the front and back cover, Fawn and The Devil Knows Her Name are the exact same book. The differences simply reflect the creative vision of each imprint and what they anticipate working for their market.

Speaking of imprints, just a few days ago, Fawn was announced as the lead title for 3AM Books, Transworld’s brand-new horror imprint. Luckily for me, I’m still working with the same team that’s made all this magic happen, and I hope to work with them from a long, long time.

Which brings me to the ARC giveaway.

I’ve never seen so many offers for internal organs, limbs, and firstborn children as I did when the Transworld team revealed this beauties. These are exclusive UK ARCs, not the paperback design, not available for sale, and I have ONE to give away to a lucky subscriber. The contest is open to anyone, whether you’re in the UK, US, or somewhere else!

All you have to do to get your name in the hat is fill out the short form below, which basically says you want to enter, you won’t sell it, and you’re willing to provide a shipping address if you win.

I make no guarantees that this ARC is not haunted! Once she’s been staring at you from across the room long enough, you’ll start to wonder. I’ll announce the winner on May 22nd — best of luck!

Your May Story: Salt Lick

May 19th marks the release date of Until Death, my friend Mary Berman’s debut horror novel about the wedding industrial complex. Mary is a delight and an incredible talent, and I highly recommend preordering this one and/or grabbing a ticket to one of her launch events (you might just see me there). In honor of the release, I thought I’d try my hand at a little wedding horror myself…

A Moment in the Grass

My darling Sylvie is one year old today. She remains the sweetest and most cheerful girl who wakes up every morning delighted for breakfast, cuddles, adventures, and perhaps most importantly, visitors.

Until next time,

-C