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There’s no rigid schedule—I wish I could say I had one, but between writing and running a livestock farm, my days are unpredictable. The time of year affects my workflow, and so does the stage of writing I’m in.
That said, I tend to do most of my writing in the evenings, aiming to hit a few thousand words when I can. I find that setting weekly goals works better than obsessing over a daily word count. If possible, I scribble down a few thoughts in the morning to let them simmer throughout the day. That way, by the time I sit down to write at night, I already have ideas taking shape.
For a long time, I lived in a small, temporary setup on the farm and wrote wherever I could. Now, I finally have a proper space—an upstairs room above the garage, larger than I probably need. My desk faces the farmyard because the other view is too distracting.
I draft in Scrivener on a Mac Mini, and I use a whiteboard when I bother to plan things out. But honestly, I can work anywhere. I’ve written on trains, in noisy cafés, even scrawled entire scenes on flights. I take a ridiculous number of notes, but my handwriting is such a mess I rarely read them later. Noise-canceling headphones help block out the world when needed.
Getting into their heads. Writing isn’t just about making characters sound real—it’s about understanding why they do what they do, even when their actions are completely irrational.
One of the hardest parts is writing perspectives far removed from my own. I have to inhabit people I might never meet in real life, from serial killers to people with vastly different experiences. That takes more than sympathy—it takes stepping outside yourself completely.
They find me. Sometimes a completely unrelated thought sparks something new.
For example, I was once walking through Edinburgh, considering locations for a story, when I suddenly pictured a body hanging from the branches of a tree. No idea where that image came from—maybe an old article I read, or something buried in my subconscious. But it stuck, and that book ended up being completely different from the one I’d originally planned.
Crime fiction is my foundation, but I always weave in elements of the supernatural. One of my recurring characters is a fortune teller, and another—though no one seems to have caught on—is essentially the devil himself. I use these elements not just to add mystery, but as a way to explore human nature.
People are endlessly inventive when it comes to justifying their actions. That’s what crime fiction really examines—not just what people do, but how they rationalize it.
That assumes I have time to relax. I don’t.
If “world-building” means crafting settings, most of my work is already done—I’m ten books into a series set in a version of the real world, with some darker, supernatural twists. The challenge isn’t so much inventing places as it is keeping track of all the threads in my head. I don’t take many notes, so a lot of it relies on memory.
Finish the draft. It doesn’t have to be good—it just has to exist.
Every writer, no matter how experienced, hits a wall where they think their work is garbage. It happens to me around the 40,000-word mark every time. The trick is recognizing that moment for what it is—just doubt, not failure.
New writers often get stuck in a loop of rewriting instead of finishing. Don’t do that. Push through. Fix things later. I’ve changed characters’ genders halfway through drafts, cut entire plotlines, removed people completely—but I don’t edit until the first draft is done. I just make a note and move forward.
Iain Banks taught me that you don’t have to stick to one genre. Terry Pratchett showed me that writing should be fun. But really, every book I’ve read—good or bad—has shaped my work in some way.
The newest installment in my Inspector McLean series, Cold As The Grave, follows a detective in Edinburgh who keeps getting tangled up in cases that veer into the eerie. Whether it’s supernatural or just the human mind playing tricks is always up for debate.
McLean is unusual—wealthy enough that he doesn’t actually need his job, but still drawn to it. Strange things seem to follow him, but he remains a skeptic. It’s that push and pull between logic and the unknown that makes writing him interesting.