Building a Universe Out of What If

Every story I’ve ever written starts with a simple, dangerous question: What if?

Not the idle, mooning, daydream kind of “what if,” but the kind that kicks open a door you can’t close again.

What if the Florida School for Boys never shut down and kept chewing up kids for decades? (Lakestone School for Boys.) What if justice didn’t come in a courtroom but in the woods, in

the middle of the night, with nobody watching? (Snake Pond.) What if a woman who lost everything came home, picked up a shotgun, and stopped asking permission? (Peace of My Heart.)

What if the life of a teenager wasn’t snuffed on a lonely mountain road because someone thought he saw something he didn’t? (Between Hope and Hell.)

That’s how it starts. One what if. And suddenly a whole universe comes clawing its way out of the dark.

When Characters Won’t Shut Up

The dangerous part is this: once the story takes root, the characters won’t stop talking.

You start with one seed, one scenario, and before long the people in it start carrying their own weight. They drag in scars you didn’t expect. Histories that go back farther than you planned. Traumas that demand to be explained.

A side character wanders onto the page with a two-line cameo, and the next thing you know, they’re tugging at your sleeve asking for a book of their own. They won’t leave you alone until you dig into their past, their grudges, the mistakes that made them who they are.

That’s the kind of storytelling that keeps me up at night—in a good way. The kind where the people feel so real, you’re not inventing their backstory anymore—you’re uncovering it.

When One Story Bleeds Into Another

Here’s the other thing: noir doesn’t let you seal a story off with clean edges. Every crime leaves a stain. Every secret leaves a ripple.

So a story that starts as one what if grows tendrils. The school in Lakestone doesn’t just haunt those boys—it shapes the families, the county, the power structures that show up later in other books. The bullet in Peace of My Heart doesn’t just settle one score—it raises new questions that echo forward.

That’s how the universe builds itself. A crime here. A lie there. A porch light flicking on at the wrong moment. Before long, those threads are tangled together, and you’ve got yourself not just a book, but a whole damn map of cause and effect.

And the best part? I don’t sit down with charts or blueprints like some sprawling Marvel franchise. Southern noir doesn’t grow neat—it spreads like kudzu. Wild. Relentless. Tangled. Once it gets its hooks in, it doesn’t let go.

Why What If Matters

For me, what if isn’t just a writing trick. It’s the core of noir itself.

Because noir is all about choices—bad ones, worse ones, and the ones you can’t take back.

Every time I ask what if, I’m really asking: What happens if someone makes this choice? What if the secret comes out? What if the past refuses to stay buried?

That’s where Southern noir lives. In the moments when there’s no way out except through the mud. In the histories we don’t like to admit, but can’t stop passing down. In the voices of characters who refuse to stay quiet, because their story deserves to be told—even if it’s ugly, even if it’s painful.

Final Word

That’s how I’ve built my universe—not by planning it like a corporation, but by chasing the dangerous what ifs that won’t leave me alone.

One seed grows into a story. That story whispers another one.And before long, you’ve got a whole graveyard of tales, all breathing, all connected, all still restless.

So here’s my truth:If you’re brave enough to ask what if, you’d better be ready to live with the answer.