What Noir Is — And What It Ain’t

Let’s get this straight once and for all. At least from my chair.

Noir isn’t just fedoras and cigarettes. It isn’t always private eyes and dames with switchblade smiles. And it sure as hell ain’t a trendy aesthetic or a moody filter on Bookstagram.

Noir is consequence. Noir is truth. Noir is what happens when people run out of good choices—and still have to choose anyway.

It’s not clean. It’s not cute. And it doesn’t owe you comfort.

Noir is stained—with guilt, with blood, with memory, with consequence. It’s emotional rot wrapped in quiet tension. Justice that doesn’t come in a courtroom. Peace that doesn’t come at all.

Drag it down South, and the dirt gets even darker. Southern noir is what happens when family ties choke instead of comfort. When grudges simmer for decades. When the prettiest porches sit in front of houses full of secrets. And some folks are more than willing to kill to keep those secrets within those walls.

It’s women who’ve had enough. Men who bury the truth deeper than the body. Small towns that know exactly what happened—but don’t say a damn word.

That’s the soil my stories grow from.

What Noir Ain’t

Let’s clear out some of the shallow misconceptions:

Noir ain’t:

• A vibes-only book where everybody heals

• Decorative trauma packaged for entertainment

• Romance in disguise

If your story promises grit but hands me a happily-ever-after with a neat and sweet bow on top, that ain’t noir. That’s a different genre in a trench coat pretending to be tough. Don’t get me wrong—sometimes they do get together in the end—but there’s a lot of blood, sweat, yelling, and tears before they get there.

What Noir Is

Noir is:

• Doing the thing you swore you never would—and living with it

• When the love story and the crime scene are the same damn place

• Surviving long enough to light a cigarette and watch the fire burn

• Living through hell with normal people faced with ugly options

Noir isn’t about neat arcs. It’s about jagged edges. It’s about survival, damage, and the weight of choices.

Why I Write It This Way

I don’t mimic noir—I live it. I grew up in a place where justice didn’t always wear a badge, where grudges outlasted marriages, and where you could feel the weight of secrets every time the wind slammed a screen door shut.

So when I write, I don’t reach for glitter. I reach for truth. For the bruises under the surface.

For the stories people don’t want to admit happened in their own town—or their own backyard.

That’s why my version of noir wears mud on its boots. That’s why it tastes like blood and bourbon. That’s why I call it Southern noir.

Final Word

If you’re looking for comfort, you won’t find it here. If you’re looking for glitter, go somewhere else. If you’re looking for cozy, that’s not my repertoire.

This is a graveyard—every tombstone tells a story, and every story’s still breathing, no matter how deep it’s buried.