The Third Time's the Charm: Writing Death Knell and Visualizing Loss

 

Reflecting on Death Knell: Finding My Voice Through Keegan

When I sat down to write Death Knell, the third installment in the John Keegan series, I didn’t realize how pivotal it would be for both the character and myself. By this point, Keegan and I had grown together in unexpected ways. Writing had transitioned from something I loved into something I lived for—a career in every sense of the word. This book marked the turning point where storytelling became more than just the words on the page. It became a responsibility, a craft, and, more importantly, a mirror.

Keegan confronts loss in Death Knell. It’s not the first time he’s dealt with it, but it’s different now—sharper, deeper, more personal. Strangely, this mirrored my own life in ways I hadn’t anticipated. Only months after the book's publication, I faced my own version of profound loss. Writing about Keegan's grief in advance of my own made his pain more visceral for me. There’s a strange, almost eerie way that life can trickle into fiction, even when you think you’re keeping the two separate.

I never thought, when I wrote that last paragraph of Death Knell, that I would experience the exact same thing. Truth is, it scared me and I stopped writing for six years. I couldn't face the page for fear I would manifest something else. This wasn't the first time I'd written about my future without realizing it, so I need to be careful as I wrote.

But Death Knell is more than a story of loss. It’s about Keegan growing up, connecting with Pauline, and softening the sharp edges that made him so difficult yet so endearing in earlier books. It felt like he was shedding some of his armor—letting people in, learning from his failures, and seeing the world beyond his own shadow. In many ways, I was doing the same as a writer. Keegan and I were maturing together, and this book was the catalyst.

Keegan's development as a human brings him closer to me, albeit more like a brother who saw childhood differently. Sure, the words he says can sometimes sound like me and vice versa, but we are on opposite ends of the spectrum most times. We do have that connection where I think I understand him. Yes, he feels real to me at times, a place I can go to and feel at home knowing I cannot stay indefinitely.

The research for this story pushed me in new directions. I’ve always prided myself on capturing authenticity, but for Death Knell, I immersed myself in the details. It wasn’t just about solving a case—it was about the emotional aftermath, the psychological toll. I wanted readers to feel what Keegan felt, to see the world through his tired, conflicted, and sarcastic eyes. He became more human in this book, and I think, as a writer, I did too.

Of course, the humor and sarcasm that define Keegan remain intact. They’re his lifelines, his way of pushing back against the darkness. But beneath the quips, there’s a growing sense of vulnerability. Pauline sees it. His colleagues notice it. And, hopefully, the readers feel it too. This balance—light and dark, wit and weight—is what makes Keegan so real to me. He’s deeply flawed, but he’s trying, and aren’t we all?

Looking back on Death Knell, I can see why it means so much to me. It’s the book where I found my voice—not just as a storyteller, but as someone navigating the complexities of life through fiction. It’s a reminder that the stories we tell often tell us more about ourselves than we realize. And for that, I’ll always be grateful to Keegan for letting me tag along on his journey.

Now, with each new book, I try to keep that spirit alive: to write honestly, to explore deeply, and to never stop growing—both on and off the page.

Check out Death Knell. It was written a while ago but I think it's fresh in many ways. I see this as my first real book, one that came from a place where I felt like a writer, not someone throwing ideas together hoping it would work.

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