Rob Kelley here, not actually defending the new car smell, which I always figured was toxic off-gassing from the plastic in the car’s upholstery concentrating in the vehicle.

Instead, I’m reveling in what is my new favorite part of writing a book: the beginning. I saw myself originally as a plotter. I had to know what was going to happen and I thought all pantsers (those who write from the seat of their pants) were insane people. I heard Hank Phillippi Ryan speak once about the fact that she is a pantser, likening her approach to being a firefighter approaching a burning building. What started the fire? What was going on inside? Was anyone in danger? How would she save them? I was appalled. How could you not know?

I’m slowly getting the attraction.

This week I moved from making notes to writing the book that I’ve tentatively titled Glass Ceiling. It will be the second book featuring the Boston-based journalist Olivia Wolfe, and is scheduled to come out Fall of 2027.

In the four days I’ve been actually writing (after assembling notes for a few months), I have rewritten the opening chapter, changed several names, invented ten new characters (in addition to the three I already knew I needed) found my protagonist a place to live and a daycare for her son. (I should be so productive in real life!)

What is so deeply satisfying for me in this phase of writing is finding out who my protagonist is and what matters to them. A corollary to “what matters” is “what’s at stake if I take it away”: the metaphorical house fire. And my principle for that pretty much boils down to “make it worse.” James Patterson’s online Masterclass class talks about “taking it to eleven,” figuring out how to really crank up the stakes so that your character is more starkly defined against the adversity they face.

It does, I confess, take my mind to some dark places sometimes, and it undoubtedly gives my wife, the author Margot Anne Kelley, pause when I gleefully describe some horrible thing I’m doing to my characters.

Some of this is undoubtedly due to a higher level of confidence I feel, as I’m working now on my third and fourth books. But also, I think it is a discovery of the joy of the creative part of the craft. The fact that you are creating a world, giving your characters a place to feel their own joy, fear, grief, love, and triumph.

I wrote in one of my recent Wednesday Writing Tips about creative humility, specifically mentioning my journey in learning the cello, which is still less than a year old. In the context of today’s post I should probably be more focused on my piano playing, which is five plus years more mature.

A quick story to illustrate my point. On Instagram yesterday I got fed an ad for a concert at Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts in March, featuring cellist Maya Beiser playing a piece by the minimalist Terry Riley. I’d never heard of her, so I looked her up and started listening to her work on YouTube. That’s when I discovered that she’s done renditions of some of Philip Glass’s work. The very first piece I found was her rendition of his Etude No. 5, a piece I have studied seriously on the piano. I was awestruck at her interpretation at the piece, but here’s the relevant part: I could appreciate her creative decisions because I’d knew the orignal craft of the piece.

So with beginnings now for me. I’m both hearing the new version of the story I’ve been telling myself in my head, and creating new versions of it as I begin the work. This is a different way of writing than I’ve considered before, and it’s been a thrilling beginning.

Currently reading The Night Manager, John le Carré, 1993. Had never gotten to it. Just watched the fantastic season one TV show from 2016 with Hugh Laurie and Tom Hiddleston, loving the few small changes they made. Will be diving into season two from 2026 soon!

Next in my TBR list: The Oxford Murders, Guillermo Martinez, translated by Sonia Soto, 2011. (I have scenes in Oxford planned for the third book in my Olivia Wolfe series, so want to start soaking up a little scenery before I visit for research.)