Welcome to my weekly Author Spotlight. I’ve asked a bunch of my author friends to answer a set of interview questions, and to share their latest work.
Today: Jon McGoran is the author of eleven novels for adults and young adults, including his latest science fiction thriller, The Price of Everything, coming April 2025 from Solaris Books. His other books include the YA science fiction thrillers Spliced,Splintered, and Spiked and the science thrillers Drift, Deadout, and Dust Up. He has also written numerous short stories, including âBad Debt,â which won an honorable mention in Best American Mystery Stories 2014, and âDrive Time,â which was published in the X-files anthology The Truth Is Out There and was a finalist for a Scribe Award. Spliced was named to the American Library Associationâs inaugural LITA Excellence in Childrenâs and Young Adult Science Fiction Notable List and shortlisted for the 2019/2020 South Carolina Young Adult Book Award. Both Spliced and Splintered were named Best Books for Young Readers by the American Booksellerâs Association. McGoran is a developmental editor and ghostwriter, and he teaches in Drexel Universityâs Creative Writing MFA program. He lives outside Philadelphia with his wife Elizabeth, a librarian. For more, visit www.jonmcgoran.com or @JonMcGoran on social media.
Thanks so much, Jon, for joining me!
J. Scott Coatsworth: Whatâs the weirdest thing youâve ever done in the name of research?
Jon McGoran: Research is such an important part of my process, in part because of the type of books I tend to write. Probably the weirdest and most fun was playing around with a huge cannister of liquid nitrogen for Freezer Burn, one of my early forensic thrillers, which I wrote for Berkley/Penguin under the pen name D. H. Dublin. I had come up with what I thought was an ingenious and unexpected way to kill someone using an uninsulated container of liquid nitrogen, which would cause liquid air to condensate on the outside of the container, making whatever it dripped onto explosively flammable. But no one could tell me if particular scenario I had in mind would play out like I imagined, so I had to find out for myself. And it did! I also engaged in some not-entirely-relevant-to-the-book research (how often do you get to play with liquid nitrogen, right?) trying to impress my son, and blew up one of our patio tables.
JSC: What do you do if you get a brilliant idea at a bad time?
JM: I try to always, always write it down or leave myself a quick voice memo. I do have one of those brains that is constantly churning out ideas (and alas, stupid puns, as well), but even so, I consider ideas to be of great value. There are only so many ideas that you can turn into a story or incorporate into a story, and it is hard to know at the time which ideas have traction or will lead to other ideas. It bothers me to no end when I remember having had an idea that I thought was really interesting, but I canât remember what it was and I didnât write it down (usually because I was falling asleep when it popped into my head).
JSC: Why did you choose to write in your particular field or genre? If you write more than one, how do you balance them?
I think we are living in a fascinating time (not always in a good way), and as a former science fiction kid, it has been incredibly interesting (if not always beneficial)for me to see so many science fiction technologies or realities become everyday life. Having seen such change in the world, I am riveted (and sometimes terrified) to see what might come next, and when I am thinking of what to write, that is almost always where my mind goes.
That said, while I mostly write science fiction, I do like writing different genres, such as crime and horror. It can be tough balancing what you want to write with what is best for your career. And it can be tricky to write a bunch of different genres; it is confusing for readers or editors if they expect one thing from you and you deliver something else. So, while my novels generally stay somewhat close to my primary genres of science thrillers/science fiction thrillers, I do like to explore the other genres in screenplays and short stories. That way, I get to indulge and explore without confusing things too much.
JSC: Are you a full-time or part-time writer? How does that affect your writing?
Kind of. I am a full-time, self-employed writer/ghostwriter/developmental editor/writing teacher. I am not so successful with my fiction that I donât have to do anything else, but I am lucky enough to be able to spend all of my time with wordsâwriting, editing, and teaching.
JSC: Are you a plotter or a pantser?
Total plotter. Outlining has always been a hugely important part of my process. I have done some media tie-in work, including a novel based on the TV show The Blacklist, and projects of that nature include a detailed outline in the contract. The same is true with the ghostwriting. But I outline everything, even short stories. I need to know that the plot makes sense, that it has a sound structure. But apart from plot, one of the less obvious benefits of outlining that I have really come to appreciate is how much it helps with character. I spend so much time thinking about my characters as I am writing the outline that by the time I start writing my first draft, I know them to a degree that wouldnât otherwise be possible (for me).
JSC: Do your books spring to life from a character first or an idea?
My stories almost always start with an idea, usually some sort of extrapolation of something happening or on the horizon. I do think that character is almost always the most important thing in fiction, but for me the idea is what happens first. Something sparks my interest, then my brain goes off, taking that idea in all sorts of crazy directions. Then I do a lot of research, which kills some of those crazy ideas and gives birth to new ones. Once I have some sort of clear idea about what the idea is at the center of the story and the world the story will take place in, then I start to think about who would be the people in that world, in that story, and then I spend a lot of time getting to know them, figuring out who they are and who they should be.
JSC: How did you deal with rejection letters?
What makes you think Iâve gotten rejection letters?!? Just kidding. For a while I used a forklift, but then I switched to a bulldozer. Seriously though, my rejections these days are delivered via my literary agent or my film agent, which is better than the direct rejections. But I did get my share of them, for sure, and I learned a couple of lessons, which I like to share with my students and clients.
First, if the rejection letter includes any positives or encouragement, you should absolutely take it to heart. The agents and editors sending those rejections are incredibly busy, and often these days, donât even send a letter or email, standardized or otherwise. So if someone takes the time to say something nice, know that they meant it.
The other piece of advice, especially when querying agents, is to query in batches (not too big, maybe six or eight), and make sure that by the time youâre waiting for that last response or two to, get that next batch out there, so that by the time the last rejection comes in, you have a new batch out there, a better batch, to better agents. You didnât even want to work with the agents in that earlier batch. They suck. Screw âem. The agents in this new batch are infinitely better, anyway. Until all but one or two of those rejections have come back. And then you get yet another batch ready to go out.
JSC: What is the most heartfelt thing a reader has said to you?
I donât want to sound like I get tons of notes from readers, but I have gotten some (which is tremendously awesome).
There are two groups that have really hit me and stayed with me. A few of them are from readers who read my Splicedbooks, and reached out to tell me they felt seen in a way they hadnât experienced before. That is incredibly powerful. Spliced is YA sci-fi set in a near future where genetic engineering technology has matured to the point where it is available on the street as a form of body modification, and a counterculture of disaffected young people splice themselves with different animal genes to alter themselves in different ways, for different reasons. Some do it as a fashion statement, but more do it to align themselves with the rapidly dwindling natural world, and with species on the brink of extinction. These chimeras are seized upon as a wedge issue by opportunistic politicians, and a law is passed that anyone whose DNA is not 100% human is no longer legally a person. As a thriller writer, I wanted it to be a fun story, but I also intended Spliced to be a broad metaphor for many types of people who are demonized or âothered,â based on ethnicity or sexuality or gender identity or immigration status, etc. I did receive some criticism from some readers who saw it as a narrower metaphor, saying, âThis book is clearly a metaphor forâŠâ one specific thing. And then they would point out the flaws in that metaphor, because it does fall apart if taken too narrowly.
But I also heard from from several young people who said they saw themselves in the characters in ways that they had never experienced before, and that it was incredibly meaningful for them. That is powerful. I was actually fortunate enough to meet one of them at the Rochester Teen Book Fest, which was a real career highlight.
I have also received letters from two different people who said that they werenât readers or hadnât read a book in decades, and somehow they ended up reading one of my books, and they loved it and were now reading other books. That is also incredibly powerful.
JSC: How did you choose the topic for this book?
There are a lot of ideas in this book that I have been thinking about for a while: climate change and the failure to adequately confront it, geoengineering as a response, and also wealth disparity and the growth of the billionaire class and all that brings with it. I have also always been fascinated with the role of money as a physical object in our society, and as a vulnerability. One of the things that made me so excited when I had the idea for The Price of Everything was how it brought so many of these ideas together.
JSC: What are you working on now, and whatâs coming out next? Tell us about it!
I used to be much more of a serial monogamist, writing-wise, but these days Iâm generally working on several things at a time, and most of them I canât really talk about. I have a ghostwriting project I am working on, which is taking up most of my time, but I also have a screenplay I am collaborating on, a pilot script and bible for a TV show I am revising, plus one novel in revision, and another that I am just starting to outline, but very excited about. Apart from writing, I teach in Drexel Universityâs creative writing MFA program, do some developmental editing, and I am busy getting ready to launch The Price of Everything!
And now for Jon’s new book: The Price of Everything:
The world is ravaged by climate change and corruption. Cyberwarfare has cratered the internet, leaving an all-cash economy. A guild of elite couriers transports ultra-high denomination currency in attaché cases chained to titanium cuffs grafted onto the bones of their wrists.
They swear an oath: the delivery gets where itâs going, or the courier dies. But when courier Armond Pierce finds his case mysteriously empty, he goes on the run from his own guildâs assassins, navigating a dense network of oligarchs, drugs dealers, private police forces, and brilliant but radical climate activists to get to the bottom of a scheme that could change everything.
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Excerpt
âYou the courier?â Mohawk asked.
Pierce held up his attaché.
âYou donât dress like a courier,â Mohawk said as he scanned Pierceâs retinas and the microcode on his wrist cuff.
Pierce didnât reply, since it wasnât a question. There was no uniform for Guild couriers. Mohawk was referring to the round mirrored shades and ridiculous collarless sport coats that some of the couriers had started wearing, a fashion trend started by an asshole named Erno Damiani. Erno had been a courier as long as Pierce, but where Pierce had grown more cynical over the years, Damianiâd become a bit of a zealot. A lot of the younger couriers saw him as some kind of role model, a leader. Pierce saw him as more of a nut job.
Pierce scanned Mohawkâs iris with the scanner embedded on the side of the attachĂ©. The readout confirmed his identityâHenrik Schmidt.
That eliminated part of the risk, but just because these guys were who they were supposed to be, didnât mean they intended to do what they were supposed to do. Even the most loyal henchmen could be tempted when the stakes were high enough, and anytime someone sprung for a courier instead of a cash drone, the stakes were high enough. And while UtqiaÄĄvik was now a global financial center, it had a reputation for violence that went back long before the sea ice had melted and the towers had sprung up.
Pierce got into the back of the car, hyperaware of everything around him, assessing the two men in the front: the driver and a vaguely Inuit-looking guy in the passenger seat. He enjoyed the mental exercise of calculating how he would take out the three men in the car with him if things went south. It was like a game, a thought puzzle, running through the potential scenarios in his mind, running through the stepsâa dozen variations of: disable, disable, kill, kill, kill, roll into the front seat and stop the car. He had a folding knife in his jacket, another knife in his boot, three throwing spikes in his collar, and a Glock in his shoulder holster. But in such close quarters it was all about his hands. As his brain and his nerves went through the motions, his muscles remained absolutely still.
Schmidt lacked the appropriate deference that a slug like him should give a Guild courier. Pierce wasnât particularly bothered by that. Some couriersâmostly the ones with the shades and the collarless jacketsâhad a constant Do you know who I am? attitude. Not Pierce. He took note of it only as another piece of information to add to his assessment of the situation. Maybe the guy was planning on making a move, or maybe he had been in UtqiaÄĄvik too long. Most likely, he was just an asshole.
Five minutes into the ten-minute drive to Kranskyâs tower, where Pierce would transfer the contents of the attachĂ© to Kransky himself, his attention was drawn to a dull, soothing warmth coming from the attachĂ© between his legs. He reached down slowly to touch it, drawing a sideways glance from Schmidt, sitting next to him. Sure enough, the thing was warm, even after having sat out in the cold. When he had opened the attachĂ© in the security line to get on the plane, it hadnât felt warm at all. It had probably been resting in front of a heater vent in the airplane. The chain was still icy cold, as heâd expect it to be.
The sound of the wheels got suddenly quieter as they left the rougher roads of the outskirts and entered UtqiaÄĄvik. It was called The City of Ice, and the name fit. The climate might have changed enough to make the seas navigable, but the land was still plenty icy.
Like virtually every other city in the world, the center of UtqiaÄĄvik was a shock of glass-and-chrome towers. But here, they reared above streets given over to the ice and snow. This city didnât even try to keep the elements at bay; they just made sure the entrances to all the buildings opened inward and were a minimum of twenty feet tall. A thick white crust coated everything on the street. Between that and the low sun, the towers looked like pillars of ice, thrust up by some sort of glacial cataclysm.
Two blocks into the tower district, Pierce spotted Kransky Tower. Short and squat compared to the other buildings, like the man himself. But the tower gleamed like a diamond, and there was nothing shiny about Kransky. A Russian gangster-turned-supply-chain magnate, he still kept a hand in trafficking girls and drugs, even after he had bought controlling interests in several shipping concerns, a pharma company, and enough other businesses to secure a seat in UniCon.
Since the Upheaval, the line between legit and not had grown blurrier and blurrier. Organized crime had always been all about cash, so the criminal syndicates had been well-positioned to take advantage of the new economy, buying up legitimate businesses at fire-sale prices, and overnight becoming âlegitimateâ themselves in the process. Some, like Kransky, got big enough to gain entry into UniCon.
As the economists liked to say, the blending of global conglomerates and criminal syndicates created âsynergies.â
The old money investors and CEOs werenât crazy about it, but there wasnât much they could do. They had created a system where advantage could be taken; it had simply never crossed their minds that one day theyâd be the ones taken advantage of.
Pierce tried not to judge, or at least not much. Not judging was kind of a requirement of his job. And it was just as well, because his judgment of someone like Kransky would have been harsh.
The limousine circled around to the back of the building and turned under a massive overhang, lurching down a rough slope of ice that descended to street level, then bouncing onto the curved concrete ramp that led to the parking garage below. Three stories underground, they came to a stop so abrupt the limo was left wobbling on its chassis.
The driver still had on his shades, but he seemed to be eyeing Pierce in the rearview, as if checking to see if he was rattled.
There was a delicate and sometimes awkward balance of power between a courier and the muscle that a recipient sent as an escort. Almost invariably, whatever was in the attachĂ©âand by extension whoever was couriering itâwas more valuable than whoever had been sent to escort them.
When they got out of the car, Schmidt bumped against him. It wasnât a shove, but it was definitely contact. Pierce decided to let it go, but he raised his expectation of violence by an order of magnitude.
He was here to deliver his attachĂ© to the recipient, Kransky himself, and thatâs what he was going to do. Anyone who interfered with him would regret it.
The four of them got onto a small elevator. The Inuit looked wide-eyed into the retina scan and said, âThirty-seven.â The screen flashed the name DANIEL SILUK, and the elevator began to rise.
Pierce stood with his back to the corner, rerunning his calculations. Siluk and the driver exchanged a furtive glance.
The elevator stopped on the thirty-seventh floor, letting them out onto a gloomy hallway with dim lights, gray carpet, and dull green walls. It was darker than the parking garage had been and seemed somehow designed to mimic the effects of snow-blindness.
Schmidt walked down the hallway first. Siluk and the driverâstill wearing his shadesâflanked Pierce as they followed. The place seemed empty, but as they passed an expanse of cubicles on their right, a few faces peered around partitions to catch a glimpse of them.
Pierce felt increasingly uneasy as Schmidt led them into a large, windowless conference room. The walls were scuffed. One of the chairs had a broken arm.
Kransky sat at the head of the table. His face was red. Strands of hair had come loose from his ponytail, some of it framing his head like a halo, some of it plastered to his sweaty forehead.
Next to the table was a courier stanchion, the last point on the courierâs delivery. The stanchions were provided by the Guild, and technically owned by them, just like the cuff on Pierceâs wrist. It consisted of a small platform for the attachĂ© and a U-shaped slot for the courierâs wrist. The stanchion held the courierâs wrist immobile, while the recipient checked that the delivery was all there. They were usually bolted to the floor in a vault or strong room, but they could be freestanding, too. Still, it looked out of place.
Once the delivery was accepted, the chain would detach from the cuff and from the attachĂ© and the stanchion would release the courierâs wrist. The transaction was then complete.
âMr. Kransky,â Pierce said with a tip of his head. Some couriers insisted on conducting the entire transaction without speaking, to enhance the mystique. Another of Ernoâs affectations. While there was arguably no need to speak, Pierce thought that was ridiculous, not to mention rude.
âI know you,â Kransky said.
âWeâve done business in the past.â
Kransky nodded, then pointed at the stanchion. âWell, just because weâve done business in the past, doesnât mean Iâm trusting you today.â
Pierce briefly reconsidered his policy on speaking.
âYou donât have to do this, Mr. Kransky,â Siluk said. âYou could just refuse the delivery.â
Kransky gave him a blistering glare. âShut up, Siluk. Another word out of you and Iâll gut you.â
Pierce kept his face impassive, but he was alarmed that Kranskyâs men would even consider refusing the delivery. Typically, the Guild would demand a triple delivery fee for refusals, on top of what had already been paid. That was serious money.
âNever mind him,â Kransky told Pierce. âYou just get your hand in there and letâs see what youâve got for me.â
This moment was designed to make the courier intensely vulnerable. It spoke to the Guildâs absolute confidence in the integrity and ability of its couriers to deliver, and the couriersâ absolute confidence that no one would dare interfere with a Guild courier performing their duty. To do so would bring about terrible retribution. In the early days of the Guild, there were a few incidents, couriers killed in the line of duty. Those responsible suffered such spectacularly horrible deaths that it was now unheard of.
Early on, Pierce had felt misgivings about joining an institution that could deliver such suffering, but now he understood it was necessary to ensure the inviolability of the system and the safety of the couriers.
Similarly, by pledging their lives, the couriers acknowledged their commitment to delivering their payloads, and what was at stake if they failed.
Pierce placed his wrist in the slot atop the stanchion, eager to get the transaction over with. He felt the familiar click as the locking mechanism engaged with his wrist cuff, holding his arm in place and scanning his microcode.
Kransky rose from his seat and Pierce was alarmed to see a machete in his hand, already smeared with blood.
The others now stepped closer to him.
âA lot of bad shit going down in the world just lately,â Kransky said, slapping the flat of the machete against his thigh, despite the blood. âThatâs why Iâm bringing my assets closer to home. Used to be you could trust people you did business with: crooks, bankers, couriers, it didnât matter. Everyone knew they could make more money doing business together than giving the business to each other.â
He looked over at Schmidt, Siluk, and the driver. âAm I right?â He paused, as if waiting for them to respond, then seemed to take their silence as an affirmation. Turning to Pierce, he shook his head. âI canât wait until they get this fucking âU-Netâ up and running, so we can stop dicking around like this. Youâre the fourth courier to arrive here today. The fourth. Letâs hope you donât turn out to be a thieving piece of shit like the rest of them.â
With his foot, Kransky slid a wastebasket out from behind the table and closer to the stanchion. The rim was dripping with blood.
Pierce tried not to react, but every nerve in his body was screaming. He ran his calculations. He knew his payload was intact. He had checked it when he went through airport security. He went through the possibilities before him and determined what his reactions to each should be.
Kransky tapped the scanner on the attachĂ© and opened his eyes wide. With a faint click, the case opened. He lifted the lid higher, opening it all the way. Once he was satisfied with the delivery and closed the case, a second iris scan would release the chain from the attachĂ© and from the cuff grafted onto Pierceâs arm, ending the transaction.
With the lid in the way, Pierce couldnât see what was inside the attachĂ©. But he could tell from the look on Kranskyâs face what wasnât.