I can still picture those evenings with my dad, sitting in our living room as we watched shows like In the Heat of the Night, Matlock, and COPS. To most people, these were just crime shows. To us, they were something much more—they were moments of bonding, lessons on justice and humanity, and stories that left an imprint on my heart and mind. Back then, I had no idea how much those nights would influence the path my life would take. Today, I know they were the seeds that grew my passion for writing crime stories.
Each of those shows brought something special to the table. In the Heat of the Night explored racial tensions and moral struggles in a small Southern town. It was powerful and real, often showing the ugly sides of society but also emphasizing hope and change. Matlock was different; it was about a brilliant lawyer who always fought for justice. It showed me how persistence, intelligence, and heart could unravel even the trickiest mysteries. And then there was COPS, which gave a raw, unfiltered look at law enforcement and crime in the real world. Together, these shows exposed different aspects of crime, justice, and the people involved. They taught me that behind every crime, there’s a story waiting to be told.
What I loved most about these shows was how they made me think. Crime wasn’t just about the act itself. It was about why people did what they did. It was about how society played a role and how sometimes, good people made bad choices. These stories were complicated, messy, and full of gray areas. They made me ask questions and see things from different perspectives. I wanted to understand the characters—their struggles, motivations, and flaws. That’s what makes a good crime story, and it’s something I carry with me every time I write.
My father and I shared more than just a love for crime shows; we shared conversations about them. He would pause a scene and ask, “What do you think will happen next?” or “Why do you think they did that?” It was like a game, but it also made me think deeply. Sometimes, we’d predict the ending. Other times, we’d be surprised. But every time, I learned something new about storytelling. It was during these moments that I knew I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to create stories that kept people guessing, made them feel deeply, and lingered in their minds long after they finished reading.
Before my dad passed away in 2006, he said something to me that I will never forget. He told me, “My baby girl will be a famous writer one day.” At the time, I imagined that meant I would have bestsellers lining bookstore shelves and my name known by everyone. While that hasn’t happened exactly as I pictured, I now see that he was right in a different way. My impact as a writer goes beyond books with my name on the cover. It’s about helping others find their voices and tell their own stories.
Today, I am an educator. I teach students how to write, how to connect with their own experiences, and how to shape their stories. For many of them, writing can feel overwhelming. They’re afraid of not being good enough or not having anything important to say. But I tell them that their stories matter. Our experiences—big or small, painful or joyful—shape who we are. And when we share those stories, we create connections. I see myself in some of my students. I see their desire to be heard and understood. And I remember my dad’s words. In those moments, I know that his dream for me came true in a different but meaningful way.
As a writer of crime stories, I understand that storytelling is more than just creating plots. It’s capturing emotions, motivations, and the complexity of human nature. True crime writing has the power to show us the darker sides of life, but it also gives us a chance to explore justice, redemption, and hope. Those old shows I watched with my dad did that. They weren’t just about solving crimes; they were about understanding people and society. They highlighted how broken systems impact lives, how prejudice and injustice can tear communities apart, and how even in darkness, there can be light.
My dad believed in me. He saw something in me that I didn’t fully see in myself at the time. When I write a crime story or teach my students how to tell theirs, I honor his memory. I carry the lessons we shared—the lessons about storytelling, perseverance, and humanity—into everything I do. That’s what makes crafting killer stories so meaningful to me. It’s creating suspense, shocking twists, and so much more. It’s about creating stories that feel real and true, that make readers think and feel deeply, and that reflect the complexity of life.
I’ve come to realize that storytelling, whether through books, shows, or personal narratives, is powerful because it connects us. Our stories aren’t one-dimensional; they’re shaped by our experiences, relationships, struggles, and triumphs. Just like the characters in those crime shows, we all have layers and histories that define us. And as writers, it’s our job to explore those layers and share them with the world.
So, as I sit down to write another crime story or work with a student who wants to share their experience, I think back to those evenings with my dad. I think about how storytelling brought us closer and taught me about life. And I know that every story I write, every lesson I teach, is a part of his legacy. Crafting killer stories is the thrill of the mystery and the people, emotions, and the moments that shape who we are. It’s about making connections and leaving an impact. And in that way, I’ve become the writer my dad always knew I could be.