Category: Blog

Rome Through a Thriller Writer’s Eyes

A psychological thriller author reflects on Rome, from the Colosseum and Vatican to Ostia Antica, and the human secrets hidden in ruins, power and memory.

I had one of those rare weeks where I didn’t write.

fColosseum isfColosseumWe spent the week in Rome. Not a writing trip. No laptop. No word counts. No pretending I’d make a few notes and somehow end up with three thousand words before breakfast.

But writers don’t really switch off.

Especially not thriller writers.

Rome is beautiful, obviously. Grand. Ancient. Impressive in ways that make you feel small. But what struck me most wasn’t the beauty. It was the layers.

Every street seemed to have another history beneath it. Every ruin hinted at lives lived, deals made, lies told, reputations protected, and bodies forgotten. Rome doesn’t just show you power. It shows you what power leaves behind.

And as someone who writes psychological thrillers, I found myself thinking less about emperors and battles, more about people.

The private fears behind public faces.

The secrets families keep.

The gap between what someone appears to be and what they actually are.

In other words, exactly the stuff I’m always drawn back to./i

The Colosseum is one of those places that feels unreal even when you’re standing inside it.

I kept trying to imagine the crowd.

Not the gladiators in the arena. Not at first. The crowd.

Tens of thousands of ordinary people turning up to watch violence as entertainment. Families. Friends. Politicians. Merchants. Children. People who might have been kind to their neighbours in the morning and then cheered while strangers killed each other in the afternoon.

That’s the part that stayed with me.

How quickly terrible things become normal when everyone around you accepts them.

How a crowd gives people permission.

How easy it is to hide cruelty behind tradition, spectacle, or duty.

Thrillers often turn on one frightening idea: ordinary people are capable of more than they think. Rome gives you that on a grand scale. It asks uncomfortable questions about complicity. About what people will watch. About what they will excuse. About what they will tell themselves afterwards so they can sleep at night.

Cheery holiday thoughts, obviously.

The Forum gave me a different kind of unease.

It felt like walking through the remains of certainty.

Law courts. Temples. Political spaces. Monuments. Places where people once argued, judged, prayed, schemed, accused, defended, and decided the futures of others.

Now they’re ruins.

That gap fascinates me. The distance between what a place once claimed to be and what remains after time has stripped away the performance.

I kept thinking about reputation. How much effort people put into controlling the story told about them. How families, institutions, and governments build versions of themselves they want others to believe.

And how fragile all of that is.

A lie can last for years. Sometimes generations. But it only needs one person to ask the wrong question. One document in the wrong drawer. One witness who decides they’ve stayed silent long enough.

That’s where stories begin.

The Vatican Museum was a mixed experience.

As most of you know, I’m legally blind, and the Sistine Chapel’s lighting did me no favours. Much of the detail was lost on me. I couldn’t make out the imagery people travel across the world to see.

But I still got plenty from the place.

Not the detail. The atmosphere.

The scale. The wealth. The careful staging of sacred authority. The sense of an institution presenting itself exactly as it wishes to be seen.

That interests me as a thriller writer, because so many of these books are about image management.

The perfect marriage.

The respectable family.

The trusted professional.

The quiet neighbour.

The person who knows exactly what to show the world and exactly what to keep hidden.

The Vatican also made me think about contradiction. About the distance between belief and institution. Between humility and gold. Between what people say they stand for and what their buildings, clothes, rituals, and locked doors reveal.

That kind of contradiction is a gift for fiction.

Not because it gives easy answers, but because it creates tension. And tension is where character lives.

The Egyptian collection was a highlight, especially a statue of Anubis.

But my favourite part of the Vatican Museum wasn’t the Sistine Chapel.

It was the Popemobiles.

I genuinely loved them.

There’s a whole section showing papal transport through the ages, from golden carriages to modern vehicles with raised bulletproof platforms. A golden carriage tells you one thing about power. A bulletproof glass box tells you something else.

Both are public statements.

Both are protective.

Both create distance.

And that made me think about the ways people protect themselves. Not just physically, but emotionally. Socially. Psychologically. The armour people wear. The version of themselves they place between their real life and the watching crowd.

Sometimes that armour is status.

Sometimes it’s charm.

Sometimes it’s silence.

Sometimes it’s a lie repeated so often everyone in the family agrees to treat it as truth.

My favourite place on the whole trip was Ostia Antica, the old Roman port at the mouth of the Tiber.

I’d been to Pompeii before. Astonishing, but busy. Ostia Antica was quieter, which gave it a different feeling.

There was space to slow down.

Space to notice.

We walked through streets, bathhouses, courtyards, old living spaces. The amphitheatre felt almost modern in its layout. A strange thing to say about something two thousand years old, but you could see at once how people gathered there.

That’s what got to me most.

The ordinary lives.

Not the emperors. Not the grand history. The people who wanted somewhere to live, somewhere to wash, somewhere to eat, somewhere to be seen. People gossiping, working, praying, showing off, falling in love, falling out, betraying each other, forgiving each other, keeping things from each other.

All the usual human mess.

The past feels distant until you stand in someone’s old home and realise people haven’t changed as much as we like to think.

Different clothes. Different gods. Different laws.

Same shame. Same pride. Same desire to belong. Same fear of being found out.

The museum at Ostia Antica was wonderful and, thankfully, well-lit, so I could actually enjoy the exhibits.

A good sculpture shows you what someone looked like.

A great sculpture makes you wonder what they were hiding.

There were portraits, reliefs, sarcophagi, mythological figures. A statue of Minerva I keep thinking about a week later.

Portraits are strange things. They preserve a face, but not a life. You look at someone carved in stone and know almost nothing about them. Were they loved? Feared? Kind? Cruel? Faithful? Dangerous? Did their family mourn them honestly, or out of obligation? Did the inscription tell the truth?

Probably not all of it.

That’s the thing about monuments. They’re often less about memory than control. This is how we want this person remembered. This is what we agreed to say. This is the version that survives.

Every family has something similar.

Maybe not carved in marble.

But there are stories everyone repeats. Stories everyone avoids. Photographs no one mentions. Names that make the room go quiet. Old decisions softened into anecdotes because the truth would be too sharp.

That’s where psychological thrillers live.

Not always in murder, though murder does tend to focus the mind.

They live in pressure.

In silence.

In the moment someone realises the official version doesn’t quite fit.

So, no, I didn’t write while I was away.

But I came home with plenty.

Not plot ideas exactly. More like questions.

What do people hide in plain sight?

How does power protect itself?

What does a family choose to remember?

What does it choose to bury?

How much of a person can survive in the stories others tell about them?

Rome is full of ruins, but ruins aren’t dead places. They’re evidence. They show us what people built, what they valued, what they feared, and what they hoped would never be forgotten.

They also remind us that secrets rarely disappear.

They wait.

Under the floor.

Behind the wall.

In the locked room.

In the family story nobody questions anymore.

And then, one day, someone starts asking.

The Tension Between Truth and Perception in Modern Thrillers

How conflicting versions of events create suspense and intrigue in thrillers, with a look at truth, perception, and shifting narratives in My Daughter Knows.

One of the most powerful engines in any thriller is the gap between what actually happened and what people believe happened.

That gap creates space for doubt, for suspicion, and for the slow, uneasy feeling that something doesn’t quite add up.

In real life, most of us rely on agreed narratives. A thing happens, a version of it takes hold, and we move on.

In fiction, that’s where the story begins. Because once you start to look closely, those narratives often have edges that don’t quite fit. Details that were smoothed over. Questions that were never asked. Or answers that came too quickly.

In My Daughter Knows, that tension sits at the centre of the story. There is an official version of events—clear, simple, and repeated often enough that it feels solid. It’s the version that can be explained in interviews, summarised in headlines, and accepted without too much resistance.

But stories don’t stay contained, especially when more people begin to look at them from different angles.

As attention grows, so does interpretation. People bring their own perspectives, their own assumptions, their own curiosity. They ask questions not because they have answers, but because something feels unresolved.

And once those questions start to circulate, the original narrative begins to shift—not all at once, but in small, cumulative ways.

That’s where suspense lives.

It’s not always in a single shocking revelation, but in the gradual erosion of certainty. A comment that doesn’t quite match what’s been said before. A detail that takes on a different meaning when viewed from another perspective. A moment where a character realises that the version they’ve been holding onto might not be the only one.

What makes this especially compelling is that perception isn’t inherently unreliable, it’s human.

 People don’t set out to misinterpret events. They build stories that make sense to them, based on what they know, what they’ve been told, and what they need to believe.

In a thriller, those personal versions of the truth can collide in ways that create tension without needing a traditional villain.

In My Daughter Knows, that collision happens across generations, across platforms, and across private and public spaces.

One version of events exists within the family, shaped by memory, emotion, and the need to cope. Another exists outside it, shaped by distance, observation, and the instinct to question.

Neither is complete. Neither is entirely stable.

The result is a constant sense of movement. The story isn’t just about uncovering what’s true—it’s about watching how truth is interpreted, challenged, and reshaped in real time.

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Mother–Daughter Relationships in Modern Thrillers: Conflict, Generations, and Emotional Stakes

A look at how mother–daughter relationships shape modern thrillers, exploring generational conflict, shifting values, and the tension between independence and protection.

Domestic thrillers have long leaned on marriages as their central fault line—husbands and wives circling each other, secrets buried in shared lives.

But increasingly, there’s something just as compelling in the space between mothers and daughters, particularly in a modern context where the gap between generations feels sharper than ever.

Part of that comes down to how quickly the world has changed. Many mothers in contemporary thrillers belong to that older millennial bracket—now in their forties—who remember life before the internet became constant. They adapted to it. They learned its rules. But they still carry a sense that the online world is something separate from “real life.”

Their daughters, especially those in the Gen Z bracket, have never known that separation. The internet isn’t an addition to life—it’s part of it. Identity, communication, validation, and even grief can all play out in public spaces.

That difference in perspective creates a natural, ongoing friction. It’s not just about behaviour—it’s about values. What should be private? What should be shared? What does safety even mean?

That tension becomes even more interesting when you place it at the heart of a thriller. Because thrillers thrive on information—who knows what, who controls it, and who reveals it.

A mother might instinctively try to contain a situation, to manage the narrative, to protect the family unit by limiting exposure. A daughter might do the opposite—sharing, questioning, pushing outward. Neither approach is inherently right or wrong, but the clash between them creates movement in the story.

There’s also the specific complexity of that age: eighteen. Legally an adult, but still in transition.

For a parent, that shift can feel abrupt. One day you’re responsible for every decision, the next you’re expected to step back while still carrying the same instinct to protect. That push and pull between authority and autonomy creates a constant negotiation in their relationship.

For the daughter, it’s just as complicated. Independence isn’t clean. It comes with contradictions. The desire to make your own choices sits alongside the need for reassurance, even if you’d never admit it out loud.

In a thriller, that contradiction can heighten every interaction. Arguments aren’t just about the immediate issue—they’re about identity, control, and who gets to define the truth.

What makes this dynamic particularly rich is that, underneath the conflict, there’s history. Shared experiences. In many cases, shared loss.

That emotional foundation means the tension never exists in isolation. Even at their most opposed, there’s still a connection holding them in place. That’s where the depth comes from. The arguments matter because the relationship matters.

It also shifts the emotional weight of the story. Instead of a breakdown between partners, you’re watching a relationship that can’t easily be walked away from.

A marriage might end. A mother–daughter bond doesn’t.

It stretches, it strains, but it remains. That persistence raises the stakes in a different way. Every decision risks not just immediate consequences, but long-term damage to something fundamental.

In modern thrillers, this kind of relationship opens up new possibilities. It brings in generational tension, changing ideas about identity and privacy, and the blurred line between childhood and adulthood. It allows for conflict that feels both intimate and inevitable.

And perhaps most importantly, it reflects something recognisable. Not in the specifics of any one story, but in the underlying dynamic: two people who know each other deeply, who love each other, and who still find themselves on opposite sides of the same truth.

In My Daughter Knows, this was exactly the space I wanted to sit in—the push and pull between a mother trying to hold things together and a daughter determined to define things on her own terms.

Kim comes from a world of control, messaging, and careful boundaries. Ruby exists in a world where expression is immediate, public, and often instinctive. Put them together, in the middle of grief, and the tension becomes constant.

What interested me most was that neither of them is entirely right, and neither of them is entirely wrong. Kim’s instinct to protect makes sense. Ruby’s instinct to question and express herself makes sense.

But those instincts don’t align, and that misalignment creates friction in every conversation, every decision, every moment where they’re forced to confront the same reality from completely different angles.

By shifting the focus from the more familiar husband–wife dynamic to a mother–daughter relationship, the story opens up a different kind of emotional pressure. One that feels less about separation and more about strain. Less about leaving, and more about what happens when you can’t.

That was the thread running through My Daughter Knows: two people who love each other, who are shaped by the same past, and who still find themselves pulling in opposite directions—each convinced they’re doing the right thing.

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Why Ruby Became My Favourite Character to Write in My Daughter Knows

Author Jon Cronshaw explains why Ruby from My Daughter Knows was one of his most enjoyable characters to write, highlighting her voice, humour, and emotional depth in this domestic thriller.

There’s always one character in a book who feels different on the page. Not easier, exactly—but more alive.

For me, in My Daughter Knows, that character was Ruby.

She arrived with a voice that didn’t need forcing. From her first lines, she knew exactly how she wanted to speak—quick, sharp, and just a little bit dangerous. She doesn’t wait for permission in a scene. She takes it over. That kind of character is a gift because it turns every interaction into something active. You’re not trying to make the scene work. You’re trying to keep up with her.

A lot of that comes from contrast. Ruby sits opposite a world that values control, discipline, and careful messaging. She’s none of those things. She says what she thinks, often before she’s fully processed it, and that creates friction in the best possible way. Every conversation has an edge. Every exchange feels like it could tip into something more.

She’s also funny. Not in a scripted way, but in the way people actually are when they’re trying to deflect, provoke, or just get a reaction. Some of my favourite lines in the book came from letting her push a moment too far, then watching the fallout. Humour becomes part of how she navigates the world, and part of how she keeps people at a distance.

At the same time, there’s something more going on beneath that surface. Ruby doesn’t present herself as vulnerable, but it’s there in the gaps—in what she avoids, in how she shifts a conversation, in the moments where the humour drops for just a second. Writing that balance between confidence and uncertainty made her feel real to me. She’s not one thing. She’s several, often at once.

What I enjoyed most was how she changes the temperature of a scene. Put her in a quiet moment and it won’t stay quiet for long. Put her in a tense one and she’ll either sharpen it or cut straight through it. She brings movement. Even when she’s sitting still, there’s a sense that something is about to happen.

She also reflects a different kind of world to the one I’ve written in before. Ruby understands attention—how it works, how it shifts, how quickly it can grow. She’s comfortable being seen in a way that other characters might resist. That perspective let me approach familiar themes from a new angle, without changing the tone of the story.

And if I’m honest, she surprised me more than any other character I’ve written in this genre. There were moments where I’d expect a scene to go one way, and she’d take it somewhere else entirely. Not for the sake of it, but because that’s who she is. She doesn’t behave to serve the plot. The plot has to adjust around her.

That’s why she stayed with me while I was writing—and why she’s lingered after. Characters like Ruby don’t just fill a role in a story. They push against it.

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Why I Made My Protagonist an MP: From Political Reporting to Writing My Daughter Knows

Author J. Cronshaw shares how his experience as a political reporter and communications officer shaped the decision to make the protagonist of My Daughter Knows an MP, blending public narrative with personal stakes.

When I set out to write My Daughter Knows, I knew the story needed a protagonist who lived under constant scrutiny.

Making Kim an MP wasn’t just a plot choice—it was a way to bring my own experience in political reporting and communications into the heart of the novel, where public narrative and private truth collide.

I wanted Kim to be an MP because it put her at the centre of two worlds that don’t sit comfortably together: the intensely personal and the relentlessly public.

Grief, when it happens, is messy and private and often wordless. Politics demands the opposite. It asks for clarity, structure, and a version of events that can be repeated on camera without hesitation.

That tension was the starting point for My Daughter Knows.

Before I started writing novels full time, I spent years as a political reporter. I sat in rooms not unlike the one Kim stands in at the Midland Hotel—press conferences where every word is chosen, every pause measured, every emotional beat carefully judged.

You learn very quickly that authenticity is often constructed. Not in a cynical way, necessarily, but in a disciplined one. There’s a rhythm to it. A way of telling a story that lands cleanly, that survives scrutiny, that gives journalists what they need while still protecting what you don’t want to say.

Later, working in communications for a shadow minister, I saw the same process from the other side. You’re not just reporting the story anymore—you’re shaping it. You think about headlines before they exist. You anticipate questions before they’re asked. You build a narrative that will hold under pressure, because you know it will be tested. And it always is.

That experience fed directly into Kim’s character. She isn’t just a grieving widow. She’s someone who understands how stories are built and how they travel. She knows how to stand at a lectern and turn something devastating into something purposeful. She knows how to pivot from the personal to the political in three sentences flat. That’s a skill. It’s also a defence mechanism.

Making her an MP allowed me to write about that duality in a way that felt grounded.

On one level, she’s doing something admirable—channelling loss into a campaign that might help other families. On another, she’s operating within a system that rewards control, message discipline, and emotional precision.

Those instincts don’t switch off when she goes home. They shape how she speaks to her daughter, how she handles conflict, how she processes what’s happened.

From my time in journalism, I also wanted to capture the way a story grows once it leaves the room. You can give a perfect statement, hit every note exactly as intended, and still find that the conversation moves in directions you didn’t expect.

Journalists ask reasonable questions that open doors. Audiences pick up on details and run with them. The narrative evolves, sometimes subtly, sometimes all at once.

That’s part of what interested me about placing Kim in this role. She’s used to being in control of the message. She’s used to understanding the machinery behind it.

But the world she’s operating in now—particularly the online space her daughter inhabits—doesn’t follow the same rules. It’s faster, less predictable, and far less forgiving.

There’s also something very human at the heart of it. As a reporter, you’re trained to ask questions. As a communications officer, you’re trained to manage them.

But as a parent, especially one dealing with loss, those instincts can clash. You want to protect. You want to guide. You want to keep things contained. And sometimes that comes at the cost of actually listening.

Kim being an MP let me put all of that on the page in a way that felt true to the world I’ve seen up close. The language, the rhythms, the quiet calculations happening behind the scenes—it all comes from those years of sitting in press rooms, drafting statements, and watching how stories take shape.

At its core, though, the decision was about pressure. Put a character in a position where the stakes are already high, then add something deeply personal and uncontrollable. See what holds. See what cracks. That’s where the story lives.

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My Daughter Knows Is Out Now – A Dark Domestic Thriller Set on the Lancashire Coast

My Daughter Knows is out now. A gripping domestic thriller set in Morecambe about a grieving mother, a hidden truth, and a daughter who starts asking the wrong questions.

My Daughter Knows is out now.

This is the one I’ve been building towards. A story rooted in grief, reputation, and the quiet pressure of a lie that refuses to stay buried.

It begins at the Midland Hotel in Morecambe. Cameras. Applause. A campaign built on tragedy. A woman who has turned the worst night of her life into something that looks like purpose.

But behind that version of events, there’s another truth.

One she hasn’t told anyone.

At the centre of the story is a mother navigating public scrutiny after her husband’s death in a hit-and-run. She’s pushing for change. Speaking to the press. Keeping everything controlled.

At home, things are different.

Her daughter is grieving in public. Posting. Questioning. Pulling at threads that were meant to stay hidden. When a new voice enters their lives—a therapist who seems to know exactly what to ask—those threads start to tighten.

This is a story about pressure. About the versions of ourselves we present to the world, and what happens when those versions begin to crack.

If you’ve read my previous thrillers, you’ll know I tend to focus on family dynamics, secrets, and the small decisions that spiral into something far larger. This book leans hard into that. It stays close. It keeps the tension personal.

And it doesn’t let go.

My Daughter Knows is available now in Kindle, paperback, and Kindle Unlimited.

If you like your thrillers grounded, unsettling, and driven by character, this one’s for you.

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Interview with J. Cronshaw About Officially Dead | NewInBooks Author Interview

Read J. Cronshaw’s NewInBooks interview about the inspiration behind Officially Dead, his domestic thriller writing process, and the dark secrets that drive his stories.

I recently had the pleasure of being interviewed by the team at NewInBooks, where I talked about my latest psychological thriller, Officially Dead, and the ideas behind the story.

In the interview I discuss how my background as a court reporter inspired the premise.

One of the strange realities of the British legal system is the Declaration of Presumed Death—a document issued when someone has been missing for seven years. Legally, they are declared dead.

That idea stuck with me for years.

What would it feel like for a family to reach that point? What secrets might surface once someone is officially gone?

Those questions eventually became the foundation for Officially Dead.

During the interview I also talk about the themes behind the novel, the kinds of stories I enjoy writing, and the music that captures the tension between the characters.

If you’d like a behind-the-scenes look at the book and my writing process, you can read the full interview here:

👉 newinbooks.com/interview-with-j-cronshaw-author-of-officially-dead

I’m really grateful to the NewInBooks team for featuring the book and taking the time to ask such thoughtful questions.

If you enjoy psychological and domestic thrillers filled with secrets, tension, and twists, I think you’ll find the conversation interesting.

And if you haven’t yet read Officially Dead, now might be a good time to add it to your reading list.

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Not Safe Here: A Walking Tour of Morecambe’s Real-Life Thriller Locations

Take a walk around Morecambe’s real-life locations from Not Safe Here, from the prom to Regent Park, and see how ordinary places became a psychological thriller.

Come with me on a walk around Morecambe — but not the postcard version.

In this video, I’m visiting real locations that feature in Not Safe Here. The everyday places where the story takes root. The Aldi. The prom. The Battery car park. The Fishing Rod. Regent Park. Ordinary settings that feel familiar… until they don’t.

This is the landscape of the novel. Quiet streets. Open spaces. Places where nothing looks wrong from the outside.

If you’ve read the book, you’ll recognise these spots straight away. If you haven’t, this gives you a sense of the mood and the world the story lives in.

Not Safe Here is available to order now on Kindle and paperback.

Sometimes the most unsettling stories are the ones set somewhere you know.

A dark promotional image showing a Kindle device and a paperback book standing side by side against a black background. Both display the cover of Not Safe Here by J. Cronshaw, featuring a small building above a chip shop at twilight with one yellow-lit window facing the sea. Above the book cover, the tagline “Being Watched Is Only the Beginning” appears in clear white text, reinforcing the tense, domestic thriller tone.

The Real Stalking Case That Sparked the Idea for Not Safe Here

How a real-life stalking case that began with a disputed parking space inspired the domestic thriller Not Safe Here, and how that ordinary conflict shaped Jenny’s story.

Not Safe Here did not begin with a plot. It began with a detail that refused to leave me alone: a single disputed parking space.

The idea came from the real case of Frank Abbott Sweeney Jr..

Sweeney’s campaign of harassment began with an argument over a disabled parking space.

There was no prior relationship. There was no shared history. There was only a brief moment of everyday friction.

From that moment, he fixated on a woman and her family.

He stalked them for years. He sent letters. He made false reports. He inserted himself into every corner of their lives.

The escalation was relentless and deliberate.

What unsettled me most was not the scale of his actions, but the banality of the trigger.

Most thrillers begin with secrets, affairs, or buried crimes.

This one began with something almost insulting in its smallness.

A parking space is neutral ground. It is something everyone recognises. It is something people argue over without ever imagining consequences.

That ordinariness made the story frightening.

It suggested that danger does not require intimacy. It only requires access and entitlement.

The concept stayed with me for years.

I knew I did not want to retell Sweeney’s story.

I wanted to understand how something so minor could metastasise into terror.

That question finally found its shape in Jenny.

Jenny’s life is not extreme or dramatic.She is not reckless or naïve. She is simply visible.

When the stalking begins, there is no obvious line she has crossed.

That uncertainty is the engine of the book.

Ordinary Conflict, Extraordinary Threat

In Not Safe Here, the disputed parking space is not about vehicles.

It is about ownership.

It is about who feels entitled to space, attention, and control.

Jenny’s fear grows because there is nothing she can undo.

There is no apology that fixes it. There is no explanation that satisfies the person watching her. That imbalance mirrors the real horror of cases like Sweeney’s.

I wanted to write a domestic thriller where the threat does not come from the past.

It comes from the present.

It comes from a moment that could happen to anyone on any street.

The idea that safety can fracture over something so trivial felt true.

Once that clicked, Jenny’s story followed naturally.

Not Safe Here is the result of that question finally refusing to stay theoretical.

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Both display the cover of Not Safe Here by J. Cronshaw, featuring a dark brick building above a chip shop at twilight with one yellow-lit window. The title Not Safe Here appears in large yellow text on both covers, with the tagline “Being Watched Is Only the Beginning” at the top. The overall mood is dark and tense, signalling a British domestic thriller.

Why I Chose Morecambe for Not Safe Here

Why I set Not Safe Here in Morecambe, exploring real working-class life, northern hardship, credibility, fear, and why domestic thrillers feel more honest when rooted in lived places.

Why Morecambe Was the Only Place This Story Could Live

I set Not Safe Here in Morecambe because it is the town I know best.

I live here.

I walk these streets every day.

I see the beauty and the damage side by side.

That mattered to me when writing a domestic thriller rooted in fear, credibility, and survival.

Morecambe is not a postcard version of a seaside town.

It is not nostalgia without consequence.

It is a place where people live real lives under real pressure.

Morecambe has some of the biggest skies I have ever known.

The light across the bay changes constantly.

On a clear day, you can see the Lake District fells sitting low on the horizon.

The sea gives the town space to breathe.

It gives perspective.

It also gives a sense of exposure.

There is nowhere to hide from the weather here.

That openness felt important for a story about being watched.

At the same time, there is another Morecambe that sits just behind the seafront.

Boarded-up shops.

Shuttered arcades.

Empty units that never quite get filled.

You only have to step one street back to see deprivation up close.

Much of the town’s visible investment hugs the promenade.

The seafront looks cared for.

It photographs well.

But once you move away from it, the cracks show quickly.

Housing deteriorates faster than it gets fixed.

Services stretch thin.

People make do.

That imbalance shaped the world of Not Safe Here.

Jenny’s life exists just out of view of the version of Morecambe people like to sell.

Her flat above a chip shop is not symbolic.

It is realistic.

It is where people actually live.

Domestic thrillers often centre on large houses and comfortable lives.

That has never felt natural to me.

I am more drawn to stories where money is tight and options are limited.

Where fear is magnified because there is no safety net.

Where asking for help comes with judgement attached.

In Not Safe Here, Jenny is not disbelieved by accident.

She is disbelieved because of where she lives.

Because of how she speaks.

Because of what is already written about her.

That kind of pressure feels more honest to me.

I have always felt closer to domestic thrillers that show hardship without apology.

Stories that acknowledge how northern towns actually function.

That is why authors like Daniel Hurst resonate with me.

There is no gloss.

No distance from the reality of financial strain or social judgement.

Those stories feel lived in.

They feel earned.

They feel closer to the truth.

I grew up on a council estate in Wolverhampton.

I spent over a decade living in a back-to-back terrace in Leeds.

Those places taught me how quickly people judge from the outside.

They also taught me how strong people have to be just to get through the week.

That background shapes what I write whether I intend it to or not.

When I write fear, it is grounded in losing stability.

When I writfe threat, it is tied to systems that already doubt you.

That perspective followed me to Morecambe.

Not Safe Here is about stalking and gaslighting.

It is also about credibility.

It is about who gets believed and who does not.

It is about how easily a mother can be framed as unstable when she does not fit a preferred narrative.

Setting the story in Morecambe made those themes sharper.

It stripped away any sense of comfort or insulation.

It forced the story to sit in discomfort.

I know not every reader wants this kind of setting.

That is fine.

But I hope readers who recognise towns like Morecambe feel seen by this book.

I hope it resonates with anyone who has lived just outside the tidy version of a place.

I hope it speaks to readers who know what it is like to be judged before they speak.

These are the stories I connect with most strongly.

They feel closer to my life.

They feel closer to the truth as I understand it.

That is why Not Safe Here could only ever be set in Morecambe.

Both display the cover of Not Safe Here by J. Cronshaw, featuring a dark brick building above a chip shop at twilight with one yellow-lit window. The title Not Safe Here appears in large yellow text on both covers, with the tagline “Being Watched Is Only the Beginning” at the top. The overall mood is dark and tense, signalling a British domestic thriller.