Why I Wrote a Psychological Thriller About a Book Reviewer | An Honest Review

Why write a psychological thriller about a book reviewer? J. Cronshaw discusses the inspiration behind An Honest Review, a dark bookish thriller about obsession, criticism and control.

What happens when someone whose job is judging other people’s stories discovers that someone else has started writing hers?

That question became the starting point for my new novel, An Honest Review.

It’s a psychological thriller about Olivia Brooks, a hugely successful online book reviewer with an audience of two million people. Publishers want her attention. Readers trust her judgement. Authors know that a few sentences from Olivia can change how thousands of people see their work.

Then an unknown writer called Clara Bennett contacts her.

Clara doesn’t want praise.

She just wants Olivia to read her book.

And she isn’t particularly interested in taking no for an answer.

The power of the reviewer

I’ve spent a lot of my life around books.

One thing that has always interested me is the strange relationship between writers, reviewers and readers.

An author can spend several years writing a novel. They can obsess over every chapter, character and sentence. By the time the book reaches the world, it might represent thousands of hours of work.

A reviewer can dismiss it in a paragraph.

That isn’t necessarily wrong.

Nobody owes an author a good review. Nobody even owes them a review at all.

Readers should be able to say that they hated a book. Reviewers should be able to criticise writing they think is bad. An honest review is far more useful than meaningless praise.

But there is still an imbalance of power there.

And I thought that imbalance could make the foundation of a psychological thriller.

Meet Olivia Brooks

Olivia genuinely believes in what she does.

She doesn’t see herself as cruel.

She sees herself as honest.

The publishing world is full of politeness, hype and people saying nice things about books they secretly thought were mediocre. Olivia believes somebody needs to cut through all that.

Her readers follow her precisely because she is willing to say what other people won’t.

Over time, though, that honesty has become part of her performance.

Olivia has two million followers.

Her reviews can affect careers.

Her sharpest comments spread online.

She has gradually become very good at turning judgement into entertainment.

And she has stopped thinking very much about the people on the receiving end.

That made her fascinating to write.

I didn’t want the protagonist of An Honest Review to be an entirely innocent person being targeted by an entirely irrational stranger.

Olivia has flaws.

Sometimes enormous ones.

She can be arrogant, dismissive and unnecessarily cruel.

But none of that means she deserves what happens next.

What if the writer refused to disappear?

Clara Bennett is one of the countless writers Olivia ignores.

She has spent years writing a novel and believes it deserves to be read.

Olivia disagrees.

Or, more accurately, Olivia doesn’t care enough to have an opinion.

For Clara, that indifference is almost worse than criticism.

So she sends Olivia an email.

Then another.

Then she appears in Olivia’s livestream.

And eventually a manuscript arrives at Olivia’s home.

The title is An Honest Review.

The protagonist is called Olivia.

The book describes her home. Her routines. Her thoughts. Things a stranger should not know.

That was the point where the idea really clicked for me.

The reviewer has spent years turning other people’s work into material.

Now someone has turned her into material.

The manuscript knows what happens next

I love psychological thrillers built around control.

Who has it? Who thinks they have it? And what happens when that certainty begins to crack?

Olivia starts the novel believing she controls almost everything that matters.

She decides which emails deserve answering.

She decides which books deserve attention.

She decides what her audience sees.

She even carefully controls the apparently spontaneous version of herself she presents on camera.

Then Clara hands her a story in which all those decisions have already been made.

Olivia is no longer the critic standing outside the book.

She is inside it.

And Clara hasn’t written the ending yet.

Why make it a bookish psychological thriller?

I could have written this story about almost any kind of influencer.

But making Olivia a book reviewer allowed me to push the idea further.

Both women understand stories.

Both understand framing.

Both understand that the way you present an event can completely change how people interpret it.

Olivia has spent years reducing books to arguments she can communicate to an audience.

Clara is doing something similar with Olivia’s life.

That created a psychological battle where words matter almost as much as physical actions.

Even when Olivia is frightened, part of her is analysing what is happening.

She notices the setting. She notices dramatic irony. She notices when events feel too convenient.

At one point, while driving through increasingly horrible weather towards an isolated cottage in the Cumbrian fells, she effectively starts reviewing the scene she is living through.

Too much weather.

Far too obvious.

A competent author would probably tone it down.

Unfortunately, the weather doesn’t care.

The strange intimacy of online audiences

Another idea behind An Honest Review is something that has become normal incredibly quickly.

We can know enormous amounts about people who have absolutely no idea who we are.

Watch someone online for several years and you might know where they live, what they read, what annoys them, what makes them laugh, what coffee they drink and what they said during a livestream at two o’clock in the morning five years ago.

To the person watching, that can feel like familiarity.

To the person being watched, you are still a stranger.

Clara believes she understands Olivia.

In some ways, she actually does.

That might be more disturbing than if she were completely wrong.

What happens after the thriller is supposed to end?

There was another part of the idea I became particularly interested in while writing.

Most thrillers have an obvious endpoint.

Escape. Rescue. The police arrive. The antagonist is arrested. Credits roll.

But I kept wondering what happens afterwards.

Because Olivia’s entire life exists online.

If something terrible happened to somebody with an enormous public platform, the story wouldn’t end when they reached safety.

It would become content.

There would be interviews. Podcasts. Documentaries. News reports. Comment sections. People would choose sides.

And, because this is a story about books, somebody would inevitably publish one.

So An Honest Review becomes something slightly different as it progresses.

The question stops being simply whether Olivia can escape Clara.

It becomes: Who gets to tell what happened?

And if two people experience the same event completely differently, who owns the truth?

A slightly different psychological thriller

An Honest Review is still very much a psychological thriller.

There is stalking, obsession, isolation, imprisonment, manipulation and a battle between two women who understand one another far too well.

But it probably sits towards the more literary end of the thrillers I’ve written.

It became a novel about criticism. About creativity. About parasocial relationships. About how easily experience becomes entertainment.

And, above all, about who gets to control a story.

I suspect Olivia would have several complaints about the finished novel.

Clara would probably insist that those complaints proved the point.

Neither of them would be particularly easy to have dinner with.

Read An Honest Review

Olivia Brooks has built a career deciding which stories deserve to be heard.

Then struggling writer Clara Bennett sends her a manuscript about Olivia herself.

When Olivia agrees to meet her, she wakes bound to a chair in an isolated cottage with the unfinished manuscript waiting.

Clara doesn’t just want an honest review.

She wants Olivia to help write the ending.

An Honest Review is available now on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited.

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 psychology of trust and betrayal — why we can’t get enough of toxic relationships in domestic thriller novels

A look at why we’re so drawn to toxic relationships in domestic thrillers, exploring trust, betrayal and the unsettling psychology behind modern British domestic noir, with examples from Gone Girl, The Family Upstairs, Our House, The Cliff House, Behind Closed Doors and Lies.

There’s something irresistible about watching a relationship fall apart on the page.

Not because we enjoy cruelty. Not because we want to see people suffer. But because domestic-thriller relationships mirror a fear many of us carry quietly: the fear that the person we love most might be the one who harms us.

Domestic noir presses its thumb on that bruise with precision and patience. It turns the intimate into the dangerous.

We feel the tension build in every whispered argument. We sense the dread as trust begins to slip. We lean forward because we recognise the signs before the characters do.

Toxic relationships in fiction grip us because they feel uncomfortably plausible. They don’t appear with fangs and claws. They start with charm. They start with tenderness. They start with a partner who seems perfect.

Then the cracks appear: a comment delivered too sharply, a lie told too smoothly, a pattern of behaviour that suddenly feels wrong once we stop making excuses.

Domestic noir thrives in this territory. It sets these corrosive relationships in places that look utterly safe—semi-detached houses, school playgrounds, quiet terraces lined with hanging baskets.

We recognise the geography. We recognise the social expectations. We recognise the pressure to keep up appearances. That familiarity makes every betrayal hit harder.

Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl remains one of the clearest examples. Amy and Nick’s marriage looks enviable from the outside—modern, witty, balanced. The story’s power comes from showing how much of that is a performance.

The mask slips slowly. The carefully controlled version of the truth begins to shift. We find ourselves asking the same questions the characters avoid: when did the lies start, where did the rot begin, and how well can we ever know the person we share a bed with.

British writers have taken this tension and shaped it with their own sensibilities.

Lisa Jewell’s The Family Upstairs captures it beautifully. We’re drawn into a house full of secrets, a family that looks successful on the surface, a relationship that curdles quietly behind closed doors.

The manipulation feels measured rather than theatrical. The danger builds in small, steady steps. We feel the unease because the setting feels familiar. This could be any house on any British street.

Louise Candlish approaches betrayal from another direction in Our House. Instead of watching a marriage collapse from the inside, we see the aftermath of trust destroyed by deceit.

A woman comes home to find strangers moving into her house. Her husband has sold it without telling her.

The horror isn’t supernatural. It’s bureaucratic. It’s legal. It’s wrapped in estate-agent language and paperwork. That makes it even more chilling. It shows how betrayal can be executed with a signature instead of a weapon.

Amanda Jennings explores toxic connection from a different angle in The Cliff House.

A young girl becomes obsessed with a glamorous family living nearby. The friendship feels intoxicating at first. Then it becomes clear that admiration has shifted into something darker. Jennings understands the power imbalance that can hide inside even the warmest moments. We feel the anxiety long before the characters do.

Part of the genre’s appeal lies in recognition. Many of us know what it is to second-guess someone’s motives. We know what it feels like when a partner’s affection shifts. We understand the silent dread of sensing something is wrong but having no proof.

Domestic thrillers tap into those universal fears. They give shape to the doubts and suspicions we rarely say aloud. They let us witness the unravel without paying the price.

These stories also offer something like release. They allow us to walk through the worst possibilities from the comfort of our sofa. They let us sit with fear without being trapped by it. They offer control in situations where control is usually the first thing to vanish.

There’s comfort in watching a character face manipulation and find a way out. There’s reassurance in seeing someone survive what might have destroyed them.

B.A. Paris captures this balance with remarkable clarity in Behind Closed Doors.

On the surface, Grace and Jack are the perfect couple—successful, elegant, deeply in love.

The truth is far more disturbing.

Jack’s control creates a slow, suffocating tension. We feel every moment of Grace’s fear. We feel every flicker of her resistance.

The story lands because the threat doesn’t come from a stranger. It comes from the person who should have been her safest place.

Modern life demands that we perform stability. Couples post smiling photos online. Families curate their lives for social media. Neighbours nod politely even when everything is falling apart.

Domestic thrillers take that performance and show us what might lurk beneath it. They turn the mask into the menace. They remind us that the scariest lies often look polite.

The best domestic thrillers take the rawness of betrayal and set it against the backdrop of everyday life.

They show the slow drip of dread. They show the subtle shift from affection to control. They show the moment a character realises the person they trusted has rewritten the rules.

We stay hooked because we want to see whether they break or fight. We want to know whether the truth will surface. We want to know whether the house will still feel like a home by the end.

Toxic relationships in fiction captivate us because they reflect something deeply human. They remind us how fragile trust can be. They remind us how strong we can become when it breaks. They give us darkness in places we recognise. They give us endings we hope for in life but don’t always get.

That’s why domestic noir keeps pulling us back. Not just for the shock. Not just for the twist. But for the unsettling thrill of watching love turn.

The Nanny’s Secret – Available to Pre-Order Now

Pre-order The Nanny’s Secret, a chilling psychological thriller about a family under siege from within. Out 25 October. Kindle pre-order now just 0.99.

Do you know who is living in your home?

My new domestic thriller, The Nanny’s Secret, is now available to pre-order on Kindle for the special launch price of just 0.99.

The full release is on October 25, but you can lock in the discounted price today.

Emma thought Sophie was the answer.

The perfect nanny.
The perfect helper.
The perfect lie.

Within weeks, Sophie has transformed the house. Emma’s husband calls her a blessing. Her son clings to her. Even the neighbours sing her praises.

But Sophie knows things she shouldn’t.

She hums Emma’s late mother’s lullaby. She teaches Josh to call her “Mummy.” She’s watching Emma’s family far too closely.

When Emma voices her suspicions, no one believes her. Not her husband. Not her friends. Not the police.

By Christmas Eve, Sophie has taken Emma’s place in every way that matters. And Emma must face the truth.

This isn’t help.
This is war.

A chilling, compulsive psychological thriller about gaslighting, family, and the danger already inside your home—perfect for fans of Lisa Jewell, Shari Lapena, and B.A. Paris.

Pre-order The Nanny’s Secret today and be among the first to uncover the truth.

Pre-Order on Kindle for 0.99