Back in the day—at the dawn of the Internet and long before anyone had heard of social media—I was a working investigative reporter. For nearly two decades, I clocked in at a daily newspaper, chasing leads, combing through dusty archives, and persuading often-reluctant sources to talk to me. I’d spend weeks, sometimes months, stitching together narratives meant to expose wrongdoing, uncover injustice, or shine light into some dark, bureaucratic corner where truth had been shoved aside. I did it under the aegis of something I deeply believed in: the public’s right to know. For me, the First Amendment wasn’t just a phrase etched in civics textbooks—it was the north star guiding everything I did.

Sometimes, those stories made a difference. A few launched official investigations, prompted reforms, made the world a little safer, or more just. They rattled the cages they were supposed to rattle. But far more often, they landed with a thud. A collective shrug. A few congratulatory or angry phone calls, maybe a letter or two to the editor, and then—poof—it was on to the next story.

It began to feel after a while like I was launching satellites into deep space, hoping to make contact with intelligent life forms, only to be met with static. My growing sense of futility was one of the big reasons I eventually decided to step away from daily journalism and try something new. I still wanted to tell stories. I still cared about truth and human nature and justice. But I needed to find a different way to reach people.

One of those ways was writing mystery novels.

And what a different experience it’s been.

With fiction, the feedback is immediate—and passionate. Readers don’t hesitate to email me about how much they enjoy my Cordell Logan series, including the most recent installment, Deep Fury (and yes, I’m working on the next one!). But they also don’t hesitate to tell me when I’ve missed the mark in their opinion.. Maybe a character’s timeline doesn’t quite add up. Maybe I botched the name of a weapon or slipped on a bit of aviation lingo. Or maybe a plot twist left them more confused than intrigued.

To all of which I say: bring it on.

Truly. I welcome every bit of it—praise, criticism, nitpicks and all. Because unlike those long-ago days in the newsroom, when I often felt like I was typing into the void, writing novels has connected me with a real, responsive, thoughtful community of readers. You’re out there. You’re paying attention. And best of all, you care enough to write.

That means the world to me.

When I was a kid, I used to write letters to my favorite authors. I’d mail them in care of their publishers, laboring over every word. These weren’t dashed-off notes. I rewrote those letters over and over, knowingt they’d be read by true masters of the craft. And I always enclosed a self-addressed, stamped envelope. The best response I ever got—the one that made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I could one day become a real writer—arrived one glorious morning from…

Just kidding.

No one ever wrote back. Not a single author.

Talk about a waste of good postage.

And yet, I don’t regret sending those letters. Even then, I understood that writing—at its best—is a form of reaching out, of trying to connect. I only wish those authors had reached back.

Now that we’re all living in the Digital Age, a dialogue between a writer and their readers is easier than ever. You no longer need to track down a publisher’s mailing address or lick an envelope. You don’t have to worry about stamps or whether your SASE has enough return postage. Most authors—including me—have a website with a contact page or a direct email link. You can reach out in a few seconds, no matter where you are in the world.

And please believe me when I say this: I will write back. Every email I get from a reader is read by me personally, and every one gets a reply.

Why? Because if you’ve taken time out of your busy life to read my work—whether it made you laugh, think, cry, or just helped you pass a few hours on a cross-country flight—that’s an incredible gift. If you then take even more time to send a message and tell me what the book meant to you, or what didn’t quite work, or just to say hello, the least I can do is return the favor.

So drop me a line. Let me know what you think—about Logan, the books, or anything else on your mind. Tell me what you liked, what you didn’t, or what you want to see next. Tell me what made you laugh or what made you roll your eyes. I promise I’ll listen.

And best of all?

No postage stamps will be harmed in the making of our conversation.

Looking forward to hearing from you soon.

—David