Inside the Mind - Jeff Shipman

I’ve loved stories since I was a kid. Books like Moby-Dick and Frankenstein pulled me so far inside the page that I wanted to learn how writers did that. In high school I fell for Stephen King, and Alas, Babylon lit a fuse for “ordinary people under extraordinary pressure.” Years later, One Second After and then Mark Tufo’s 25-book Zombie Fallout marathon finally pushed me from “someday” to “start.” I wanted to explore how fear, faith, and loyalty survive when the lights go out. That’s where Dead Frequency came from—a what-if about an EMP used to test mind control in a small Texas town, and the people who refuse to break.

My latest book, Dead Frequency, starts the moment the world goes quiet. In a small Texas town, power dies, phones die—and then people start repeating the same sermon-phrases in perfect unison. It isn’t superstition; it’s ECHO1017, an analog mind-control test hiding inside the blackout. Caleb Rourke—haunted ex-firefighter and guardian to a sharp, stubborn teenager named Mara—teams up with a paranoid Mr. Fix-It neighbor and a corner-store owner to map the signal, expose who’s amplifying it, and get out before the town’s “recruiters” box them in. It’s about free will under pressure—what you’ll hold onto when the easiest thing is to obey.

I start with the crisis and ask, “What job does this story assign each person?” From there, I give every character three anchors: a wound, a want, and a tell. I test their voice in a page of off-the-book writing—something only they would say. In Dead Frequency, Caleb’s verbs are protect / atone; his wound is survivor’s guilt. Mara’s verbs are observe / question; she maps the world to stay herself. Derek is tinker / doubt; his tell is the way he listens to silence like it’s another speaker. Mrs. Grigsby is comfort / recruit—a church lady turned vector—and Miguel is keep / witness, the guy who writes names when others look away. I keep them honest with constraints—Texas heat, empty shelves, two miles in the dark—so choices feel human, not convenient.

A typical day starts before email. I reread the last paragraph from yesterday and write a single line that defines today’s scene—who wants what, and what it will cost them. Phone out of reach, timer on, I draft in two or three focused sprints with brief breaks. I keep a live “truth sheet” next to me—names, distances, what characters are carrying—so choices stay honest. I end by leaving myself a breadcrumb: a half-finished sentence or a question for tomorrow. Later in the day I do a light continuity pass to protect the canon, then switch hats to marketing—newsletter notes, site tweaks, or a social clip—and outline the next scene so the story keeps its momentum.

For me, it’s ownership and connection. Indie means I control the tone, pacing, cover, website, trailer—every signal the book sends. There’s no waiting for permission; if a chapter needs a sharper hook or the blurb needs more bite, I can make the changes today and see results tomorrow. Even better, the reader's relationship is direct. Newsletter replies, early-reader notes, “this scene made me stop and breathe” messages—those land in my inbox and shape the next draft. I’m not just releasing a book; I’m building a long-term conversation and a brand I believe in.

The hardest stretch was in the middle. I wrote a lot of cool scenes that repeated the same beat—discover, confront, escape—without truly raising the stakes. Fixing it meant getting ruthless: combining locations, moving a major reveal earlier, and asking of every chapter, “What job does this do in the spine?” I built a tight canon checklist, trimmed filler, and made sure each scene cost the characters something. It hurt to cut pages I liked, but the story snapped into focus.

I use Word more than anything to check my grammar. While I love to read, my spelling and sentence structure are sometimes lacking.

Write like a pro, publish like a startup. Block two daily sprints, open each scene with a one-line goal, and don’t edit while drafting. When it’s done, pay for a real cover and spend time on the product page copy—it sells the book more than any ad. Start a simple newsletter early and invite readers behind the curtain. Launch with a handful of ARC readers, learn from their notes, and iterate. Avoid big ad spends until you have proof the cover/blurb/first chapters convert. Consistency beats intensity: small pages daily, one honest email a week, repeat.

This has been my biggest struggle. I tried very hard to run Facebook ADs to have people sign up for my newsletter and had minor success. I had a very high conversion rate of people clicking the link to learn more, but a very low signup rate. This is an area I still struggle with, and it is my major concern as my launch date nears.

I'm in the planning stages for the sequel to Dead Frequency, and I have another series in mind based on my 9 years I worked for Blockbuster Video. Kind of movie twist type of novel, something I've kicked around in my head for years.