Tobin Elliott's Blog

So, I’ve decided that, while I will continue to read books—obviously—I will keep my ratings and my opinions to myself.

I just don’t see the point of doing it anymore.

If you want to read more on my reasoning, you can read it here

About a week ago, now, I went to an art exhibit, and came away with a thought that doesn’t seem to want to leave my head.

Paul McCartney has a traveling exhibit of his photographs taken mostly during the Beatles first trip to the United States, shot during 1963 and 1964. Being a ridiculous Beatles freak—I was born one day after their very first single, “Love Me Do” was released—I had to go see it.

It was everything I’d expected it to be, but there was also an unexpected moment that hit me really hard.

Read the rest on my blog.

In a perfect world, everyone that interviews me would have read everything I’ve written. They’d know the books, understand the themes, and arrive armed with questions that dig deep into the work.

That’s the dream, right? Someone who knows your shit better than you do? Someone who says, “Okay, in the fourth chapter of the fifth book in the series, you…” And then I’ve gotta go grab my own book and look that chapter up.

That’s the dream. But interviewers are as busy as the authors, and when they’re setting up an interview with this unknown dork author—me—for next week, there’s a solid chance they haven’t got a single clue about anything I’ve written.

Read the rest on my blog.

All right kids, this is gonna be a fun one.

Because of the whole Shy Girl AI incident that is apparently still being played out all over the place, I think the publishing world has now determined to ferret out all the evil AI-written content wherever it may hide.

AI is the fox on the run, now, right?

Let me throw my own experience in here, okay? Because it’s freaking wild.

Read the rest on my blog.

I just finished the second book in a trilogy—The Blood Prince trilogy—that was sharp, engaging, and annoyingly well executed. What’s even crazier is the author, Ayla Marie, completed the first two books before turning eighteen.

Incredible. Inspiring. Absolutely love that for her.

Though, hot damn, comparing her achievements to mine is deeply inconvenient for my ego.

Read the rest on my blog.

Someone on Goodreads recently informed me—very politely, almost helpfully—that they were “surprised [I was] reading something like that.”

Not offended. Not angry. Just… surprised. As if I’d been spotted in the wild eating something off-brand. Like a shark nibbling on grapes, or DJT eating anything other than McD’s. Technically possible, but unsettling for everyone involved.

The implication hung there: writers, especially, should stay in their lane. Write horror, read horror. Build a tidy little ecosystem where everything matches, like a carefully curated bookshelf that doubles as a personality.

That has never been how I operate.

Read the rest on my blog.

There was a time when book platforms felt like gathering places.

I’d log in to see what people were reading, discover something unexpected, maybe exchange a few messages with another reader who loved the same strange corner of literature I did. It wasn’t perfect, but it felt human.

Lately, though, something about those spaces feels different.

I’m starting to feel increasingly disillusioned with book review platforms.

Read the rest on my blog.

Book signings have a rhythm to them.

Not the glamorous kind you see in movies where readers line up politely with hardcovers clutched to their chests. The real rhythm is stranger. People orbit the table. Some drift closer. Some pretend the table doesn’t exist. Some stare at the covers like they’ve just encountered an exotic animal.

Then there are the conversations… and the observations.

I find I’m fascinated by the odd little human moments that happen while I sit—or more often stand—there with a stack of horror novels and a pen.

Read the rest on my blog.

There’s a moment when someone in customer service crosses a line.

You can actually feel it happen.

The conversation is normal—professional, even pleasant—and then suddenly you’re no longer the customer. You’re the audience for someone’s personal crisis.

You called tech support about your internet.

Now you’re hearing about rent being due and the possibility of eviction.

You answer the door expecting a charity pitch.



Instead you get a rant about how much the person hates your town and how they just need “some fucking asshole” to donate.

And at some point you find yourself thinking the same thing every time:

Why am I being told this?

Read the rest on my blog.

There’s a particular rhythm to sitting behind a signing table in a bookstore.



People drift past like travelers along a busy sidewalk. Some glance at the covers. Some pretend not to notice you at all. Some—particularly elderly ladies—see the covers and offer up a scowl. Others slow down, curious but cautious, as if approaching a strange exhibit at a museum. Every once in a while, someone stops.

And when they do, you never quite know where the conversation will go.

Read the rest on my blog.