Jazz Murray is a novelist. A serious one. The kind who wears black turtlenecks in July, argues about comma placement like it's a moral issue, and once spent three weeks perfecting a single sentence-only to delete it. He doesn't dabble. He suffers for his art.
Exhausted by the noise of the city-and by the suspiciously cheerful baristas at one too many artisanal donut shops-Murray retreats to the only place quiet enough to wrestle his masterpiece into existence: a remote, weather-beaten lighthouse at the far edge of civilization. No Wi-Fi. No distractions. Just sea spray, isolation, and his faithful typewriter.
His goal? To finally write the Great American Novel. Or at the very least, something his mother won't describe as "a lovely cure for insomnia."
What he finds instead is a haunting.
But not the gloomy, chain-rattling variety. The lighthouse is inhabited by a collection of highly opinionated, theatrically inclined, and surprisingly fashion-forward ghosts. They have unfinished business, strong creative opinions, and an alarming fondness for interpretive dance. And they have absolutely no intention of letting Murray write in peace.
As séances spiral out of control and writer's block takes on a paranormal twist, Murray discovers that silence is not included in the rental agreement-and neither is creative control.
Witty, offbeat, and delightfully absurd, this novel is a supernatural comedy about art, ambition, and what happens when the afterlife develops editorial notes. In a lighthouse full of ghosts, the only thing scarier than the spirits... is a bad first draft.
