From Newsrooms to NASA: How My Career Paths Shaped My Fiction
By R. K. Jackson
The topic I was asked to write about for this guest blog is: “How have your other jobs and career paths influenced your writing?”
Interesting question. Let’s take a look.
A Quick Career Rewind
I’ve worn a lot of hats over the years, all writing-related, but widely different in tone and setting. Here they are in reverse chronological order.
Digital Innovation Lead, NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory (current)
Cool job? Absolutely. Major influence on my fiction? Not… yet.
That said, working at JPL means I spend my days surrounded by some of the brightest scientists and engineers on Earth. That environment … the curiosity, the drive, the occasional bureaucratic absurdities … is beginning to seep into my stories. I’ve recently written a speculative thriller set at a federally funded research lab, and another one’s in the works. Maybe even a novel. Stay tuned.
Web Producer, NASA (previous)
My work here was less about storytelling and more about shaping how NASA’s mission was communicated to the public. But again, the setting mattered. Being embedded in a place where the stakes are high and the science is real (and occasionally mind-blowing) left an imprint. It reinforced the idea that even the most factual stories are full of drama, tension, and human emotion, if you know where to look.
Science & Technology Editor, CNN.com
Now we’re getting warm.
I spent several years at CNN under the reign of Ted Turner. though I never met the man. (I did spot him in the hallway a few times. He looked like he was in a hurry.)
My time there was fast paced, occasionally chaotic, and deeply formative. It also planted the seed for a novel I’m working on: a fictional take on the birth of the 24-hour news cycle, starring a charismatic mogul and his loyal assistant. Naturally, there’s a murder. Again: stay tuned.
Reporter and Editor, Small-Town Newspaper
Bingo.
This was the job that most directly shaped my fiction and especially my debut novel, The Girl in the Maze.
At the time I took this, my very first job, I was a young aspiring writer looking for a foot in the door. A small-town editor in rural Georgia hired me and promised it would be a great way to get in the habit of writing daily. (For the record, that editor later turned out to be a compulsive liar. But he wasn’t wrong about the discipline part.)
I covered city council and county commission meetings, the local police beat, and the occasional geranium festival. But more than that, I was granted a front-row seat to the rhythms of small-town life: the charming banalities, the unspoken tensions, the colorful characters, and the deep-rooted sense of place. It was quirky. It was warm. And sometimes, dark.
All of that made its way into The Girl in the Maze. I kept the setting, a rural Georgia town with secrets simmering under the surface. Then I added a corrupt sheriff, a deadly conspiracy, and a protagonist with schizophrenia, and discovered I had struck narrative gold.
About a year later, I was promoted to editor, but my stint as a reporter gave me the raw material, textures, and insights that shaped my first novel. And in many ways, they continue to fuel my writing today.
So yes, my other careers have absolutely influenced my work as a novelist. Sometimes directly, sometimes by slow osmosis.
How about you? Have your career experiences found their way into your creative work? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.
Response: By Ashley K
Reading your career journey was fascinating! I love how each step—whether at CNN, NASA, or a small-town newspaper—has seeped into your storytelling in unique ways. Your description of small-town life really resonated with me, especially how those subtle rhythms, quirky characters, and simmering tensions became the foundation for The Girl in the Maze.
As a reader, I could feel the authenticity in the setting and characters, and knowing the real-life inspiration behind it makes the story even richer. It’s amazing how diverse experiences—from high-paced newsrooms to the quiet observations of a local beat—can shape a writer’s perspective and voice.
Your post also made me reflect on my own experiences. While not nearly as varied or high-profile, my work and life paths—especially moments where I’ve had to observe, listen, and pay attention to detail—have definitely found their way into the way I connect with stories, characters, and even my own creative projects.
Thank you for sharing such an honest and inspiring look at how your careers feed your fiction. It’s a wonderful reminder that every job, every experience, has the potential to leave a creative imprint.
Read my full book review for: The Girl In The Maze
Synopsis:
USA TODAY BESTSELLER • Perfect for fans of Alice Feeney, Megan Miranda, and Tana French, R. K. Jackson’s lyrical, twisty psychological thriller follows an aspiring journalist as she uncovers dark truths in a seaswept Southern town—aided by a mysterious outcast and pursued by a ruthless killer.
Now available for the first time as an audiobook, this lyrical novel comes alive in a tour de force performance by narrator Hillary Huber.
When Martha Covington moves to Amberleen, Georgia, after her release from a psychiatric ward, she thinks her breakdown is behind her. A small town with a rich history, Amberleen feels like a fresh start. Taking a summer internship with the local historical society, Martha is tasked with gathering the stories of the Geechee residents of nearby Shell Heap Island, the descendants of slaves who have lived by their own traditions for the last three hundred years.
As Martha delves into her work, the voices she thought she left behind start whispering again, and she begins to doubt her recovery. When a grisly murder occurs, Martha finds herself at the center of a perfect storm—and she’s the perfect suspect. Without a soul to vouch for her innocence or her sanity, Martha disappears into the wilderness, battling the pull of madness and struggling to piece together a supernatural puzzle of age-old resentments, broken promises, and cold-blooded murder. She finds an unexpected ally in a handsome young man fighting his own battles. With his help, Martha journeys through a terrifying labyrinth—to find the truth and clear her name, if she can survive to tell the tale.
Praise for THE GIRL IN THE MAZE:
“A juicy, twisty literary thriller so captivating you might want to take the long way to your destination… Hillary Huber[‘s] mastery of accents from the melodious Geechee dialect to the broad vowel drawl of Southern aristocracy is on point and music to this Southerner’s ears.”
~ The Atlanta Journal Constitution
“A Southern Gothic thriller with a twisty plot and echoes of Tana French.”
~ Dianne Emley, bestselling author of Killing Secrets
“The Girl in the Maze has suspense, action, memorable characters and even a perfect storm.”
~ Savannah Morning News
“One of the best books I’ve read [this year] . . . The Girl in the Maze is a genre-crushing story that’s part mystery, part thriller, with elements of horror. The result is a terribly entertaining novel.”
~ Cemetery Dance
“Enthralling . . . a psycho-thriller of dark secrets in a small historic Georgian coastal town.”
~ Judith D. Collins, Must Read Books
“This scared the hell out of me.”
~ Laura Otis, MacArthur Fellow, author of Müller’s Lab
Audio clip from The Girl in the Maze a psychological thriller narrated by Hillary Huber:
Book Details:
Genre: Psychological Thriller
Published by: Audiobook: Paradise Press in Association with Fright Night Audio; Print & eBook: Penguin Random House
Audiobook Publication Date: August 5, 2025
Number of Print Pages: 300
Audiobook ISBN: 979-8-218-70529-9
eBook Links: Kindle | Goodreads | BN | Apple | Penguin
Audiobook Links: Audible | BN | Apple | LibroFM | Chirp | AudiobooksNow | Spotify
Read an excerpt:
Prologue
She wants to kill you.
Martha’s fingers tightened onto the Pentel No. 2 pencil, clutched in her lap like a secret talisman. Dr. Ellijay picked up the stack of test booklets, squared them on her desk with soft raps, and began handing them out. She walked slowly down the aisle, her heels popping on the linoleum.
Not today, Martha thought. Please, Lenny, not today.
Outside the casement windows, the campus was awash in gray, a silent movie, as it had been for days, suspended between fog and drizzle, the dull light suppressing shadows, flattening the neo-Gothic buildings of Ponce de Leon College like a plywood set. Only two o’clock, but outside looked more like dusk.
The quad was empty, except for a lone figure seated on a bench, a man in a tweed blazer taking notes in a composition book. He looked up in Martha’s direction, then down at the notebook, then toward her again. To escape his gaze, she looked elsewhere, beyond the campus buildings, above the crenellated rooflines.
It was there again. She had seen it before, on bad days, and now it stretched across the buildings, high above the spires and turrets, gelatinous and nearly invisible except for a network of threadlike capillaries. It pulsed and it heaved, breathing, alive.
Don’t look at it, Lovie. Lenny murmured in her ear, his voice moist and intimate. You know they don’t want you to see that, right? Just pretend you don’t see it.
Today Lenny was only a voice, but on some days she could see him. He was tall and gaunt, his skin white and mottled, like the belly of a toad. Spiked hair. Blue jeans shiny with stains. Canvas sneakers, gray and frayed.
Martha felt a touch on her shoulder, jerked around.
“Relax, Martha.” Wade leaned forward in the desk behind her. “You look as tight as a piano wire. You’ll do great.”
You won’t do great. You’ll die. Lenny hissed. S’truth. You’ll die if you even touch the paper.
This was the first time Wade had spoken to her in months. In the early weeks of the semester, he had flirted with her, singled her out for special attention. For a while, the attraction had been mutual. She liked his pug nose, his subversive sense of humor. But that was before.
Dr. Ellijay walked to the end of the next aisle, Martha’s aisle.
Have a look out, Lovie. ’Ere it comes.
Martha tried to concentrate, to review her mental notes. This was the final. Her grades had been floundering—that’s all part of the plan, innit?—but Martha had decided she would overcome the plan. She wouldn’t let them win.
Don’t touch the paper, Lenny rasped. It’s printed with poison ink. It’s like them colorful frogs in Ecuador. We learned about that in Biology 101, remember? Beautiful, but lethal. If you touch the ink, you’ll die.
Dr. Ellijay returned to her desk at the front of the room and glanced at her wristwatch. “All right, you have forty-five minutes,” she told the class. “You may begin now. Good luck.”
Look at ’er. She’s watchin’ you. She wants to see you fail. Touch the frog poison, and you’ll die. Look out the window. The man on the bench, he’s watchin’, too. They’re all watchin’. They’ve all been waitin’ for this moment, doncha see?
Martha stared at the page, paralyzed. She felt a drop of perspiration release from her armpit and crawl down her side. Around her, she heard the frantic scratching of her fellow students’ pens. They mingled with the sounds of the rats in the walls, the ones that chewed at the masonry with their sharp teeth, like yellow rice grains. The other students acted as if the rats weren’t there.
She glanced at the clock. Six minutes gone already. She looked down at the paper and tried to focus, to form the answers in her mind.
If you fall for it—don’t say I din’t warn you, Lovie.
She wanted to cry, or to scream, but she was motionless except for the pounding of her heart.
Don’t react. Don’t let ’em know. Don’t let ’em on to you, right? That’s the worst thing.
She heard Dr. Ellijay’s footsteps approach and stop next to her desk. She didn’t look up.
“Martha? It’s been ten minutes, and you haven’t even started. Are you all right?”
A swarm of ghostly, amoeba shapes floated in front of Martha’s eyes, and she felt as if her head would explode.
“Martha?” Dr. Ellijay placed a hand on her shoulder.
Martha screamed and lunged out of her seat, pushing the desk over, causing books to tumble out.
Run. It’s yer only chance—run like hellfire.
She bounded up the aisle, reached the door, and flung it open with a bang.
Run, Lovie.
In the hallway, Martha collided with a student on his cellphone, texting. She turned the corner onto another hallway and spotted the door to the custodial closet. She tried the knob. It opened. She slipped inside, squeezed next to a plastic mop bucket with rubber wheels, pulled the door closed, and slid to the floor.
In the darkness, she could smell ammonia. She heard the rats scurry around her. One brushed against her ankle, another along the back of her neck. Out in the hallway, footsteps approaching.
Voices calling her name. But Martha remained silent, invisible.
This is one thing we’re good at, hey, Lovie? Lenny said. We know how to vanish.
Chapter 1
Ten months later
Martha sat on an iron bench in front of the Wash-and-Fold and watched a column of ants as they marched away carrying crumbs from the smashed corner of a ham sandwich.
She had made the walk from the Pritchett House to Tobias Avenue in only fifteen minutes, strolling past dew-damp lawns and sprinklers, reaching the business district early. Nothing to do now but wait and watch the town slowly wake up. The morning was hazy, already humid. The rising sun painted sharp, expanding triangles of yellow on the buildings and storefronts.
Martha opened her leather satchel and unfolded the advertisement, the one Vince found on the bulletin board at the Gateway Center. She reread it for the hundredth time.
EDITORIAL ASSISTANT
The Historical Society of Amberleen, Georgia, seeks a full-time intern to assist with book project. Must be bright, organized, and detail-oriented, able to hit the ground running. Will transcribe/edit interviews, write introductions, assist with research. Three-month term with stipend. Assist with book project. Must be bright, organized, and detail-oriented, able to hit the ground running. Will transcribe/edit interviews, write introductions, assist with research. Three-month term with stipend.
She felt restless, considered moving to the local diner for a cup of coffee, then scrapped the idea. Like so many things, caffeine was no longer admissible.
She wished she’d brought a book to read, or maybe a newspaper. Anything to take her mind off the fluttery feeling in her gut, a sensation that took hold yesterday when the Trailways bus crossed the Intracoastal Waterway and rolled past that sign in the grass median:
Welcome to Amberleen. Spacious Oaks, Friendly Folks.
Martha held the leather satchel close to her face and sniffed. The smell calmed her. It reminded her of her father, who kept it bulging with papers as he shuttled between their house and the university. She tilted the satchel and heard a faint rattle from within, a secret sound. The part of herself she would keep hidden.
A Lincoln Continental pulled up in front of the brick building across the street and parked. A tall woman with white hair and an old-fashioned, collared dress got out, unlocked the glass door to the building, and entered. Martha checked her watch—eight fifteen. She took out a mirror, freshened her lip gloss, and brushed a few strands of loose hair from her face. It was time.
***
Excerpt from THE GIRL IN THE MAZE by R. K. Jackson. Copyright 2025 by R. K. Jackson. Reproduced with permission from R. K. Jackson. All rights reserved.
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Author Bio:
R.K. Jackson is a former CNN journalist who now works at NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory. He is the author of two novels of psychological suspense: the USA Today bestseller The Girl in the Maze and its sequel, Kiss of the Sun, both originally published by Penguin Random House.
Catch Up With R. K. Jackson:
RandalJackson.com
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