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Love and Other Conspiracies is Mallory's debut novel!
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Get your copy today!
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About the Book
The hardest thing for a paranormal conspiracy theorist and a web series producer to believe in is finding love in this swoony debut romantic comedy.
Hallie Barrett’s life has imploded after she’s dumped by her hotshot ex, who also happens to be her coworker and the star of the online series she was producing. Without a new show to present for the company competition, she’ll be out of a job. But inspiration can come from the strangest places . . . like the most handsome guy she’s ever seen passionately discussing Bigfoot on a late-night docuseries.
Hayden Hargrove made a name for himself as a cryptid expert on his hit podcast, and is intrigued by the plucky, blue-haired producer who offers him the opportunity to lead his own web show. When the production team sees that Hayden’s solo on-screen presence is bad enough to make a ghost blanch, Hallie jumps on camera too, hitting him (and his cryptids) with a healthy dose of skepticism—and enough chemistry to electrify their show to the top of the competition.
As Hayden and Hallie investigate the unknown, they unearth feelings for each other that shake their beliefs to the core. In their search for Mothman, aliens, and the truth, the most elusive discovery might just be learning to love again.
Excerpt
ø Chapter 1 ø
Los Angeles is a city of believers. Whether it be the belief that you'll wait on the right producer's table at the right time and land that big break or that there'll miraculously be no traffic on the 405, everyone has something they believe in with their whole being.
Nearly everyone working at Skroll came here believing in their shot at the fifteen minutes of internet fame the company all but guarantees. For them, it's clearly just another day at the office. Interns chatter over catered lunch, and a member of the video team skateboards through the stark white, open-concept office.And me? I wholeheartedly believe I am about to get fired.
Can we chat?
Few phrases strike fear into my heart the way "Can we chat?" does. It's not good when it comes from a partner or parent, and it's even less fun when it comes from my boss. Chloe is less of a "boss" and more like a cool older friend who sometimes offers me raises and puts my name on org charts as Skroll undergoes yet another restructuring. She joins us producers for drinks and always compliments my blue hair, noticing when I touch it up or experiment with the shade.
But Chloe also has the power to fire me.
Today, it wouldn't shock me if she did. After a month and a half of busywork instead of the producing I was hired to do, I'm expendable.
"Do you think hashtag 'NoraLicks' or 'LicksWithNora' would sell more of these guys?"
I yank myself from my bout of shaking hands and a churning stomach to answer my coworker and recent roommate, Nora. She taps hesitantly at her keyboard, writing and deleting the hashtags several times. I glance at her screen. In the Wild West that is millennial start-up culture, deciding how to sponsor and market fake rubber tongues to lick cats with does demand my serious consideration. Except right now, my brain is a broken record of: "Can we chat?," "Time to pack up your desk now," and "Do you have any retail experience?"
"Oh . . . I didn't think it was that triggering of a question," she says now that she's seen my face. "Hallie, is everything okay?"
Nora's screen shows a thumbnail where she and Amita-one of our other coworkers-are corralled by an army of kittens, with said licking tools bitten between their teeth. I think these cats look more nervous than anything, but at least Nora has something to do. While other staffed producers and contributors spend their nine-to-fives making clickbait videos and writing their fun listicles, I've spent the past month and a half logging video stats and online traffic reports because that's all there is for me to do. It's far below my pay grade and producer job title, but since my plans to produce one of Skroll's most hyped shows were derailed, I feel lucky to be hanging on to their payroll by even a thread.
"Uh, Chloe wants to talk to me."
". . . Oh." Nora nips her bottom lip and traces her fingers around the flowered ink on her wrist, a nervous habit. She embraces the quirky tattoos up and down her arms and is constantly tipping her mousy brown hair with bold and bright colors. I've never seen her in business casual wear-always trendy crop tops and high-waisted shorts, fun rompers, and overdramatic shoes. There's no part of Nora that's afraid to be herself.
Meanwhile, lately, every part of myself feels like clothing that needs a run through the wash with fabric softener.
"Maybe she found another show for you."
"Doubtful."
Nora doesn't refute my doubt because she knows I'm right. Instead, we sit in silence until I bite the bullet.
Yep. Coming!!
The second exclamation point feels excessive, but I'll blame it on my shaking hands.
I stand and look out at the high-tech office in front of me. This office feels like home, and not just because of the horrifying amount of time I spend here.
No, spent.
Eight years ago, Skroll was little more than a pop culture news site full of listicles and personality quizzes. Now it's a multimedia conglomerate that could catapult random millennials to internet superstardom over a single viral video.
I didn't come to Skroll looking for my own fame, but instead to be the one pulling all the strings behind the scenes. I wanted to produce, and Skroll filled my past several years with late-night shoots, the video team scrambling for fresh takeout after-hours, and delirious foosball games while we spitballed ideas. Now I spend my days in the office killing time, all because one person decided I didn't matter enough.
Over the past four years, I worked my way up the video team's ladder from an office PA-making coffee runs and ordering snacks for the office-to associate producer, and then finally a real, shiny producer. When Skroll began to dip its toes into video content and longer-form series, it ran like a small, quirky movie studio. I brainstormed and developed, organized schedules, booked our studios and equipment, and made sure everyone showed up on time. I've helmed so many of those videos that launched talent into the digital spotlight. And I was damn good at it.
I meander through the stark white desks and overpriced ergonomic chairs to Chloe's office beside the Doge conference room. She yells for me to enter after two knocks, and I shimmy my way in. Her workspace always manages to make microwave meals smell like five-star cuisine, seasoned with the light scent of Nag Champa. Her cactus-shaped humidifier puffs and I catch a whiff of calming lavender.
But I do not feel calm.
I am a bundle of shaky hands, impending boob sweat, and a stress-induced eye twitch.
I take a seat on one of her toadstool-shaped chairs, which she insists promote better posture. I slump anyway.
She spins the screen out of the way as I offer her a meek wave. "Hi."
"Hey, Hal. Glad you were available. So, there's something we should talk about . . ."
I can't read her expression. Is she letting me go? Am I getting put on a PIP, where I'll have to log every minute of my day, down to every time I go to the bathroom?
"Sure, what is it?"
"So, your show . . ."
I furrow my brows. "Uh, do I have a show I don't know about? Because . . ."
She chews the corner of her lip. "Yeah . . . that's the part I wanted to discuss."
"Okay," I say.
"We are full steam ahead here on the Skroll Series Program, and Kevin is funneling a good amount of our department funds into show budgets and all of our current series are staffed."
"So, I'm getting let go?"
Chloe sucks in a breath that does not reassure me. "That's what I'm trying to avoid. You're a damn good producer, Hallie, and I don't want to lose you. But if I don't have anything for you to do? It's going to be hard to justify keeping you if layoffs come. I need you to come up with a show for the program."
The Skroll Series Program was like pilot season for web series. Each year, producers and on-camera talent would pitch their shows and record a pilot episode and, if it tested well with corporate, a trial first season. The chosen programs would receive a meager budget and a small gang of producers and assistants in the office, and their stars would be catapulted into the digital spotlight in hopes of gaining the highest content engagement. Skroll fans tuned in religiously and engaged in fandom squabbles-the full Like, Comment, Subscribe-in hopes their favorite show would get a second season, full of higher budgets, higher promotion, and, hell, merchandise if the show did really well.
This year was supposed to be my first competing as a lead producer. I'd laid out schedules, episode ideas, and aesthetics and visuals for the team. Noobie Brothers would feature a group of newbie tabletop players fumbling their way through a game campaign. I'd be pulling every string behind the scenes and would claim that victory for myself, even if I never appeared on camera. It wasn't about the attention for me.
Cade Browning-the onscreen ringleader-went viral one night and has yet to be cured. A single silly video of him getting his chest waxed made him Skroll's resident clickbait snack. It's obvious why. He's a perfect cocktail of an All-American Boy with a nip of edge. Blond hair, blue eyes, and a dizzying smile. He can switch his personalities at the drop of a hat-calculating and deliberate one moment, self-effacing and charming the next.
Everyone fell for it; even me.
I should have seen it coming when Cade swooped in like a hawk just days after my first solo-produced short went viral. Though, when you're twenty-two, fresh out of school, determined to climb the ladder, and the office heartthrob starts paying attention to you, you pay attention back.
When you're twenty-two and said heartthrob tells you how brilliant you are, flirts with you, and suggests hopping in bed together, you do.
When you're twenty-five and no longer the cute fresh meat you used to be, you end up logging traffic reports all day instead of producing a show.
Two months ago, I had a show and a guaranteed role for at least six months. Then Cade dropped the fatal blow. He thought a cozy night in with a bottle of wine and my favorite takeout would soften the hit that he didn't want me on the show anymore, but after I ended our relationship over it, he sure wasted no time slandering me to the crew.
You're hard to work with.
You just don't stand out.
I need people with real substance on this show. People who matter.
Now I'm an adrift producer without a show as my buoy.
My pen drops off my lap and rolls under Chloe's desk. "Me? A . . . show?"
"Yes. This isn't public knowledge yet, so don't say a damn thing. Eric got arrested for public indecency at the Denny's down the road, so we won't be moving forward with his show."
Shame. What the world truly needed was a web series where a fuckboy calculated how many blunts it'd take to blow certain objects up. It was like MythBusters for stoners.
". . . Which leaves an open spot in the Series Program that we haven't filled yet."
I don't even stop to think about if it's mine. It will be mine. There was a spot with my name and creative touch all over it from the get-go. If I create my own show, I'll not only get to reclaim what's mine, but I'll compete side by side against Cade. If I do this, I could beat his ass. I have to beat his ass.
"We're on a time crunch here, Hal. Get me an idea by the end of the week and, if we like it, you'll have to hustle to get a pilot together for the board. If we pick you up for the season, you'll get Eric's production budget and full use of our studios to produce your first season."
That doesn't leave much time to come up with a concept, find the right talent, and convince them to hop on board with my half-baked idea.
Shit. I'm going to have to make a deck.
I can kiss my bed goodbye for the rest of the week. But for the chance to shove my show so far up Cade's ass it'll show up on a strep test? I'll forgo sleep for as long as humanly possible to get back at him and prove to Skroll I am useful for far more than just logging metadata (though I like to think I'm good at that, too).
My heart speeds up, hands beginning to sweat and shake. "You've got yourself a deal. Friday. I'll have a show ready to go for you then."
"That's what I like to hear!"
Show. Beating Cade. Winning. I just have no idea where to begin.
I bumble out of Chloe's office in a haze, my brain operating like a too-fast hamster wheel. I hadn't even thought over accepting Chloe's offer. I just did it. Now I have to follow through.
The Brain-Hamster has been flung off the wheel by the time I return to my desk. I sink behind my monitor.
"You good?" Nora asks. She flashes me a thumbs-up, then a thumbs-down.
I provide her with a so-so. "I'm good, but I need a show idea."
That's when I realize I didn't grab my pen from the floor in Chloe's office. Dammit. I liked that pen.
"A show idea?" she yelps. "Really?"
"Yes. By Friday-"
Nora immediately deflates. "Well . . . shit."
"I'll figure it out," I say, but I am not convinced. I don't know where to start.
"You know what we should do?"
"What?"
"We should get high and watch Agent Cody Banks. Frankie Muniz really brings out my creativity."
ø ø ø
We do get high and watch Agent Cody Banks. A few hours and a half a bottle of five-dollar wine later, when Nora has gone to bed, I am deep in internet hell.
I listened to podcasts, I watched vlogs, I hunted Instagram for charismatic influencers. I only broke for our brief movie. I feel like I've consumed every bit of media under the sun, yet I still haven't made a dent in my ever-growing list of TV show recommendations.
I slurp a chopstick full of noodles into my mouth as the alcohol hits me suddenly. The clock on my computer flashes two a.m. I'll feel this in the morning, though I don't have time for a hangover. I slip my headphones out of my ears and notice the TV in front of me has descended into late-night madness. I'm an hour away from the impending infomercials for discreet adult diapers.
I zero in on the screen as the show returns from a commercial break.
Cosmic Conspiracies.
Yep, I've hit the middle-of-the-night trash TV. Animated planets whirl across the screen and large-headed aliens bobble forward like unsteady bowling pins.
"Sightings of apelike creatures have been reported on nearly every continent on Earth," says an overdramatic narrator. "From the Himalayan Yeti to the Florida Skunk Ape and the most famous of all beasts-Bigfoot-cultures across the world tell stories of something they can't explain lurking in the woods . . ."
Oh, Jesus.
"In ancient drawings, you'll find large, hairy creatures intermingled with humans." The show cuts to a portly British man. "If you look at the footprints, they aren't so different from ours. Could we be closer to Bigfoot than we think? Could Bigfoot even be an extraterrestrial from another planet?"
Excerpted from Love and Other Conspiracies by Mallory Marlowe. Copyright © 2024 by Mallory Marlowe. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Los Angeles is a city of believers. Whether it be the belief that you'll wait on the right producer's table at the right time and land that big break or that there'll miraculously be no traffic on the 405, everyone has something they believe in with their whole being.
Nearly everyone working at Skroll came here believing in their shot at the fifteen minutes of internet fame the company all but guarantees. For them, it's clearly just another day at the office. Interns chatter over catered lunch, and a member of the video team skateboards through the stark white, open-concept office.And me? I wholeheartedly believe I am about to get fired.
Can we chat?
Few phrases strike fear into my heart the way "Can we chat?" does. It's not good when it comes from a partner or parent, and it's even less fun when it comes from my boss. Chloe is less of a "boss" and more like a cool older friend who sometimes offers me raises and puts my name on org charts as Skroll undergoes yet another restructuring. She joins us producers for drinks and always compliments my blue hair, noticing when I touch it up or experiment with the shade.
But Chloe also has the power to fire me.
Today, it wouldn't shock me if she did. After a month and a half of busywork instead of the producing I was hired to do, I'm expendable.
"Do you think hashtag 'NoraLicks' or 'LicksWithNora' would sell more of these guys?"
I yank myself from my bout of shaking hands and a churning stomach to answer my coworker and recent roommate, Nora. She taps hesitantly at her keyboard, writing and deleting the hashtags several times. I glance at her screen. In the Wild West that is millennial start-up culture, deciding how to sponsor and market fake rubber tongues to lick cats with does demand my serious consideration. Except right now, my brain is a broken record of: "Can we chat?," "Time to pack up your desk now," and "Do you have any retail experience?"
"Oh . . . I didn't think it was that triggering of a question," she says now that she's seen my face. "Hallie, is everything okay?"
Nora's screen shows a thumbnail where she and Amita-one of our other coworkers-are corralled by an army of kittens, with said licking tools bitten between their teeth. I think these cats look more nervous than anything, but at least Nora has something to do. While other staffed producers and contributors spend their nine-to-fives making clickbait videos and writing their fun listicles, I've spent the past month and a half logging video stats and online traffic reports because that's all there is for me to do. It's far below my pay grade and producer job title, but since my plans to produce one of Skroll's most hyped shows were derailed, I feel lucky to be hanging on to their payroll by even a thread.
"Uh, Chloe wants to talk to me."
". . . Oh." Nora nips her bottom lip and traces her fingers around the flowered ink on her wrist, a nervous habit. She embraces the quirky tattoos up and down her arms and is constantly tipping her mousy brown hair with bold and bright colors. I've never seen her in business casual wear-always trendy crop tops and high-waisted shorts, fun rompers, and overdramatic shoes. There's no part of Nora that's afraid to be herself.
Meanwhile, lately, every part of myself feels like clothing that needs a run through the wash with fabric softener.
"Maybe she found another show for you."
"Doubtful."
Nora doesn't refute my doubt because she knows I'm right. Instead, we sit in silence until I bite the bullet.
Yep. Coming!!
The second exclamation point feels excessive, but I'll blame it on my shaking hands.
I stand and look out at the high-tech office in front of me. This office feels like home, and not just because of the horrifying amount of time I spend here.
No, spent.
Eight years ago, Skroll was little more than a pop culture news site full of listicles and personality quizzes. Now it's a multimedia conglomerate that could catapult random millennials to internet superstardom over a single viral video.
I didn't come to Skroll looking for my own fame, but instead to be the one pulling all the strings behind the scenes. I wanted to produce, and Skroll filled my past several years with late-night shoots, the video team scrambling for fresh takeout after-hours, and delirious foosball games while we spitballed ideas. Now I spend my days in the office killing time, all because one person decided I didn't matter enough.
Over the past four years, I worked my way up the video team's ladder from an office PA-making coffee runs and ordering snacks for the office-to associate producer, and then finally a real, shiny producer. When Skroll began to dip its toes into video content and longer-form series, it ran like a small, quirky movie studio. I brainstormed and developed, organized schedules, booked our studios and equipment, and made sure everyone showed up on time. I've helmed so many of those videos that launched talent into the digital spotlight. And I was damn good at it.
I meander through the stark white desks and overpriced ergonomic chairs to Chloe's office beside the Doge conference room. She yells for me to enter after two knocks, and I shimmy my way in. Her workspace always manages to make microwave meals smell like five-star cuisine, seasoned with the light scent of Nag Champa. Her cactus-shaped humidifier puffs and I catch a whiff of calming lavender.
But I do not feel calm.
I am a bundle of shaky hands, impending boob sweat, and a stress-induced eye twitch.
I take a seat on one of her toadstool-shaped chairs, which she insists promote better posture. I slump anyway.
She spins the screen out of the way as I offer her a meek wave. "Hi."
"Hey, Hal. Glad you were available. So, there's something we should talk about . . ."
I can't read her expression. Is she letting me go? Am I getting put on a PIP, where I'll have to log every minute of my day, down to every time I go to the bathroom?
"Sure, what is it?"
"So, your show . . ."
I furrow my brows. "Uh, do I have a show I don't know about? Because . . ."
She chews the corner of her lip. "Yeah . . . that's the part I wanted to discuss."
"Okay," I say.
"We are full steam ahead here on the Skroll Series Program, and Kevin is funneling a good amount of our department funds into show budgets and all of our current series are staffed."
"So, I'm getting let go?"
Chloe sucks in a breath that does not reassure me. "That's what I'm trying to avoid. You're a damn good producer, Hallie, and I don't want to lose you. But if I don't have anything for you to do? It's going to be hard to justify keeping you if layoffs come. I need you to come up with a show for the program."
The Skroll Series Program was like pilot season for web series. Each year, producers and on-camera talent would pitch their shows and record a pilot episode and, if it tested well with corporate, a trial first season. The chosen programs would receive a meager budget and a small gang of producers and assistants in the office, and their stars would be catapulted into the digital spotlight in hopes of gaining the highest content engagement. Skroll fans tuned in religiously and engaged in fandom squabbles-the full Like, Comment, Subscribe-in hopes their favorite show would get a second season, full of higher budgets, higher promotion, and, hell, merchandise if the show did really well.
This year was supposed to be my first competing as a lead producer. I'd laid out schedules, episode ideas, and aesthetics and visuals for the team. Noobie Brothers would feature a group of newbie tabletop players fumbling their way through a game campaign. I'd be pulling every string behind the scenes and would claim that victory for myself, even if I never appeared on camera. It wasn't about the attention for me.
Cade Browning-the onscreen ringleader-went viral one night and has yet to be cured. A single silly video of him getting his chest waxed made him Skroll's resident clickbait snack. It's obvious why. He's a perfect cocktail of an All-American Boy with a nip of edge. Blond hair, blue eyes, and a dizzying smile. He can switch his personalities at the drop of a hat-calculating and deliberate one moment, self-effacing and charming the next.
Everyone fell for it; even me.
I should have seen it coming when Cade swooped in like a hawk just days after my first solo-produced short went viral. Though, when you're twenty-two, fresh out of school, determined to climb the ladder, and the office heartthrob starts paying attention to you, you pay attention back.
When you're twenty-two and said heartthrob tells you how brilliant you are, flirts with you, and suggests hopping in bed together, you do.
When you're twenty-five and no longer the cute fresh meat you used to be, you end up logging traffic reports all day instead of producing a show.
Two months ago, I had a show and a guaranteed role for at least six months. Then Cade dropped the fatal blow. He thought a cozy night in with a bottle of wine and my favorite takeout would soften the hit that he didn't want me on the show anymore, but after I ended our relationship over it, he sure wasted no time slandering me to the crew.
You're hard to work with.
You just don't stand out.
I need people with real substance on this show. People who matter.
Now I'm an adrift producer without a show as my buoy.
My pen drops off my lap and rolls under Chloe's desk. "Me? A . . . show?"
"Yes. This isn't public knowledge yet, so don't say a damn thing. Eric got arrested for public indecency at the Denny's down the road, so we won't be moving forward with his show."
Shame. What the world truly needed was a web series where a fuckboy calculated how many blunts it'd take to blow certain objects up. It was like MythBusters for stoners.
". . . Which leaves an open spot in the Series Program that we haven't filled yet."
I don't even stop to think about if it's mine. It will be mine. There was a spot with my name and creative touch all over it from the get-go. If I create my own show, I'll not only get to reclaim what's mine, but I'll compete side by side against Cade. If I do this, I could beat his ass. I have to beat his ass.
"We're on a time crunch here, Hal. Get me an idea by the end of the week and, if we like it, you'll have to hustle to get a pilot together for the board. If we pick you up for the season, you'll get Eric's production budget and full use of our studios to produce your first season."
That doesn't leave much time to come up with a concept, find the right talent, and convince them to hop on board with my half-baked idea.
Shit. I'm going to have to make a deck.
I can kiss my bed goodbye for the rest of the week. But for the chance to shove my show so far up Cade's ass it'll show up on a strep test? I'll forgo sleep for as long as humanly possible to get back at him and prove to Skroll I am useful for far more than just logging metadata (though I like to think I'm good at that, too).
My heart speeds up, hands beginning to sweat and shake. "You've got yourself a deal. Friday. I'll have a show ready to go for you then."
"That's what I like to hear!"
Show. Beating Cade. Winning. I just have no idea where to begin.
I bumble out of Chloe's office in a haze, my brain operating like a too-fast hamster wheel. I hadn't even thought over accepting Chloe's offer. I just did it. Now I have to follow through.
The Brain-Hamster has been flung off the wheel by the time I return to my desk. I sink behind my monitor.
"You good?" Nora asks. She flashes me a thumbs-up, then a thumbs-down.
I provide her with a so-so. "I'm good, but I need a show idea."
That's when I realize I didn't grab my pen from the floor in Chloe's office. Dammit. I liked that pen.
"A show idea?" she yelps. "Really?"
"Yes. By Friday-"
Nora immediately deflates. "Well . . . shit."
"I'll figure it out," I say, but I am not convinced. I don't know where to start.
"You know what we should do?"
"What?"
"We should get high and watch Agent Cody Banks. Frankie Muniz really brings out my creativity."
ø ø ø
We do get high and watch Agent Cody Banks. A few hours and a half a bottle of five-dollar wine later, when Nora has gone to bed, I am deep in internet hell.
I listened to podcasts, I watched vlogs, I hunted Instagram for charismatic influencers. I only broke for our brief movie. I feel like I've consumed every bit of media under the sun, yet I still haven't made a dent in my ever-growing list of TV show recommendations.
I slurp a chopstick full of noodles into my mouth as the alcohol hits me suddenly. The clock on my computer flashes two a.m. I'll feel this in the morning, though I don't have time for a hangover. I slip my headphones out of my ears and notice the TV in front of me has descended into late-night madness. I'm an hour away from the impending infomercials for discreet adult diapers.
I zero in on the screen as the show returns from a commercial break.
Cosmic Conspiracies.
Yep, I've hit the middle-of-the-night trash TV. Animated planets whirl across the screen and large-headed aliens bobble forward like unsteady bowling pins.
"Sightings of apelike creatures have been reported on nearly every continent on Earth," says an overdramatic narrator. "From the Himalayan Yeti to the Florida Skunk Ape and the most famous of all beasts-Bigfoot-cultures across the world tell stories of something they can't explain lurking in the woods . . ."
Oh, Jesus.
"In ancient drawings, you'll find large, hairy creatures intermingled with humans." The show cuts to a portly British man. "If you look at the footprints, they aren't so different from ours. Could we be closer to Bigfoot than we think? Could Bigfoot even be an extraterrestrial from another planet?"
Excerpted from Love and Other Conspiracies by Mallory Marlowe. Copyright © 2024 by Mallory Marlowe. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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About the Author
 |
| Photo: © Maria Millage |
Mallory Marlowe is an author and video game writer living in Los Angeles, CA. Seriously right-brained since childhood, her love of telling stories began with highly elaborate plots for her Barbie dolls and taking elementary school writing projects too seriously. She studied Writing for Film and TV at Emerson College. When she isn’t writing, she’s likely reading, stuck in L.A. traffic, or fallen down a weird internet rabbit hole. Love and Other Conspiracies is her debut novel. Learn more at www.mallorymarlowe.com
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