Ahem

How to announce your upcoming novel when you hate to make noise

My family relocated from England to New Jersey when I was sixteen. I was shy, awkward, and prone to blushing. It was not exactly a smooth transition.

Back at my all-girls school in Buckinghamshire (Wycombe High, just down the road from Roald Dahl’s home), when teachers entered the room, we were expected to stand and silently await instruction. It was the classic sage-on-the-stage model of education. Teachers would actually read aloud students’ grades for every test, from lowest to highest. Being a rule-following, introverted, straight-A student, I was right at home.

I distinctly remember instructing the hairdresser to cut my hair short on the top and sides, and leave it long at the back. “I don’t think that will work,” she told me. “It will,” I promised her.

My New Jersey high school, meanwhile, was loud and chaotic. Teachers high-fived students in the hallways. I’d never high-fived anyone in my life; we just didn’t do that in England. The guidance counselor badgered me into joining the marching band, but I had trouble mastering the footwork while simultaneously playing “Oye Como Va,” so I marched around playing air sax. Worst of all, class participation was expected at this new school—graded, even. But every time I so much as thought about raising my hand in class, I’d feel my face redden and my heart race. I just couldn’t do it. I attended that high school for two years, and never once did I speak up in class.

Thirty-five years later—and still a U.S. resident—I am now a curious hybrid of the two cultures I grew up in. (I read somewhere that a person’s cultural identity tends to crystallize during their teen years, and this made sense to me: I am an even split.) I have a mid-Atlantic accent that sounds English to Americans and American to Brits. I have two all-American children who call me Mommy, not Mummy, but my passport says I’m British. I went to a “No Kings” protest a few weeks back, but I still have a soft spot for the Royal Family. I say soccer, not football, but during World Cup season, the England team has my heart.

When it comes to making noise, however, I remain one hundred percent, dyed-in-the-wool English. I am forever that high school student who blushes at the mere thought of speaking up. I dissociate during any kind of public chanting or call-and-response activity. I’ve been married for twenty years and my husband has never heard me sing. A few years back, during a guided tour of a limestone cave in the Yorkshire Dales, I refused to test out the cave’s echo effect, despite it being just me, my husband, and our guide in the cave. (“Would you have tried if it was just you in the cave?” my husband asked me later. “Probably not,” I said.)

Back in the late nineties, I was at a hip hop club in the East Village. I arrived just as the MC was warming up the crowd, encouraging everyone to “make some noise.” Things were getting louder and louder until the MC told the audience, “Hold up. There’s one person in this room who’s not making ANY noise.” He pointed me out and told everyone to turn and face me. “We’re all going to be quiet until SHE makes some noise,” he said. “The show won’t start until she does.” I wish I could tell you how the story ends, but this is the point at which I left my body. What I am absolutely certain of, however, is this: I did not make any noise.

All of which is a roundabout way of saying that self-promotion—or “bigging myself up,” as my so-very-English sisters would say—is a little out of my comfort zone. But also: I have a novel coming out in January, and my (American) husband tells me this deserves a little noise.

So here we go: My novel, No One You Know, will be published by She Writes Press in January 2026, and I think the cover, by Julie Metz, is just gorgeous:

The novel is about grief and loss; motherhood and marriage; and the heartache of being a teenager. It’s also about the stories we tell ourselves to survive. You can read more about the book here, or on my website, EmmaTourtelot.com. You can even pre-order it, if you’re okay with extremely delayed gratification.

And now I will go make myself a nice cup of English breakfast tea.

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