Jack Carr, a former Navy SEAL turned bestselling thriller author, explains his writing process, creative philosophy, and business approach, showing how military experience and lifelong reading fuel authentic, commercially successful fiction.
Foundations: reading, military service, and the decision to write
Carr grew up surrounded by books (his mother was a librarian) and by age 10–11 was reading Tom Clancy, Nelson DeMille, David Morrell, Jack Higgins, and Richard Connell’s “The Most Dangerous Game,” which imprinted the thriller form on him during a formative window.
He simultaneously devoured nonfiction on warfare, terrorism, and counterinsurgency, knowing he would test himself in BUD/S and later in Iraq and Afghanistan.
The combination of deep genre reading, technical nonfiction study, and lived combat experience became a reservoir he could tap directly when writing fiction, bypassing the need for secondhand interviews.
Authenticity rings true to readers even if they don’t know his background; the emotions and sensory details come from a real place and transfer to the page without mediation.
Turning lived experience into scenes
When writing an ambush in Los Angeles for The Terminal List, Carr didn’t “regress” or meditate; he simply recalled the tactical frustration of being denied permission to enter a building in Baghdad, the resulting vulnerability, and the sudden eruption of fire — then mapped those feelings onto a fictional scenario.
The core memory is strategic and situational (rules of engagement, host-nation constraints) rather than purely sensory (heat, dust), though sensory details follow naturally.
The process is analogous to any professional writing from experience: a former car dealer recalls a sales negotiation; Carr recalls a firefight. The mechanism is the same.
The executive summary method: from idea to outline to narrative
In December 2014, nearing military retirement, Carr wrote 8–10 one-page “executive summaries” — like extended back-cover copy — and laid them on the kitchen table to choose his first novel.
He picked Savage Son (later book three) as the passion project but knew he needed to build the characters first, so he started with The Terminal List.
A misunderstood Steven Pressfield anecdote gave him the tool of a one-word (or short-phrase) theme on a yellow sticky: “Revenge without constraint” for The Terminal List.
The executive summary answers two questions: (1) Is this worth 12–18 months of my life? (2) Would a browser in an airport bookstore invest their irreplaceable time in this story?
If yes, he expands the summary into an outline with gaps he knows he’ll solve during drafting; the outline evolves, the summary is discarded.
He favors three-part structure (prologue, three acts, epilogue) because it resonates with readers and mirrors the classic thrillers he absorbed young.
Author’s notes (starting with book four, The Devil’s Hand) address reader curiosity about what’s real vs. invented.
No rules, only story
Carr rejects prescriptive rules (chapter length, sentence length, market trends, reader feedback from previous books). The only metric: does it serve the story?
He trusts his process and the implicit contract with readers: they give time they’ll never get back; he honors that with everything he has.
Checklists, formulas, and “how-to” rabbit holes are distractions. The profession demands sitting down and doing the work — revising repeatedly — not studying writing forever.
Pressfield’s Turning Pro crystallized this: professionals don’t get “block”; they show up. Carr views writing as a profession (like the profession of arms), not a career.
Character development through conversation
Carr doesn’t keep a series bible; he rereads his own books for consistency. Eye descriptions matter for protagonists, but he avoids over-describing settings so readers import their own memories (a fireplace, white walls, bookcases).
New characters enter as functional placeholders (e.g., “KGB chief,” “assassin”). He discovers who they are by writing them in dialogue with each other — just as you learn a person by sharing a beer, not by reading their résumé.
Names must be distinct visually and aurally (no rhymes, similar shapes) for audiobook listeners. Sometimes a placeholder name sticks because he’s bonded with the character under that name.
Books vs. television: control vs. collaboration
Novels offer total creative control; no one at Simon & Schuster dictates plot or characters. TV is a team sport: hundreds of people, notes from the top of Amazon down, 350 on set.
The writer’s room and actors elevate the material. Taylor Kitsch brought empathy to Ben Edwards that didn’t exist in the book, spawning the spin-off Dark Wolf.
Carr encourages ad-libbing and actors owning their characters; the show improves through collaboration, but the novel remains his solitary domain.
Mantras: permission to write badly, professionalism, constant improvement
“Give yourself permission to write a bad chapter / sentence / book — then go back and make it great.” Momentum beats perfectionism; gaps solve themselves during drafting.
“Do the job.” Sit down daily. Treat it as a profession, not a hobby. The dentist doesn’t get “dentist block.”
Goal: every book better than the last. “Move the genre forward” — know the history (Clancy, Flynn, Morrell, Connell, le Carré, Rogue Male, The Spy Who Came in from the Cold) so you can build on it, not repeat it.
Theme (the sticky note) keeps the narrative on track: everything connects directly or indirectly to the central idea, preventing tangential drift.
Texture, detail, and the Vickers Guides
Objects reveal character: an FJ40 Land Cruiser, a cocked-and-locked 1911 in a leather holster, a specific watch. Fleming pioneered this; Carr applies it instinctively from a lifetime of reading people by their gear.
First research stop for weapons: Vickers Guides (Larry Vickers, photography by James Rupley). The photos let him describe firearms he doesn’t own, then Rupley vets the prose.
Upcoming Watches of Espionage book (Rupley photography) includes Carr’s story on his 1980s Sea-Dweller; military watches are tied to specific units and eras.
One notebook, one computer per book
Each novel gets a dedicated Mead notebook (travel-friendly, no classified stamps) for night ideas, plane scribbles, sketches. Finished notebook goes in a drawer; new book, new notebook.
Each book also gets a clean computer: only Word, a private email for self-notes, no other accounts. Zero distractions. He can write anywhere if interruptions are eliminated.
The business of selling books
The 1985 fantasy (write in mountains, mail manuscript, one morning show) is dead. Algorithms, games, streaming, and social media war for attention; authors must be CEO, CMO, CFO.
Carr builds audience year-round with free value: gear lists, podcasts, merch. Podcasts create intimacy (the “third person” in the conversation) and funnel naturally to audiobooks — fastest-growing publishing segment.
Unless you’re a Twilight / Fifty Shades outlier, you must do the business work to earn the readership.
Commercial vs. literary: creating new readers
Lee Child’s unapologetic commercial stance resonates: if no one reads it, the tree didn’t fall. Carr doesn’t chase awards; he watches sales climb and, more importantly, hears at every signing: “I never read a book until The Terminal List; now my eighth-grader reads too.”
Creating lifelong readers is the mission. A society that picks up books over phones is richer for it.
TV’s influence on the novels
Writing The Terminal List series (season one) seeped into book five, In the Blood: more father-son flashbacks, some drawn from unfilmed script material.
He never writes a novel to “translate well to TV”; the book must be the best book. Cross-pollination happens organically.
Ian Fleming and James Bond
Fleming’s prose is underestimated because of the films. The books are tight, well-written, and product-specific (Rolex Explorer, Bentley Blower, Vesper Martini — though Bond drinks varied).
Bond as “blunt instrument” and last vestige of British Empire gives the character mythic weight. Carr’s seventh novel, Red Sky Morning, nods to 007.
Free advice for Amazon’s Bond reboot: do period pieces faithful to the 1950s novels, avoiding direct comparison to the Craig era.
Sense of place: immersion and targeted research
Ideal: visit at least one key location per book (Mozambique for book two, Kamchatka for book three). COVID forced domestic settings and deep remote research for book four.
For Israel in book five (In the Blood), he read books, studied photos and maps, then had three generations of an Israeli family vet the manuscript — they couldn’t believe he’d never been there.
He notices telling absences (no flies in a Vietnamese seafood alley, an eel slipping from a bowl) and cultural texture (Israeli McDonald’s menu). Maps from the era (1968 Vietnam) papered his office; era-appropriate dictionaries, National Geographics, knives, watches surrounded him to block 50 years of hindsight.
Geography dictates history; 3D maps (MuirWay) and AAA map navigation with his dad shaped this instinct.
Never pay attention to the odds
Origin: Han Solo (“Never tell me the odds”), but Carr’s version is “Don’t pay attention to the odds people love to quote.”
“One in 10,000 get published.” “You’ll never make it through BUD/S.” Somebody did. Why not you? The odds are for spectators; the work is for the doer.
Dialogue: discovery, then tightening
Dialogue is his favorite part. He sets up a scene with light exposition, then lets characters talk without a fixed agenda — discovering them in real time.
Editing pass: cut repetition (same point made five sentences earlier). He doesn’t polish mid-flow; he gets it down, then tightens.
No editor until the end. Five trusted beta readers (including Rupley, two attorneys — “best readers in the world”) give red-pen feedback. If 5+ of 20 flag the same issue, he reconsiders.
Editor Emily Bestler’s two recurring notes: (1) explain military terms for civilians, (2) don’t over-hide twists — readers aren’t living in the manuscript for 18 months.
The protagonist’s Bushido code
Junior-high samurai book: warriors entered battle believing they were already dead, making them more effective. Carr gave James Reece this mindset via an experimental drug (rooted in real 1970s CIA programs) that guarantees his death — so he fights with nothing to lose.
Savage Son’s theme shifted mid-draft from “dark side of man / hunter-hunted” to “forgiveness” after writing Chapter 3’s conversation with Caroline Hastings.
Curriculum for aspiring writers
Carr’s strategic document tracks done goals (bestseller, TV deal) and future aspirations (teach a semester course).
Course arc: executive summary → theme → title → outline → first chapters — all in one semester.
Core advice: “Take what’s useful, discard what’s useless, and sit down and write. Ditch the phone, kill email, write uninterrupted X hours daily until the draft exists. Then revise.”
Publishing: write the best book you can, then attend ThrillerFest / Bouchercon, do agent speed-dating (2–3 minutes each), get an agent, sell the book.
