The Weight of Snow follows a man who, years after concealing his role in two deaths, must choose how far he’ll go to protect his freedom and family when cold-case detectives begin unraveling his life. What was the inspiration for the setup of your story?

I was fascinated by the idea of latent consequence—the concept that a person could commit a terrible act, successfully cover it up, build a seemingly normal life on top of that lie, and then have the bill come due years later. Most crime stories focus on the immediate aftermath of a tragedy or the adrenaline of the initial escape. I wanted to explore what happens when the adrenaline has long faded, leaving only a quiet, rotting core underneath a prosperous domestic life. The spark came from thinking about inheritance and legacy: what does it mean to build a future for your family using resources obtained through a dark, hidden past? Once that central dynamic was in place, the tension between Alex’s past sins and his current life naturally drove the narrative forward.

Snow, darkness, confined spaces, and isolation recur throughout the novella. How consciously did you develop those images to reflect Alex’s psychological state?

It was deliberate because I view setting as an external manifestation of a character’s interior life. Guilt in The Weight of Snow is an abstract feeling and has physical texture. Snow works as a double metaphor: on the surface, it’s a serene white blanket that covers up ugly truths, but in reality, it’s a cold weight that immobilizes and preserves whatever lies underneath. As the cold-case detectives close in, the physical spaces around Alex begin to mirror his internal claustrophobia. Even when he’s outdoors, the oppressive winter landscape makes him feel trapped. I wanted the environment to constantly reinforce to the reader that no matter how much physical distance Alex creates, his mind is stuck in a dark, increasingly tight space from which there is no physical exit.

The family is emotionally fractured even before the investigation intensifies. How important was it that Alex’s crime affect not only the plot but the entire emotional structure of the Neitzel household?

That distinction was crucial to me. If the crime were just a plot device, the tension would only exist when the police were on screen. But a major crime rooted in secrecy poisons everything it touches, even in total silence. Alex has spent fourteen years holding everyone at arm’s length because true emotional intimacy requires honesty, something he cannot afford. That self-imposed distance created an emotional vacuum in the home long before Detectives Raymond and Orosco ever showed up. Showing Cecelia’s detachment and Sammy’s resentment early on allowed me to demonstrate that Alex was already paying a heavy price for his crime. The investigation exposes the fractures that were already holding the family apart.

Alex can be cruel and deeply self-serving, yet he also shows concern for his children’s future. How did you approach keeping him complex without asking readers to excuse his actions?

The goal was not to make Alex sympathetic, but to make his human logic understandable. Few people view themselves as the villain of their own story; they rationalize, compartmentalize, and construct justifications for their worst behavior. For Alex, securing his children’s financial future becomes his primary moral justification. In his mind, if he can ensure Sammy and Cecelia are provided for, then his past actions were somehow “worth it” or at least served a protective purpose. His care for them is genuine, but it’s deeply flawed and selfishly tied to his need to feel like a decent father. By leaning into those contradictions—his coldness alongside his desperate paternal instincts—he remains a complex, compelling character without the story ever asking the reader to forgive what he’s done.

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