Turner Gable Kahn

Turner Gable Kahn grew up in the extra-hold-hairspray ribbon of sunshine between the Everglades and the Atlantic’s best beach. Her higher education took place along the banks of the Schuylkill, and then the Hudson. She commuted endlessly across the East River in the blood, sweat and tears of a design career, before leaving her heart on Victoria Harbor’s dance floors and the South China Sea’s cliff hikes. She now writes in the bright heat near the Singapore Strait during the school year; in the summer she greets the sunset with her family, on a back deck overlooking the Puget Sound.

Kahn's new novel is The Dirty Version.

My Q&A with the author:

How much work does your title do to take readers into the story?

The Dirty Version does a lot of subtle heavy lifting. It hints at what’s going on behind the scenes — both in Hollywood and in the emotional lives of the characters. There’s a cheeky nod to “dirty” in the steamy sense, but the title also points to creative compromise, blurred boundaries, and the messier corners of power and control. The story centers on a feminist author whose novel is being adapted for TV — only to find that the project has landed in the hands of a macho director who insists on “sexing it up.” He says he wants the “dirty version” of the story.

The title is also a little meta. There’s no explicit sex on the page — but that doesn’t mean it isn’t sexy. It’s all about foreplay, tension, and emotional intimacy. I wanted to write a slow burn that made space for desire without defaulting to a standard template.

I actually came up with the title at the eleventh hour. I’d been calling it Very Hands-On as a placeholder, and just before I sent out my first query, I typed in The Dirty Version instead. It stuck — and now I can’t imagine it being anything else.

What's in a name?

I wanted names that carried meaning but didn’t hit readers over the head. Tash is short for Natasha — sharp, modern, unadorned. She’s someone who guards her story fiercely and doesn’t open up easily, so the clipped version felt right for her: no extra syllables, no softness. Caleb, on the other hand, has warmth and calm built into it. He’s an intimacy coordinator — someone who brings empathy, clarity, and safety into the room — and I wanted his name to reflect that grounded presence.

Together, Tash and Caleb sound like they come from totally different worlds — which, of course, they do. That contrast was intentional.

And then there’s Ram Braverman — the Hollywood director with the worst kind of creative ego. That name just wrote itself. I pictured a silver fox with a Napoleon complex, and somehow... Ram Braverman appeared fully formed. A lot of early readers told me they laughed out loud when they got to him — which I took as a very good sign.

How surprised would your teenage reader self be by your new novel?

Oh, very. My teenage self pictured a future writing emo, experimental capital-L Literary Fiction — stories full of difficult people in stark settings, probably with ambiguous endings and no quotation marks. And now here I am writing a contemporary romance set in South Florida, complete with lush beach scenes and behind-the-scenes Hollywood drama.

But I think she’d recognize the thread. These are still stories about people grappling with power, identity, and vulnerability — just with more heat, more humor, and a much more satisfying emotional arc than she might have imagined back then.

Do you find it harder to write beginnings or endings? Which do you change more?

Beginnings are much harder for me. There’s so much pressure to get everything right from the first page — voice, tone, stakes, world. It’s like hosting a dinner party where the first five minutes determine whether your guests stay. Endings, for me, come more intuitively once I know where the emotional landing should be. But the beginning? That gets rewritten two dozen times, easily. I want readers to know what kind of ride they’re in for — and feel pulled in, not pushed.

Do you see much of yourself in your characters? Do they have any connection to your personality, or are they a world apart?

Definitely. Tash is part me — the overthinker, the control freak, the person trying to fiercely protect something that matters. Her bond with her best friend is pulled pretty directly from my own life and my own female friendships. But Tash is also a lot more defensive than I am, and she’s much more blunt. She says the things I’d maybe just mutter in my head.

Caleb, on the other hand, is my unicorn book boyfriend — the kind of emotionally intelligent, deeply respectful, quietly super-hot romantic lead I wish more stories centered. I’m a longtime romance reader, so I built him with intention. He’s pure wish-fulfillment.

So no, they’re not me — but they come from me.

What non-literary inspirations have influenced your writing?

A few big ones. First, the real-world rise of intimacy coordinators in film and television — that felt like such a fascinating cultural shift, and it gave me the idea for Caleb. Second, I’ve spent a lot of time in live storytelling spaces, and performing personal stories taught me how to pace emotional beats and pull people in through voice and vulnerability. And lastly, friendship — especially female friendship — has been a huge influence. The idea that love stories can be romantic and platonic shaped the emotional heart of the book.

Visit Turner Gable Kahn's website.

--Marshal Zeringue