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Before Zander could write the book she wanted, she had to build the publishing arrangement that allowed it. She had been traditionally published in Germany, and the experience taught her exactly what she was unwilling to accept in English. Going independent, before she wrote a word of the Court of Ravens, was the condition that made the content possible.
I enjoy having full control over the content of my books, especially when it comes to stories written under Liv Zander. I promised myself that Liv would write whatever she wants whenever she wants to. No compromises. No doubts. Trad publishers would pull their hair out if they needed to deal with that attitude.
The moral question at the center of her villain romances isn’t decorative. She named it directly when describing King of Flesh and Bone, the book that preceded the Court of Ravens duet, and she has applied the same logic to every project since. The extension into two villain protagonists in Feathers So Vicious was a deliberate escalation of that same experiment.
At its core, this dark fantasy romance is about how love can turn us into fools for liars and monsters. The book asks the reader if villains deserve to be loved, and if we can root for such a couple against the guidelines of morality.
The leap from one villain to two is the formal answer to that question: if readers will root for one monster, she wanted to find out whether doubling the darkness would break the spell or deepen it.
Most writing advice treats the first draft as sacred and revision as the real work. Zander runs the opposite system, and she arrived at it only after years of trying to follow the conventional method and finding it incompatible with how her mind works.
Every sentence I write goes through at least three rounds of edits before I actually type it. For a long time, I listened to all the advice out there, trying to push myself to write a first draft. In the end, I had to accept that I’m not that type of writer. I don’t write fast, but what I write requires little to no editing and almost never any revising.
Permission to abandon received wisdom about process came from a specific source. The principle she calls QTP, Question The Premise, is a coaching concept she credits to Becca Syme, and it gave her a framework for treating her own instincts as data rather than as failures to correct.
What works for 99% of writers might not work for me.
Her physical setup follows from that conclusion: Post-Its across wall space, a large whiteboard for brainstorming, and a treadmill desk she walks on while drafting. The environment is built around a process that mainstream advice never described.
The central craft difficulty she set herself across both the Court of Ravens books was keeping villainy intact under reader affection. The temptation to soften a character once readers attach to them is real, and she has described resisting it as a deliberate act.
It’s not easy to make a reader fall in love with a villain without redeeming him.
Her website description of the Court of Ravens duet lays out the terms of the experiment in a single paragraph. No hero is promised. No comfort is offered. The trigger warnings exist on the page above the purchase button, not buried in back matter, because she wants readers arriving with their eyes open.
The Court of Ravens duet is a two-book dark fantasy romance, following the story of two raven shifters and the woman they kidnap for ransom. With characters ranging from morally gray to tar black set in a war-torn world, the story contains dark themes, a shopping list of triggers, and utter heartbreak. What this book doesn’t contain is a hero — because villains do it better. And two do it better than one.
The refusal to redeem her villain is a position she has held publicly and without qualification. When readers expect an arc that bends toward morality, this is the answer she gives, and it applies to both books in the duet.
I have no intentions of redeeming him because, well… villains do it better.
The self-authored bio she runs across every platform turns the contradiction she is writing into an open joke. She knows exactly what she’s producing and for whom, and she names the audience’s appetite and her own in the same breath.
Liv has an unhealthy love for sexy villains. To cure herself of her poor choice in men, she’s currently undergoing therapy, but who can afford that these days? To fund her co-pays, she’s writing deliciously dark fantasy romance about the men who would burn the world to the ground for their women. Is that counter-productive? Probably, but it’s also a lot of fun.
The point Feathers So Vicious keeps returning to is not that darkness is excusable, but that readers will choose it anyway. She wants readers to close the book having noticed that about themselves.