Unveiling Alexandra Tarter: A Journey in Writing

If you’ve ever found yourself lost in a world where the lines between reality and imagination blur, you might just have stumbled upon the work of Alexandra Tarter. Her stories don’t just entertain—they pull you in, shake you up, and leave you thinking long after the last page is turned. But who is this young novelist behind the captivating tales? Buckle up, because I’m about to take you on a ride through Alexandra’s journey in writing, sprinkled with a bit of sass, a dash of wit, and a whole lot of heart.

Getting to Know Alexandra Tarter Author Profile

Let’s start with the basics. Alexandra Tarter is not your average writer. She’s a young author who’s already making waves in the speculative fiction, young adult, and thriller genres. What sets her apart? It’s her ability to blend gripping plots with characters that feel like your best friends—or your worst enemies, depending on the chapter.

Her writing style? Think sharp, fast-paced narratives that don’t waste a single word. Alexandra’s stories are like a rollercoaster you never want to get off. She’s got this knack for creating worlds that are both fantastical and eerily relatable. And trust me, that’s no small feat.

But beyond the stories, Alexandra is on a mission. She’s not just writing for the sake of writing. She wants to build a sustainable career that lets her keep doing what she loves—telling stories that matter. Plus, she’s passionate about supporting social causes, which adds a layer of depth to her work and her public persona.

Alexandra Tarter's creative writing space

The Spark That Ignited the Pen

Every writer has that moment—the spark that lights the fire. For Alexandra, it wasn’t some dramatic lightning bolt or a sudden epiphany. Nope, it was a slow burn fueled by a love for stories that challenged the norm. Growing up, she devoured books that twisted reality and explored the unknown. That hunger for the extraordinary pushed her to pick up the pen and start crafting her own tales.

What’s refreshing about Alexandra’s journey is her honesty about the struggles. Writing isn’t all rainbows and perfect sentences. She’s talked openly about the late nights wrestling with plot holes, the self-doubt that creeps in like an uninvited guest, and the relentless grind of editing. But here’s the kicker—she never let those hurdles stop her. Instead, she used them as fuel to get better.

If you’re thinking about diving into writing yourself, take a page from Alexandra’s book: embrace the messy parts. The rough drafts, the rewrites, the moments when you want to throw your laptop out the window—they’re all part of the process.

Crafting Worlds That Stick

One of the coolest things about Alexandra’s writing is how immersive her worlds are. Whether it’s a dystopian future or a shadowy thriller setting, she builds environments that feel lived-in and real. How does she do it? By paying attention to the little details that most writers might overlook.

For example, instead of just describing a city as “dark and scary,” Alexandra might zoom in on the flickering streetlamp casting long shadows or the distant hum of a train echoing through empty alleys. These sensory details don’t just paint a picture—they make you feel like you’re there.

And it’s not just about setting. Her characters are layered, flawed, and utterly human. They make mistakes, wrestle with their demons, and sometimes surprise even themselves. This complexity is what hooks readers and keeps them coming back for more.

If you want to improve your own storytelling, try this: focus on sensory details and character depth. Ask yourself what your characters see, hear, smell, and feel. Then, let those details breathe life into your narrative.

Tools of the trade for crafting immersive stories

The Balancing Act: Writing and Life

Here’s a truth bomb—being a young novelist isn’t just about writing. Alexandra juggles a ton: connecting with fans, managing social media, and staying true to her values. It’s a balancing act that can make even the most seasoned pros sweat.

What’s impressive is how she handles it all without losing her voice or her sanity. Alexandra uses her platform not just to promote her books but to engage with readers genuinely. She shares behind-the-scenes glimpses, talks about her writing struggles, and even discusses the social causes close to her heart.

For anyone looking to build a career in writing, this is gold. It’s not enough to write a great book—you’ve got to build relationships, stay authentic, and keep your eyes on the bigger picture.

Here are a few tips inspired by Alexandra’s approach:

• Be authentic: Readers can smell fake from a mile away.

• Engage regularly: Even a quick reply or a shout-out goes a long way.

• Balance your time: Set boundaries so writing doesn’t become a burnout fest.

  
  

What’s Next for Alexandra?

If you think Alexandra Tarter is just getting started, you’re right. She’s got plans—big ones. From expanding her readership to diving deeper into new genres, she’s all about growth. But what really stands out is her commitment to using her success to make a difference.

Whether it’s through charitable partnerships or spotlighting underrepresented voices in her stories, Alexandra is carving out a space where storytelling meets social impact. It’s a refreshing reminder that writers can be more than just creators—they can be changemakers.

So, if you’re looking for an author to watch, keep an eye on Alexandra. Her journey is just beginning, and it’s already one hell of a ride.

If you want to dive deeper into her world, check out Alexandra Tarter’s official site and get ready to be hooked.

Happy reading, and remember—every great story starts with a single word. Why not make that word yours?

Excerpt

A young woman, perhaps a girl, even, sits in a crappy chair. Her hands are not bound, and neither are her wrists, which is a surprise since she is in Tahrir Square, the infamous setting for Egypt’s political statements, whether from the people or their rulers. The brown bag over her head, the background, Eilat, and everyone else, can immediately tell this is a public execution. A very controversial, very public execution.

He clenches his jaw. The camera pans to the crowd, a terrified bunch of hundreds. They watch her tremble with her hands, toy with the singular ring on her finger. A small child explodes into tears, nothing yet happened, but a sense, a palpable eeriness coating the air there, no doubt.

A man steps on stage, where the young woman sits. He holds out a paper in front of him and clears his throat. This man is not a public speaker. His hand so firmly grasps the paper that his knuckles turn a pearly white. The man stands tall, his voice cutting through the silent crowd, resonating with authority and condemnation. His gaze sweeps across the assembly, locking eyes with those gathered, ensuring that each Arabic word lands with the weight of truth and judgment.

"Loyal citizens, honorable servants of justice, today we gather under a solemn sky to address a grievous betrayal that threatens the very core of our trust, our unity, and our sovereignty. Before you stands a woman—a mere servant, but one whose actions have escalated to acts of unimaginable treachery. Though young in age, her deeds reflect a calculated and chilling disloyalty to our nation and to each of you. This woman, tasked with humble duties within the boundaries of our nation, did not remain a simple servant. No, she turned to treason and became an agent for our enemy, Egypt. In her quiet guise, she listened and recorded, stealing secrets meant to safeguard our people and preserve our peace. She befriended officials, earned their trust, and used their confidences as weapons against them. Her hands, though appearing clean, are stained with the harm she has brought upon our citizens, lives risked and lives lost due to her whispering treachery. Her espionage was not an act of a desperate woman trapped by circumstance; it was a deliberate choice, a calculated betrayal to serve foreign interests, to sow the seeds of discord and sabotage from within our walls. She passed intelligence—information on our defenses, our soldiers, our leaders. These were not harmless secrets; they were the lifeblood of our nation’s security, secrets she carried and handed willingly to those who wish to see our ruin. This punishment is not delivered in anger but in solemn duty. By her actions, she has renounced her allegiance, she has abandoned her place among us, and she has become a threat that must be removed for the safety of us all. Justice requires a reckoning, and so, in the name of the people, I declare that this woman’s treason warrants the finality of death.” A woman from the crowd cries out, invoking murmur among the crowd. “Let this be a warning to those who might seek the path of disloyalty and espionage. Know that we are a nation united, a people bound by trust, and we will protect that bond with the full weight of our law. Treachery will find no refuge here."

The man pauses, his eyes scanning the faces of those listening, allowing his words to sink deeply into the hearts of the crowd before he steps back, his stance unwavering, his message unmistakable.

“Let her punishment commence.”

The man rips the bag off of the young-woman’s head.

Eilat stifles a gasp— Charlotte’s maid. Oh fuck. What the hell has happened in the past few days?

The execution ground is stark and silent, framed by a row of soldiers standing at attention, each one with their gaze fixed forward, expressions set in cold determination. The young woman, hands bound behind her back, is led to the center. Her face is calm, though pale, her eyes scanning the horizon as if searching for one last glimpse of freedom before the end. The crowd watches in tense silence, a mix of anger, sorrow, and fear reflected in their faces. This is not a moment anyone relishes, but it is one they feel necessary, a grim reminder of the consequences of betrayal.

The execution ground is stark and silent, framed by a row of soldiers standing at attention, each one with their gaze fixed forward, expressions set in cold determination. The young woman, hands bound behind her back, is led to the center. Her face is calm, though pale, her eyes scanning the horizon as if searching for one last glimpse of freedom before the end. The crowd watches in tense silence, a mix of anger, sorrow, and fear reflected in their faces. This is not a moment anyone relishes, but it is one they feel necessary, a grim reminder of the consequences of betrayal.

The commander raises his hand, signaling to the execution squad. The soldiers step forward, rifles held in unison, their movements precise and rehearsed. Each one takes position, their stances firm, eyes set on the woman before them. They have trained for this, but today feels different. There is a weight to this moment, a solemn gravity that presses on them all, as they prepare to carry out the ultimate sentence.

The young woman closes her eyes, shoulders straight, exuding a calm that surprises even those who have condemned her. There is no plea for mercy.

“Service to the Kingdom,” her voice shakes, but she is clear and loud. She stands with her rebellion, and for that, Eilat applauds her bravery.

 Now she stands alone, a solitary figure against the cold, unyielding judgment of her country.

The commander’s hand falls.

In a synchronized motion, the soldiers lift their rifles, aiming with steady precision. There is a heartbeat of silence, the world holding its breath. And then, the command rings out, clear and sharp:

"Fire!"

The shots ring through the air, a series of cracks echoing across the ground. The woman’s body jolts, her form folding in upon itself as she falls to the earth. The sound fades, leaving only the quiet weight of what has transpired.

The soldiers lower their rifles, their expressions unreadable as they stand back, letting the silence settle. The crowd shifts, some averting their eyes, others staring ahead, marked by the sight before them. This execution is not a moment of victory or satisfaction; it is a solemn act, a final answer to betrayal, left to resonate as a warning and a reminder that justice, in this place, is absolute.

Excerpt

For as long as she could remember, Alia had convinced herself and others that at her core, she was a good person, simply born into a life of misfortune and difficult circumstances. In her mind, the wrong choices she made were never really her fault, but rather the product of a troubled upbringing. She was certain that if she had grown up with a mother, she never would have betrayed her brother by getting involved with his girlfriend. It wasn’t her true nature to deceive or hurt people—those actions were, in her view, the unfortunate consequences of a chaotic and abnormal life. If things had been different, she reasoned, she never would have been pushed to the point of killing those people. Maybe, if she hadn’t been trapped in such a toxic school environment where manipulation and betrayal were the norm, she wouldn’t have developed the need to backstab or claw her way through life just to survive. 

On some subconscious level, though, Alia understood that there were very few excuses that could justify what she has done. The drinks and drugs helped keep the thought deep down when she was younger, but unfortunately, it’s all treatment, no cure. 

It’s only when Lottie and Nora begin to board the plane that the guilt of what she’s just done crashes into her. 

Now, she’s coming to terms with the fact that she is a selfishly horrible person. She feels frail on the inside, full of regret.

Just the night before, before she visited Haider and █████ room after the █████ , Ramses had stopped her in the middle of the hallway. He looked genuinely empathetic for her, a facial expression she wasn’t aware Ramses was familiar with. His eyebrows creased together, wrinkling his old forehead even more. He rubbed the back of his bald head, and she recognized the tone of news he was about to share with her.

“What?” she had asked urgently.

“This is about your yellow-haired friend,” Ramses said. “Pass on the message that her family can visit her when she flies back to wherever. We need to make sure she’s properly motivated to get on the plane given the whole Yuri situation. Fabricate some reason why.”

The statement had taken Alia aback.

“Her family agreed to meet with her, for real?” She repeated, excitement raising the pitch in her voice. 

“Not quite,” he smiled sadly. “Just tell her that. We don’t want any problems, correct?”

She nodded, dazed. He patted her on the back without an inch of affection and walked away.

So, without hesitation, she complied. She passed on the message without asking a single question, following instructions blindly as if it were second nature. Yet from the very moment she did, a gnawing sense of dread had settled deep in her stomach, a quiet but persistent rumble of anxiety that she couldn't shake. It was as though her body knew before her mind could catch up that she had just made a terrible mistake. The thought of deceiving her friend, leading them astray without even knowing what consequences lay ahead, all because she was too afraid to stand up to someone like Ramses—a little, pathetic bitch—made her stomach churn. The more she thought about it, the more nauseated she became, as if the weight of her betrayal was physically manifesting within her.

A deep sense of guilt gnawed at her, as if she instinctively knew something terrible was about to unfold, and it would be her fault. Now, as ██████████  stepped the stairs up to the plane, dark thoughts of what would really happen as soon as they stepped onto the plane surfaced. It would blow up. They would separate █████  They would send them to a prison. She wanted to think Ramses just really wanted her out of the palace and would do anything to keep that so.

  █████ waved goodbye to her, turning quickly and showcasing their melancholic smiles. They were just going back home at the end of the summer, basically. Not the total end of the world. She smiled back, although tears, real tears, pooled in her eyes. It was just the wind, she told herself. 

“Bye!” Nora shouted down just before they shut the plane door. “Love you!”

That was it. A tear rolled down her cheek, and she quickly wiped it away. 

“I know!” Alia shouted back, but the door had already closed tightly.

Turning from idle, hums and whirrs with a low rumble, to revved up for takeoff, the plane emits a loud, consistent roar. The engine produces a deep, powerful roar that increases in intensity as the aircraft steadily accelerates. 

Alia turns around so her back fronts the plane. She crosses her arms close to her chest, and allows the weight of her head on her neck to fold forward. All energy deflates out of her; like punching an airbag.

As the plane flies, she hears a steady, deep drone, punctuated by the whine or whistling sound of the turbine blades. A gust of wind from the takeoff swoops her hair up and down, and she anxiously tames the stray strands. 

Haider walks over to stand next to her, still waving away the plane. They face opposite directions. 

“Are you crying?” Haider asks, his face spread in disgust. “Stop it.”

Alia remains silent— ignoring her brother completely, as he lacks the emotional range to express true guilt. He’s a man, after all. Her deep upset prevents her from acknowledging Haider’s dumb comments. She doesn’t know what exactly he did, but whatever he’s done, it's enough for her to be pissed at him. As soon as she realized Lottie and Haider hadn’t given each other their farewells she knew he did something. Because Lottie is forgiving, too forgiving. And if Lottie hadn’t forgave, he must’ve really fucked up. 

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Haider scoffs. “She’ll be back soon enough.”

At this, Alia whips her head up to him. “What do you mean?”

Haider smiles knowingly. “You’ll see.”

She pinches his arm and he yelps, eventually slapping her hand away from him. 

“What the hell did you do?” Alia seethes, her eyebrows furrowing in suspicion. 

He shoves her in response, and she stumbles back, shocked at his aggressive behavior that has replaced all passiveness. 

“I did this for you, too,” Haider snaps cryptically. “Fucking bitch. You don’t get to order me around. I’ll be your king someday, treat me like it.”

Alia stares at him in shock and disappointment for her once-kind brother. This is not the Haider she knows. It’s as if a dark fungus has overtaken his body, like some evil entity has possessed him into acting exactly like Davina and Ramses. She’s all alone now, in this battle of political war, the only one with some semblance of empathy. 

“I could be queen, too,” Alia murmurs under her breath. 

“Yeah, right,” Haider scoffs. 

She turns to face him, so he can see it in her eyes that she’s being honest. 

“There’s a progressive movement for me to be queen now that everyone has found out I exist,” she unfolds a crumpled paper from her pocket and hands it to Haider. “I’m technically the rightful heir to the throne. I was born before you.”

He peers down at the paper. Front and center is a black and white paparazzi photo of Alia in the car, with a call to action to have her instated as the rightful ruler. She found one of the servants carrying the anti-propaganda in their pocket, and confiscated a piece for proof. No, she doesn’t desire to rule a nation, but at least she has some stake now in how all of this plays out.

“This is a conspiracy, anyway,” he scoffs. “You are far from rightful, Alia. You’re an illegitimate bastard. I’m the king’s son. I have a birth certificate. You do not.”

“Fine,” she shrugs indifference. “But you underestimate the power of the Egyptians. I know them, I’ve been among them. I have seen the poorest parts of this country, I have seen tragedies that you’re privileged enough to be sheltered from, golden boy. If anyone can rally the people, it’s me.” She steps up closer to him. “I’m not a pawn, but I’ll be an opponent if you make me be one, Haider.”

His hands twitch as he straightens his jacket, a tightness in his jaw betraying the calm he tries to project. He stands still, shoulders rigid, but the subtle tremor in his fingers hints at the unease beneath the facade.

“Ramses’d kill you if you tried anything. He could claim you’re trying to corrupt the country with your womanly, hysterical claims.”

She pats him on the back harshly and passive-aggressively. 

“Or I could kill him,” she says bluntly, a sudden boost of confidence moving through her. “I’m a saint to the people standing next to you all.” He clenches his jaw, but she continues. She points her pointer finger up at him in a fist. “I’ll find out what kind of deal you struck with Ramses to get yourself out of this pile of shit in regards to Lottie. Oh, and if you do anything to Nora, I’ll kill you myself.”

“I would never.” He catches her wrist with a closed fist. “You do a horrible job at staying out of shit you shouldn’t stick your nose in.”

“It’s what makes me so productive,” she says. “Most of the time. I couldn’t stop you from choosing her over Lottie.” 

He inhales deeply. “I did what I needed to do.”

“Oh yeah? Because I remember, just months ago, before we even came to this hell-on-earth, that you said you would rather cut your own dick off than marry Davina and rule this god-forsaken country.”

“Things change,” Haider asserts sternly. 

“That much is apparent,” she scoffs. “So what? I know what you did. I know you. Let me guess here, you dumbass piece of shit. You brought Lottie here because you felt bad her family disowned her. You forgot what life was like before the Institute, before school, and you let your dick and your nativity bring her here. You were angry at Davina at first, but you let her seduce you. And you let Ramses talk you out of being with Lottie to be with Davina instead, and Ramses convinced you that you would never be able to rule Egypt if you were with a white girl like Lottie, despite the question if Ramses will even step down from being a ‘temp’ king at all. But you still have feelings for Lottie, and you can’t let her go. So you’ve been leading her on, all the while getting engaged, conspiring with Davina, and letting the bitch convince you that being king is what you truly desire. But it’s not. It’s what she desires, and you go along with it, because you’re infatuated with her, too, and so you’ve allowed her to change you into her fantasy. Oh yeah, and the fact that you feel like you owe her for covering up the fact that you. Murdered. Baba.” 

Haider’s eyes widen and he slaps his hand against her mouth. 

“Would you shut the fuck up?” he panics. “How the hell do you know that? Did Ramses tell you?”

She licks his hand and he pulls it away in disgust.

“Alia!”

“So, it’s true.”

She pauses for a moment. Then, her hand raises, and promptly strikes Haider across the cheek. He reaches up, and lightly places his fingers on the tendered area, but he doesn’t fight back. His only smart decision, Alia thinks.

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

“I was drunk,” Haider admits. 

“I’m drunk half the time, and I don’t go around killing Baba, you… ugh, Haider! You’re so stupid. So, so stupid. What goes on up there? Why the fuck did you tell Davina, and not me?”

He stares at her. “You just found out I killed Baba and you’re just angry at me for not telling you, and telling Davina instead.”

“I would’ve strangled the bastard myself if I had enough courage,” she scoffs. “But Haider, do you not realize what you’ve done? I’m asking you, actually. This is not a rhetorical question. Do you realize all the shit you’ve caused?”

He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“Of course it does!” She throws her hands up expressively and counts on her fingers. “You’ve jailed  █████ , had half of the servants fired, had an innocent woman tortured, invited batshit crazy spies into the castle, betrayed Lottie, betrayed me—”

“Just drop it, Ali,” Haider interrupts. “What’s done is done.”

She stares at him, flabbergasted by his ignorance, but something deeper strikes her—a slow, dawning realization. An epiphany. His apparent lack of remorse, the casual shrugging off of responsibility, is disturbingly familiar. It hits her like a wave, sharp and cold. This mindset, this evasion of guilt, is the very one she once nurtured in herself, convincing herself that forces beyond their control dictated their lives, shielding her from her own accountability. Now, seeing that same hollow justification take root in him, she feels an unsettling churn in her gut. It’s as if she’s looking into a mirror, but what reflects back is rotten—decayed by self-deception and denial.

What can she possibly say to make him see the truth? Is there any combination of words, any argument, any plea that could pierce the thick armor of ignorance he’s wrapped himself in? She wants to shake him, force him to look into the abyss of his own choices, his own guilt, and own it for once. But as she watches him, his indifference etched into his face, she feels powerless. How can she correct his skewed sense of morality when it was she who once showed him how to slip free from its grip? Is there even a way to untangle this knot, or has she lost him to this convenient numbness?

It seems to her that all the standards she thought they shared, all the values they once upheld, have evaporated like the desert heat as soon as they set foot back in Cairo. This place, this city, has eroded him, or perhaps it has only revealed what was always lurking beneath the surface. She wonders if it's not just him that’s changed, but if she, too, had been shaped by these same forces, and Cairo has merely exposed the truth neither of them wanted to face.

Her utter disillusionment translates into a sharp pain in her chest. Through this whole war, they had changed. Faced much different choices, much different challenges. And it buried Haider deeper into himself, but allowed Alia out of that cave, into the light. 

“It’s not too late,” she says gently. “It never is. You can still make things right.”

His gaze softens, but his breath catches. 

“I’m not going to fight you for the throne,” she admits. “But I’ll help you clean all of this mess up. I’ll help you make amends.”

“Amends?” he murmurs. 

She nods hopefully. In his eyes, she notices a glimpse of belief, a glimpse of remorse. She pulls on his hands persistently. 

“Come on, Habibi,” she insists.

His eyes flash in surprise; she never calls him that. But if there were any time to show her brother some compassion, now would be it.

“No, there are no amends,” he pulls his hands away. “I have to go.” He turns, straightens his button-up, rolls his shoulders back, and confidently walks away from her.

“What are you planning?” she calls out after him. 

He ignores her.