Two Careers.
Two Lives.
One Pen Name.
G Chacon is what happens when a doctor who spent decades at the edge of life and death sits down with a city manager who spent decades watching institutions work — and fail — and they decide to write it all down.
AG Chacon is not a single author. It is a partnership.
The name belongs equally to Chavez and Shultz — a husband and wife who met somewhere between medicine and municipal government, built a life and raised six children, and eventually found that the stories they had accumulated across their combined careers were worth more than the professional discretion they'd exercised for years.
Chavez was born in Albuquerque, New Mexico. He trained as a physician and spent his working life in emergency medicine — the discipline of rapid decisions, of presence at the edge, of understanding the body's fragility not as an abstraction but as the daily texture of a job. He is drawn, as a writer, to threshold places: the space between life and death, between memory and forgetting, between the person you were before loss and whoever you become after.
Shultz built her career in journalism and public administration before moving into executive and municipal management. She spent years navigating the real architecture of city government — its councils and budgets, its competing interests, the gap between what institutions claim to be and what they actually do. She is also an award-winning visual artist, and the same formal attention she brings to composition on canvas she brings to structure on the page. Her eye for what hides beneath polished surfaces is what gives the thrillers their bite.
They chose a shared pen name not to obscure their individual voices, but to honor something that has always been true: the best of what they write has come from thinking together.
Life Off the Page
Chavez and Shultz live in Coto de Caza, in Orange County, California — a place they chose for its trails, its community, and its proximity to the kind of coastline that clarifies things.
They share their home with two dogs: Hobbes, a Cockapoo with an opinion about everything, and Parker, a Welsh Pembroke Corgi who takes his job very seriously. Between them they have six children and two grandchildren — a family large enough to populate a novel, and which occasionally does. Anyone who has read the thrillers closely will recognize the texture of a large, complicated, warm family in the margins.
They cook dinner for too many people, take long walks, and have strong opinions about wine country. All of which are apparent to anyone who reads the books.
Why We Write
We write because the lives we've lived — in hospitals and city halls, on trails and coastlines, inside grief and alongside joy — left us with more than we could hold quietly.
We write thrillers because the corruption is real, the stakes are high, and dark comedy is sometimes the only honest response to how institutions behave. We write memoir because grief deserves a language that doesn't flinch from what it actually feels like — not the edited version, not the version that resolves cleanly, but the version you live.
We write under a shared name because the work has always been both of ours, even when one of us is doing the typing.
If you've found your way here, we suspect you already know that some stories need to be told. We're glad these ones finally are.
Stories Don't Begin at Chapter One
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