CHAPTER THREE
Writer’s block can suck a dick.
It’s too dark outside and I am depressed and I have made zero progress. And I am so very hangry.
I’ve harrumphed my way through the last eight hours I’ve been in this cabin, frustrated by anything and everything. I become such a bitch when I’m not able to be productive. It’s why I have to be alone when I write. I’m saving everyone I love from the wrath of me with writer’s block.
I already miss the sunsets from my usual cabin, the slow descent of day, the way dusk allowed for reflection and peaceful contemplation there.
But here, without the sunset, it’s as if my inspiration is slipping away with the light, and I’m left grasping at shadows that refuse to form into coherent thoughts.
Yes, I am blaming the sun and lack thereof for my inability to write.
Just like I’ve blamed the weather, my digestive health, Mercury in retrograde, caffeine, men.
I adjust my posture and lie to myself as I tap away at the keyboard, trying to convince my brain that I deserve every award I’ve ever been given, every positive review I’ve ever received, every book I’ve ever sold.
But the voice that tells me I’m just a lucky fraud is always the loudest.
I hate impostor syndrome. I hate that I believe the negative reviews over the positive. I hate that I’m questioning whether or not I can actually write a realistic book.
I glance at the screen and read over what little I’ve written.
The sterile scent of the interview room, a mix of old coffee and stale air, did lile to calm the franc beang of Reya’s heart. Across the table, Detecve Miller’s voice was a low, steady rumble, asking quesons about Sarah, about the last me Reya saw her. Each word felt like a fresh cut, tearing open the wound of losing her best friend. Yet, a part of Reya, a deeply unseling and unwelcome part, registered
the way the detecve’s uniform stretched across his broad shoulders, the dark intensity of his eyes as he scribbled notes. She hated herself for it, for the fleeng spark of aracon that flickered within her, a betrayal of Sarah’s memory. How could her mind even entertain such thoughts when her world felt like it had shaered into a million pieces? The guilt was a heavy stone in her gut, compounding the grief she was already struggling to carry.
I stare at the sentences I just wrote, fully aware that my future self, probably still half asleep and fueled by lukewarm coffee, will declare them utter garbage and hit Delete.
This book isn’t so much a manuscript as it is a digital graveyard of my fleeting literary aspirations. Every word feels like a temporary squatter on the page, just waiting for its eviction notice.
I’m never going to finish this. At this rate, I’ll be stuck in this cabin- with-an-identity-crisis for an entire year, perpetually reworking the same five paragraphs while the cursor blinks at me like a tiny, judgmental oracle.
If cursors could talk, mine would be chanting, “You suck—give up,” just to really drive the point home.
Not that being hermetically sealed in this cabin is actual torture. I do enjoy the solitude. Always have. It’s why I rent these places, transforming into a temporary lakeside hermit multiple times a year, all to shed the suffocating skin of Sacramento. The city, bless its heart, often feels like a giant, noisy concrete hug I never asked for.
But here? It’s quiet, peaceful, and the air smells like pine and fresh water. So, you know, there’s that.
I need to embrace the power of positive thinking. Focus on the fact that these little escapes aren’t just getaways; they’re my mental therapy.
I push away from my desk, the cursor still blinking its silent judgment, and wander into the kitchen. The scent of stale coffee remains in the air, a testament to my earlier, more optimistic writing session when I was convinced caffeine could cure me. But then I was reminded how much I hate the taste of coffee.
I cross to the front door and open it to breathe in a rush of fresh air.
Outside, the world is a kaleidoscope of greens and browns, but all I can see
are shadows in the dark. I see something move in the distance, so I squint,
trying to pull it into focus.
I freeze when it moves again.
A shadow. A figure.
My heart leaps into my throat, a cold, sharp terror seizing me. I press myself against the door, my breath catching. This cabin is supposed to be my sanctuary, my escape. Not a stage for some backwoods slasher film.
But as the figure steps into a patch of moonlight, my terror deflates into a puff of embarrassed relief. It’s just Louie Longsetter.
He spots me standing in the doorway from his position by the lake and then gives me a friendly wave.
“Caught a raccoon in the trap!” he yells across the backyard. He holds up what looks like a floppy dead animal, and my sympathy for the poor creature seeps in. “Sorry if I scared you!”
I manage a weak, wobbly smile and a small wave back, my heart still trying to settle from its impromptu sprint. The lake is public—anyone can be out there—but I find it odd he would choose to be out there when he has a renter in this house. I hit the button to lower all the shades, and just as I’m about to turn away from the window, my phone buzzes, startling me again. I glance at the screen. Nora.
Shit. I forgot I was supposed to call her once I got settled.
“Hey,” I say, my voice still a little shaky.
“Okay, so my idea,” Nora says, her voice brimming with an almost frantic energy that buzzes through the phone line, a stark contrast to the quiet panic I just experienced.
“What now?” I ask, my brow furrowing. “Please tell me it’s not another macramé owl kick. My office can’t handle any more of your craft projects.”
Nora laughs, a bright, unburdened sound. “Not a macramé owl, though that’s not a bad idea. I was getting really good at those. No, I mean I have an idea to help your situation. But I need you to trust me.”
I sigh, a long, weary sound. I know that tone. It usually precedes a suggestion that will be either incredibly brilliant or utterly terrifying. “Nora, what are you talking about?”
“Your private group,” Nora begins, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “I think we should go live in it. Just us, and the few
thousand people we have always trusted implicitly not to screenshot our bad hair days.”
My breath hitches. “Go live? Nora, are you insane? I am traumatized by people online. What if someone shares it outside the group?”
“So what if they do?” Nora’s voice is sharp now, cutting through my anxieties. “Honestly, Petra, you really have to stop caring so much. Do you think other famous authors care about social media? Do you think they obsess over every comment, every insult, every word they write that could end up a potential screenshot?”
There’s a beat of silence on my end. Then, hesitantly, I say, “Um. Yes.
Yes, I do think that.”
Nora actually snorts. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” she concedes.
“But it’s time, Petra. It’s been a year since you stopped doing the live videos with me. To the day.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and significant.
A year to the day.
My mind reels. A whole year since the film adaptation of my last novel released. A year since my world turned upside down, since the public scrutiny became a suffocating blanket.
I, the author who used to churn out two books a year with effortless grace, haven’t even been able to finish the one I started eighteen months ago, nor have I been able to face live questions since the last live video I did ended so badly. Why my publishers thought it would be a good idea to do a live stream with the biggest bookstore in New York City the day after the movie released is beyond me.
Well. It’s not beyond me, actually. That’s what publishers do. That’s what authors do. It’s standard publicity. Live streams just don’t usually end in disaster with the author crying and running to the bathroom.
God, I’m still embarrassed.
I barely have time to react to the memory because Nora is switching to FaceTime. I see her face, and she’s giving me a look through our phone screens. I don’t really know what the look conveys; I just know I don’t like it when I get it.
“Do this. Please. I think if you see that there are still people out there
who believe in you, it’ll inspire you.”
“Nora, they’re going to be mean.”
“You’re right, they probably will be, but you won’t see it because you aren’t going to look at the comments. Leave it to me, okay?” she says. “I’m going live. You can hang up if you want, but I don’t think you should.”
I’m reacting like someone is asking me to bury a body for them. It’s freaking Facebook, for Christ’s sake. Suck it up, Petra.
I quickly run my fingers under my eyes, hoping to wipe away any leftover mascara smudges from the day.
Our readers were used to seeing us like this, though. Unpolished and real, usually in the middle of the night when inspiration (or in my case, frustration) struck. Nora and I used to go live on a whim all the time, mostly because we had smaller fan bases that were much more positive.
But the bigger I started getting, the meaner the questions became. And that was before the latest drama with my leaked text exchange.
For a while, our lives were a regular thing, so much so that we started monetizing them and counting on the paycheck to cover a few bills. Our late-night live videos were surprisingly popular on TikTok, gaining us more readers than any marketing strategy ever had. Writers tuned in because we were honest about the creative process—how hard it can be, how frustrating it is to write a sentence that feels right one minute and wrong the next. We talked about the days when we wanted to quit, and it seemed to resonate. I believe our transparency gave people comfort, made them feel like they weren’t alone in their struggles. And it wasn’t just writers—readers loved it too. They got an inside look at the making of our books long before they hit the shelves. Nora and I shared just enough to keep them interested, a line here, a plot point there, dropping hints that left them buzzing with anticipation.
I guess, in a way, it was like giving them insider access, a peek behind the curtain that they wouldn’t get anywhere else. They didn’t even mind the spoilers—they just wanted to be part of the process.
But then, a year ago, I stopped. Nora still goes live, but it’s just her now.
“No TikTok, I promise,” Nora says. “Just your Facebook group, and your group is private, so unless they’re in the group no one will see this.”
I can hear her hope building, though mine is laced with pure dread as I pull my laptop in front of me.
“Nora,” I say in a pleading voice. “I don’t think I can—”
“Just focus on me.” Nora’s voice cuts through my thoughts, calm and reassuring. “And on the camera. I’ll vet every single question, Petra. You’ll see how easy and familiar this is, and it’ll make you feel so much better.
You know better than anyone that nothing motivates us more than the readers. And you’ve cut yourself off from them for way too long. This is going to help you write, I promise.”
I take a deep breath, try to smooth my hair a little, and open my group.
I wait as Nora cues up the live video and invites me to join.
After getting a glimpse of my shadowy face on the screen, I jump up and flip on the kitchen light so my screen won’t be so dark. The harsh overhead light flickers for a second before illuminating the room, casting long shadows against the walls. It’s not flattering, but it’ll do.
Just as I sit back down, we’re live.
There’s no countdown, no time to second-guess my appearance or what I’m going to say.
When Nora and I first started doing these live sessions, it felt a little awkward—like we were performing for an invisible audience. The pressure to be entertaining, insightful, or even just coherent was always there, however mild it was. But now, after a year of only Nora being on-screen, and my long absence, that pressure feels like it’s going to make me combust.
“And . . . we’re live!” Nora says. “You guys, I was finally able to nail Petra down with her busy schedule! She’s here!”
I wave. And love that she makes it seem like I’ve been too busy for these, when all I’ve been is too terrified.
“Petra, I have missed you so much, you have no idea. How’s life?
Anything interesting to share?”
We both laugh, knowing the questions were rhetorical. Everyone knows how my life has been. But I answer with “Oh, you know. Same ol’ same ol’.”
“I know you’re having a writer’s getaway,” Nora says. “The place looks new. Did they remodel the one you usually stay in?”
I look behind me and around me, holding the laptop to give readers a view of the place. “Nope. Had to pick one on the opposite side of the lake this time. But look at this place. It’s insane.”
“Wow. Should have invited me,” Nora says.
“You know we never work when we’re together.”
“Yeah. Your fault, though. You’re always turning on some addictive murder series, and then we get caught up in watching every episode, and before you know it, our days are up and vacation is over.”
“Vacation,” I say with a laugh. “I wish. I can’t remember the last time I took a vacation.”
“Oh, don’t sound spoiled,” Nora says. “You’re in a sleek rental that isn’t your home. I don’t care if you’re working or not—at least you aren’t somewhere worse. Like here, in my apartment, having to listen to my neighbor fight with her ex over the phone every hour. Speaking of struggle, how is the writing going?”
I shrug, feeling the burden of my lack of progress settle in again. “I haven’t even been here for a whole day yet, but I can just feel my stagnation on the horizon. Eighteen months and I barely have twenty pages.”
Her brow furrows, and she tilts her head, her voice dropping into a more serious tone. “You need to talk through it?”
“I was about to go to bed when you called,” I admit. “Already shut off my brain for the night.”
Nora groans dramatically, throwing her head back. “I was hoping for a chapter or two.”
I smile, despite myself. “You and me both.”
Nora waves off my concerns with a dismissive hand. “You’re way too hard on yourself.”
I sigh, the familiar self-criticism rising to the surface. “I’m my own worst critic. Or at least I used to be.”
She rolls her eyes at me, something she’s done a hundred times when I get like this. “Did you at least decide on character names yet?”
“I did get that far.” I shift in my chair, feeling a little proud of the progress, as small as it is. “Cameron is the main love interest of the heroine.
He goes by Cam. The heroine will be Reya.”
Nora’s eyes light up. “Cam and Reya,” she says, testing the names out.
“I like those. Are they married, or do we get a meet-cute?”
“Both, in a way. Cam is married,” I say, hesitantly. “At least in the outline I wrote almost two years ago.”
Nora’s eyebrow rises. “Oh. Unexpected. A triangle?”
I hesitate, glancing off-screen for a moment as if the answer might be hiding somewhere in the shadows. “I don’t know. That’s how I had planned it, but . . . I might change it. You never know.” I originally outlined this
story before the backlash from the adaptation, and I think that’s part of what has me blocked. The fear that maybe I don’t know what I’m doing when it comes to writing about things I haven’t experienced.
“No, no, no,” Nora says, leaning forward toward the camera, her expression an animated betrayal. “You know love triangles are my favorite.
I want the triangle.” She’s whining now.
“Let’s just hope I get at least one character fleshed out, much less three. Then we’ll talk.”
“Deal. Okay, let’s take a question,” Nora says, her eyes squinting as she scans the screen. Like she suggested, I have the chat box minimized and leave the sifting up to her.
“Here’s one. Ally Panzano wants to know why this one has taken you so long to finish. ‘You’ve always been a fast writer,’” Nora says, reading off the question.
I lean back in my chair, wondering how to delicately approach this one. “If you’re looking for complete transparency, I’d have to say . . . the public attention. I’m not used to it. I don’t like it. Not even the positive attention.”
“It’s true,” Nora confirms. “She squirms just as much when she’s complimented.”
“I’ve always used writing as both an escape and therapy, and when you’re in it and enjoying it, you aren’t thinking about what comes after you finish writing. The book releases, the book tours happen, the interviews begin. I’ve never really found that stressful because I’ve always enjoyed the tours and release days. To an extent. I’ve never enjoyed the publicity, but the requests have been manageable. But now that my public image is amplified even more, everything that comes after the writing feels more fraught, so I stress about it more than I used to when things were less chaotic. The idea of finishing a book and writing THE END doesn’t feel like it’ll be an accomplishment. It actually fills me with fear that I’ll have to enter that next phase of publicity. And that’s what scares me now, because the publicity requests and content of the interviews have changed. And not everyone is born with a natural ability to speak in front of a camera, especially when you’re being asked to speak on more than just your books.”
Nora smiles at me. “Thank you for your vulnerability, Petra. That was a really good answer. Very honest. Okay, here’s another one. ‘Why did it sound like you’re hesitating to write the love triangle in this new book? Is it
because of what happened with the love triangle being cut out of the adaptation?’”
“Is that a real question from a reader, or is that a Nora question?” I ask, raising a brow at her.
“It’s a real one, I promise,” she says, laughing.
I’m surprised at how I’m not hating this so far. It feels like the old days a little, and with each moment that passes, I start to feel more at ease.
“I’m not sure. After the last one, I obviously took the criticism to heart. This book I’m writing was meant to be a love triangle also, even though it’s very different in every way. But I’ve never been in a love triangle, and they say write what you know. Maybe that’s where I went wrong with the last book. I guess I find it difficult writing something I’ve never experienced,” I say.
Nora lets out a laugh, a sharp burst of disbelief. “Bullshit,” she says.
“Your bestselling novel was about a woman who fell in love with an ex- convict. You’ve never dated an ex-convict.”
“Exactly. And several reviewers said it was unrealistic.”
Nora shakes her head, the look on her face a mixture of exasperation and fondness. “First of all, stop reading your negative reviews. Second . . . almost every negative review calls the book, or the characters, unrealistic.
It’s the go-to term for reviewers who didn’t like something. I personally don’t need every single thing in a book to be realistic. Dragons aren’t realistic, but Fourth Wing is killing it on the charts.”
“That’s intentionally unrealistic,” I point out. “It’s called fantasy for a reason.”
“Romantasy,” she corrects. “Whatever. I can still recognize a good story when I read one. Realism is overrated. Sometimes people just want to escape into something that feels impossible, like it could never happen in real life. That’s the beauty of fiction. Why do you think Lifetime and Hallmark are successful channels? They’re escapes.”
“Can we even call them channels anymore? Is that outdated? What are they now, apps? Services?”
“Don’t get me started on how much I miss DIRECTV—it’ll age me,”
Nora says. “Either way, the Lifetime and Hallmark storylines are some of my favorites. I could watch a cheerleader get murdered by a jealous mother a million times, and it still wouldn’t get old.”
I smile, but still feel the familiar tug of doubt. “You know what I really think it is? The primary reason I’m struggling with my writing?”
“Do tell,” Nora says.
“I want the story to feel real when I’m writing it. But I’m not sure anything can feel real if I haven’t lived it. Maybe I need to switch to fantasy and give romantic suspense a break. Either that, or I should take a break and go live a little. Do some dangerous, suspenseful shit. Get more life experiences under my belt.”
“The feeling people get while reading is what matters,” Nora insists, her tone more serious now. “Real doesn’t always mean it’s something you’ve lived. It just has to make people feel like it’s possible. That’s what you do, Petra. You make people believe in the impossible.”
I nod, letting her words sink in, even though I’m not quite convinced.
But that’s the thing about Nora—she always believes in me, even when I don’t believe in myself. And maybe that’s enough to keep me going for another day.
“What do you know about realistic versus unrealistic? You’ve never
dated an ex-con either,” I tease.
Nora laughs. “That’s what you think.”
I smile, but inside I’m battling the usual frustration. I wish I could believe the numerous five-star reviews over the negative ones. The praise is right there, outnumbering the criticisms, but sadly, I seem to focus on the negative way more than Nora does. It’s as if the negative comments hold more truth, like they’re somehow more honest or insightful, even though logically, I know that’s not true. Nora has always been better at brushing off the criticism, at trusting her instincts and her readers. Me, on the other hand, I tend to let the negative voices live rent-free in my head. But also, thanks to the notoriety the film brought to my career, I receive a lot more online scrutiny, so there is a difference. I used to have the same attitude as Nora.
“Maybe you should have an affair so you can really nail the emotions of your characters in this book,” Nora says teasingly. “Find a married man who reminds you of Cam and sleep with him.”
I laugh, but there’s a part of me that cringes a little at how freely she just said that in front of who knows how many readers watching us live. My heart flinches, a familiar tremor of fear in relation to how one casual comment could be misinterpreted, taken out of context and used against us
for clickbait. I can see it now—the headlines tomorrow will say something like PETRA ROSE WANTS TO FUCK A MARRIED MAN!
Nora never seems to filter herself, and it’s one of the reasons I love her, but it also keeps me on my toes, especially now. “Where am I going to find a hot cop while I’m secluded in the middle of nowhere?”
“He’s a cop? Wow, spoiler alert.” Nora grins like she’s got the perfect solution. “Maybe you should go somewhere a little less secluded. Start writing at Starbucks. Cops love coffee.”
“Maybe you should go to sleep,” I suggest. “It’s late in New York.”
“There are two hundred people firing off questions at us. Let’s answer a few first,” she says, glancing at the numbers ticking up on the live feed.
Her fingers scroll through the flood of comments and questions popping up on her screen. I fix my gaze on her face, avoiding even looking at the number of viewers. I hold my breath, waiting for the inevitable harsh word, the cutting remark that will prove my fears right. But Nora’s expression remains bright, unbothered. She’s a pro at this, even if it’s just our private group. She’s shielding me, I realize, just like she promised.
Her eyes light up when she sees one that grabs her attention. “Here’s a good one,” she says, leaning forward toward the camera. “This person asks, ‘Do you really believe a writer needs to personally experience a situation before they’re able to capture how a character would truly respond? Isn’t that what imagination is all about?’”
Nora looks at the camera expectantly, raising her eyebrows at me as if to say “This one’s yours.” I lean forward and fold my arms over the table, taking a moment to really think about it. The question feels heavier than most of the ones we get during these live sessions. It’s a question that has been haunting me for the past year, echoing in the silence of my cabin. And this one is a hard one to address because it feels more like a jab than a question.
“Impostor syndrome is a tough thing to navigate,” I say with a sigh.
“Books on writing tell authors to let our imaginations run free, but those same books tell us to write what we know. Well . . . what if we don’t know?
But we want to write it? And then we get it wrong?”
“But there’s really no wrong, is there? Every human responds differently to situations,” Nora says, her voice still calm, a steady anchor in my rising tide of self-doubt.
“I feel like I certainly got it wrong,” I say. “Look at the last year of my life.”
Nora raises a surprised brow. “Well. Since you brought up the elephant in the room,” Nora says, “I’d like to be able to address this if that’s okay with you.”
“Go for it. I’d love to hear what you have to say.”
“We write fiction,” Nora says. “For entertainment. I don’t understand how and when the fun got flipped on its head. You wrote a book, and that should be praised. Hell, you’ve written dozens of books. Fun, entertaining, sometimes emotional books. Why has the backlash gotten so severe for authors when a reader doesn’t agree with them, or hates their book, or their adaptation? It’s a book. It’s a movie. It’s not brain surgery. We aren’t saving lives.”
“Some might argue against that,” I say. “I mean, I get what you’re saying, and I agree with the first part of what you said. That it doesn’t feel as fun now that we’re getting reviews in more forms than just ratings on Goodreads and Amazon. Now people make videos and dedicate entire social media accounts to reviews, so we see it more. Readers are more involved and have more impact, but that’s also a positive thing. One good review that goes viral can change an entire author’s life in a lot of positive ways. But I think you’re wrong about books just being for entertainment. I personally think books and movies can be very powerful tools. They can change minds, behaviors, thought processes. And yes, they can save lives. I do believe reading can save lives.”
“Interesting,” Nora says. “Do you think books can ruin lives?”
What a great question. I’m not sure I’m prepared to answer it, but Nora gives me space to think about my response. “There are absolutely people who think books can ruin lives. That’s why books get banned. Do I agree with them? Not with banning books. But I do worry that some readers, especially the younger ones who are reading books meant for adults, don’t quite know where to draw the line between fiction and reality.
We’ve seen how the behaviors of a character we intentionally wrote to be evil can occasionally be excused by a reader. Does that mean the reader would excuse those behaviors in real life? I hope not.”
Nora slaps her hand on the table in agreement. “Yes! I swear, the number of people pleading for me to write a sequel to redeem that awful character from my first book makes me so sad for humanity,” Nora says.
“Don’t get me started on the complexities of humans and their morals. It fascinates me how one person’s experience and interpretation when reading varies so much from another person’s experience who is reading those same words. I’ll get emails from readers telling me a book was way too vulgar, and in the same day get an email from a reader complaining that the same book wasn’t edgy enough. It’s all so subjective. And confusing to navigate, especially when you’re reading these opinions that come through to you all day. We’re up, we’re down, we’re back up, we’re down again. And sometimes, the same people who say books shouldn’t be banned are the same people making a living off of saying certain books should never have been written. And then they go on to review in detail all the reasons why the book shouldn’t have been written and why the author shouldn’t be an author, but then their next post is a rant about the banning of books again.
Make it make sense! Which is it? Ban the books or just beat the author down until they can’t write anymore? And then some of them have the audacity to tag us in their rants as if we want to read about why we should quit our careers!”
Nora takes a deep breath after that tirade.
I don’t know what’s got her riled up, but I have a feeling not all the questions have been as safe as the ones she’s read out loud.
“Thanks for letting me get that out,” she says with a laugh.
“You’re welcome. Maybe we should go back to another reader question before we lose all our readers,” I tease.
Nora looks into the camera. “You know that wasn’t directed at any of you guys,” she says. “We love and appreciate our readers. We just don’t necessarily want to be tagged in the hate. Now, back to the question at hand.
I forgot the question at hand,” she says.
“Should we write what we know, basically,” I summarize.
“Oh yeah. I had a good answer for this before the rant. But yeah, sure, we could describe emotions and reactions better if we lived through each situation we ever write about. But how boring would books be if all authors did was write the things they’ve experienced and felt? It would be so limiting. I’m not here to write a biography. I do this to use my imagination.
It’s as much of an escape for us as it is for you guys.”
“Agree,” I say. “But I think every writer questions this themselves.
Right?”
Nora waves off my comment like it doesn’t apply to her. “I don’t question it,” she says confidently. “We’re storytellers. Our job is to imagine lives beyond our own. If we had to live everything we write about, we’d be too busy having affairs with hot cops and chasing down murderous mothers of cheerleaders to actually sit down and write the books.”
I chuckle at her candor, the tension in my shoulders easing just a fraction. Nora’s eyes skim the screen again, and she reads off another question, clearly enjoying this back-and-forth.
“Here’s a fun one: ‘If given the chance, would either of you willingly experience all the things your characters have ever gone through? Like the tornado that killed . . .’” Nora stops reading the question and says, “Spoiler alert, not finishing the rest of that sentence. But . . . hell yes,” she says adamantly. “I think a tornado would be exciting. And I just finished writing a book about a hockey player falling in love with his agent. Sign me up. I’ll take that romance any day.”
“Ditto. Sign me up. For the hockey player, not the tornado.”
“What about Carrie’s life?” Nora asks, referencing her favorite character of mine. “Would you live that one?”
I put that poor character through hell, but I can’t say I wouldn’t have liked to experience it before writing it. It does make me wonder whether that book could have been even better if I truly knew the misery she was feeling. “You know what? Yes. I would do anything if it meant I would be a more confident writer. A better writer. I’d live through all my stories if it meant you guys would enjoy them more. Believe them. Five-star them.”
There’s a playfulness in my voice about the five-star part, but I’m being very serious. If living through these dramatic, heart-wrenching moments could make me a better writer, why wouldn’t I? Sometimes I wonder if I’d get closer to the real emotions I’m trying to capture if I let myself live a little more recklessly. My current life is boring, predictable, and not at all worth writing about.
“Well,” Nora says. “Next time you’re in New York, we’ll go cop hunting and see what happens.”
We both laugh, but the question persists in the back of my mind long after that section of the conversation moves on. A writer asks Nora if she’ll continue a series she says she stretched out two books too long. A reader asks us when we’re going to write a collaboration.
“Never,” we both say immediately.
“We have too many solo deadlines as it is,” Nora says. “Also, that’s the kiss of death for authors. It’s rare to find two authors whose friendship survives it.”
“Yes, we like our friendship too much to risk it.”
We answer four or five more questions, with Nora still expertly filtering. I watch her face, her eyes scanning the comments, and occasionally she’ll give a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head before moving on to the next question. She’s keeping her promise. People aren’t saying anything rude, or if they are, I’m blissfully unaware.
This really is easier than I thought. My responses are still a little more curated than they used to be, but the initial tightness in my chest is starting to loosen. I feel like the more I get back into this, the more candid and relaxed I’ll become.
Nora is carrying the conversation, drawing me in with her infectious energy, and the familiarity of our banter slowly begins to resurface. The ease of our old live sessions, the feeling of just talking to Nora, starts to overshadow the awareness of the thousands of eyes watching.
I find myself relaxing into the rhythm, focusing on Nora’s questions, on the friendly tone of the comments she reads aloud. It’s like a tiny, safe bubble, a controlled exposure to the world I’ve been hiding from. Maybe this is the answer. Maybe doing things like this, gradually easing back into the public eye on my own terms, in a space that feels safe and familiar, will actually help. It’s not the public forum I dread, anyway; it’s the lack of control, the vulnerability to untamed negativity. But here, with Nora as my shield, I’m almost enjoying it. The conversation about realism, about the importance of imagination versus experience, even the playful jabs about dating cops . . . it all feels like stepping stones back to the comfortable routine I once had.
“Okay, I have to ask this one,” Nora says. “Alex Brown wants to know if you’ll ever do another movie adaptation since this last one seemed to be stressful.”
“I hope so,” I say with honesty. “I did enjoy that the book was being adapted. I just didn’t enjoy the process, and how many people I had to work with and speak to. Writing a book is a solo mission until the editing phase, but working on a film is like welcoming a hundred people into your office with you every day. I bowed out of that as fast as I could. It was not for me.”
I do sometimes wonder—if the result had been different, and there was no fallout, would I have felt differently about the process? I guess I’ll never know, and neither will readers, because I’m never giving that adaptation a platform again. Not even to explain my side of things, or why I texted Allister what I texted him.
Because yes, Caleb was cut from the film, and yes, I did send that text.
But it was the reasoning behind me sending that text that I still grapple with. Caleb was integral to the original story. I fought for him at first when they mentioned cutting his character. I argued his necessity, but not with the fire I usually have.
The truth is, I didn’t trust myself enough. I thought the people in Hollywood who have made countless movies knew better than I did. At first, I did what I could, tried to articulate Caleb’s importance and depth, but there was a certain detachment as I advocated for him in those endless production meetings. I presented my case, explained his arc, but deep down, a part of me felt like a fraud, fighting for a character with words born from feelings of inadequacy and incompetence.
In one of the meetings, Allister brought up several of the negative comments regarding Caleb’s character, reading them out loud to the entire table of creatives. He said, and I quote, “The character was written poorly in the book. He can’t hold up to the brevity of the script. It could be detrimental to this film.”
I didn’t hear much after that. I was so mortified after that meeting, I went home and started contemplating the character more in hopes I could come up with reasons to fight for him harder in the next meeting.
Some reviews hinted at a lack of emotional depth in his character, or that he felt less vital than the others. There were murmurs on forums, questions about why his storyline felt underdeveloped compared to the rest.
Of course, in the midst of all that were all the people who absolutely loved and adored Caleb, but their words were whispers to me, and the negative words were more like screams.
My issue has never been with accepting criticism. My issue is that I tend to believe the criticism is the only truth, and find it much more difficult to believe the positive feedback.
By the end of that night, I was convinced the people in that room, including Allister, were right. That they knew better than I did about people I made up in my own head.
I caved over a text exchange with Allister. In the next meeting, Caleb was ultimately deemed expendable, a narrative casualty, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that my own lack of conviction, possibly born from a lack of lived experience, played a role in his demise.
I just thought I didn’t write him well enough. And I’m still not convinced I did.
These thoughts are still swirling in my mind, loud and persistent, when Nora wraps up the video. The conversation about “living the story” has opened a new avenue of self-doubt, focusing the spotlight squarely on my perceived shortcomings.
Yet, paradoxically, the live session itself wasn’t the nightmare I anticipated. The fear I carried thanks to past experiences feels a tiny bit lighter now. Nora, in her unflappable way, proved that with the right safeguards, the reconnection with my readers doesn’t have to be terrifying.
I attempt a smile for the camera, tell the readers good night, and then give Nora a quick, tired farewell. But the moment I close my laptop, a wave of relief washes over me, so intense it almost feels like physical release. I sit in the quiet, staring at the blank screen, and the doubts about my writing keep gnawing at me, a persistent little worm in my brain.
However, the broader fear of the internet, of the public, feels less like a monster under the bed and more like a grumpy old man who’s been effectively muzzled. Maybe this private group, this controlled environment, is exactly what I needed to ease back into the book world.
A baby step, perhaps, but a step nonetheless.
I turn off the lights, the soft click of the switch echoing in the stillness of the cabin. I double-check the locks on the doors, the habit of someone who’s spent enough time alone to know it’s better to be safe than sorry.
The cabin is silent, save for the distant sound of the lake lapping against the shore, but I know that this is usually the time when the noise in my head is the loudest. It’s like my inner critic decides to take up permanent residence, reminding me of every flaw, every scathing review, every scene I’ve questioned, and now, every time I didn’t fight hard enough for a fictional character.
But for the first time in a long time, there’s a faint whisper of hope, a tiny voice suggesting that maybe, just maybe, I can find my way back to the words. The possibility that a little controlled exposure to my readers,
combined with the solitude, could be a good thing. It feels like a revolution, albeit a pocket-size one.
As I head to my bedroom, I think about tomorrow. I hope it’ll be a more productive day, that I’ll wake up with a clearer mind and a fresh perspective on this love triangle. And perhaps I’ll be a tiny bit less afraid of the online world, thanks to Nora and a carefully vetted live stream that
didn’t spontaneously combust.
It will be okay.
