Chapter Three #2
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.”