Chapter Three #4
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.