Chapter 16
Sry so early but a fun media opp popped up for this morning
We need to hop on it
Podcast called WriteOn
Craft podcast for Peloton enthusiasts
LMK ASAP?!?!
Sure, I’d joined the Peloton craze during the pandemic, but I wasn’t aware this particular niche group existed.
I opened my podcast app and searched for WriteOn and then lay in bed for half an hour listening to clips of some episodes.
I had worried the interview might be conducted while we rode our Pelotons, which would be a hard pass for me, but nobody seemed all that out of breath.
The host, Jessica Monroe, was an aspiring writer with 845 rides completed.
She sounded funny and engaging. I’d always meant to connect with more writers.
This seemed a reasonable place to start, so I texted Bronwyn a thumbs-up.
A few hours later I clicked on the Zoom link, grateful that one of the graphic designers at work had made me a Zoom background with my book cover framed as artwork hanging on a wall in a fake living room so no one would see all the cardboard boxes stacked up behind me in my real living room.
“Thea, it’s so nice to meet you. We really appreciate you grabbing this spot today,” the host, Jessica, said.
“I appreciate the opportunity,” I said, checking myself out on the computer screen, relieved the pink crewneck short-sleeve sweater worked well with the fake background and didn’t wash me out too much.
But the necklace Max had given me looked weird with the neckline, so I tucked it inside.
At the thought of Max, I caught myself making a dopey grin. Jeez. Focus.
“And then we’ll add my intro in post, so we’ll jump right in once we start recording. Do you have any questions?” Jessica asked.
Crap. What had I missed? “Um . . . can I ask why we’re recording video for a podcast?”
“We’ll be pulling a couple of clips from the video to promote the episode on our socials.”
Jessica did a soundcheck, and then she hit record.
We traded some innocuous banter, and she started with a couple of generic writing questions that I would have expected for this type of interview: Where do you like to write?
At my desk. Helpful craft books? I kept a list on the bulletin board on the wall above my monitor, so I rattled off a few, and we chatted about our mutual favorites.
But for her next question, she lurched in a completely different direction. “You also wrote The Long Way Home, but as T. J. Newhouse, right?”
Bam. This was the first interviewer to tread anywhere near an off-limit topic, and it felt like a red-card-level foul.
Should I ask for a timeout? Were there timeouts in podcasts?
I was versed in the various techniques to skirt questions I didn’t want to answer.
But I was too stunned by the writer-on-writer crime Jessica had committed to bridge or pivot.
In the uncomfortable silence, my brain performed a million calculations.
Should I disconnect and blame it on poor Wi-Fi?
Pretend I hadn’t heard the question? Or, radical thought: What if I just answered it honestly?
Max had been so understanding when I told him the truth.
He hadn’t run away. Far from it. Was it possible I’d been underestimating everyone else, too?
Maybe I really could let go of this forced separation between T.
J. Newhouse and Thea Packer. Besides, how big could the universe of Peloton riders who were also writers and podcast listeners be?
With last night’s emotional high still fresh, I threw caution to the wind.
“Yup, that’s me,” I finally responded.
“Why did you publish Love You to Mars and Back under a different name?” Jessica pressed.
“Well, when I sold my first book, I wasn’t married yet. Newhouse was my maiden name. Packer is my married name.”
“I read that your husband died shortly after the launch of your debut. I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks,” I said, hoping this would be the end of the topic.
“I was surprised it took you five years to publish another novel,” Jessica continued. “Not to be crass, but what happened kind of seems like it would have provided you with a lot of material.”
“For a lot of writers, the writing process is an effective way of processing grief or dealing with traumatic experiences,” I said.
“But my husband’s sudden death nearly destroyed me.
And to have it happen in a manner that so closely mirrored the plot of my novel increased my distress in ways it’s hard to describe.
I became terrified that whatever I published next might happen, too.
In fact, I had already written another manuscript and received an offer after The Long Way Home came out.
But that story revolved around a young child’s kidnapping, and I was newly pregnant.
I was too afraid to put that story out into the universe.
What if real life imitated my novel again?
It seemed like too big of a risk, so instead of writing, I focused on raising my daughter. ”
“Wow,” Jessica said. “You really turned down a book deal? What did your agent say?”
I smiled nervously. “Um, let’s just say she wasn’t thrilled, but that’s the thing about a great agent-writer partnership. Once I explained my fears, she was supportive. She’s not only focused on publishing the next book, she’s looking at my entire career.”
“What made you take the leap and publish again?” Jessica asked.
“I grew up wanting to be a writer more than anything in the world. Having my debut published was a dream come true. But if you’re not writing, can you still call yourself a writer?”
“Hmm . . . that’s a good question. Most writers usually pick a genre and stick with it. In your case, your first novel was literary fiction.” Jessica paused. “I have to say, a switch to romance seems a bit, um, radical?”
I laughed. “If what I wrote had any chance of happening, I thought romance would be a safer bet.”
“Wait, are you being serious? That’s why you switched to romance? Because of a superstition?”
The skepticism in her voice felt like a flashing red light, but for some reason I ignored it.
“Well, all things being equal, why not create a story with the happy ending of my wildest dreams—where my husband comes back to me and meets our daughter?” I said it with enthusiasm and a smile, hoping to really sell it.
“Anyway, my agent believed that the most important thing was that I keep writing, and if this was the best path forward for me, then so be it.”
“So the hero of your book is based on your late husband . . . fascinating,” Jessica said. “I read that he was a professional tennis player, so how did you end up with an astronaut as the love interest?”
“He didn’t start out as an astronaut. In the version I initially pitched to my agent, the love interest was a tennis player,” I said.
“But my agent gave me a great piece of craft advice. She said I should make the character larger than life. I tried out a lot of different ideas before I landed on an astronaut, but I made sure he still embodied many of my favorite characteristics of my husband.”
“I love that! So, any signs of romance or astronauts in your life?” Jessica asked.
“That’s actually a funny story. The day my book launched I did meet someone special. At the dog park, of all places.” My mind urged me to stop right there. My lips had other ideas. “And I know this is going to sound bananas, but he’s an astronaut.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. And . . . get this . . . he loves tennis!”
“Wow, you really are the seer of contemporary fiction.”
On my monitor, I could see the color drain from my face.
“Anyway, just in case, I think my next book will be about world peace.” We did all the weird Zoom goodbye things and I couldn’t click on the “Leave” button fast enough.
The last thirty minutes had flown by and I had appeared to converse like a quasi-normal human, but my brain was so flooded with adrenaline it was difficult to know for sure.
The specifics of the interview were fuzzy, but the feeling that I had done something very wrong was crystal clear. I had to call Harper—stat.
“Harper, it’s Thea,” I said. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
“Oh . . . what’s going on?” Harper asked.
“Bronwyn set up a last-minute podcast. Some writing podcast called WriteOn. Anyway, this woman Jessica asked me like every no-no question. Why did she do that? Didn’t Bronwyn tell her the rules?” Sam The Dog turned circles next to my chair in response to my hysteria.
“Didn’t you pivot or bridge or make a joke to change the topic?” she asked.
“Um . . . no. I answered everything,” I whispered. “Once I answered the first question, it was like I couldn’t stop. You have to do something,” I beseeched her. “Tell them they can’t post it. Harper, I sounded like a lunatic.”
“Sit tight. I’ll call Bronwyn. I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think,” Harper said.
This wasn’t Harper’s first ride on the Thea crazy-train. But it was the first time I’d confessed on the record that I had written a book hoping to bring back my dead husband. It was one thing to confess all this to Max; it was quite another to say it publicly. Harper had to kill it.
Two hours later, Harper called back.
“Bad news. They already put the entire video of the interview on YouTube,” she said.
“It was a podcast. I agreed to do a podcast. She never said anything about using the whole video,” I said. “Isn’t that a breach of something? Like the podcaster code of ethics?”
“I don’t think that’s a thing, and unfortunately, Thea, you agreed to be recorded.”
“What did Bronwyn say? Why did that woman ask all those off-limits questions?”
“Bronwyn was shocked. She said she sent the usual list of interview conditions. Maybe because it was so last minute, the interviewer didn’t read the document,” Harper speculated. “So, um, I watched the video. Were you going to tell me about the astronaut?”