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, eventhough 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, butFourth Wingis 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 themchannelsanymore? Is that outdated?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 feelrealwhen I’m writing it. But I’m not sure anything can feel real if I haven’t lived it. Maybe I need to switch tofantasy and give romantic suspense a break. Either that, orIshould 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. “Realdoesn’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 andused against us for clickbait. I can see it now—the headlines tomorrow will say something likePetra 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 wedon’tknow? 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.”
