“We writefiction,” 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 abook. It’s amovie. 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, theycansave lives. I do believe reading can save lives.”
“Interesting,” Nora says. “Do you think books canruinlives?”
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 absolutelypeople 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 ...hellyes,” 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. Abetterwriter. 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 reallyiseasier 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.”
