“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 thatadaptation 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 reasoningbehindme 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 peopleImade up inmyown 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 habitof 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.
Chapter Four
“It will be okay,” I repeat to myself as I tear the plastic off my second 5-hourEnergyshot of the day. It’s my writing ritual.
Well, it’s not so much a ritual as it is a really,reallybad habit.
I avoid any type of soda or other carbonated beverage because it upsets my stomach, but for some reason, I can shoot a 5-hourEnergyshot first thing every morning and it doesn’t have a single negative effect on me. It just puts the pep in my step that coffee otherwise would. What makes it worse, though, is that by lunch, I convince myself I need fivemorehours of energy, so I’m up to two a day now.
I’m not sure it works that way—that two of them will give me ten hours of energy—but I’ve conditioned my brain to think it does, and now I can never be fully convinced I’m at my best until I’ve consumed both, and I can’t be productive until I have them. Sometimes I drink them at the same time, which means soon, I’ll start adding a third one later in the day.
Which, by all definitions, is an addiction.
I’m just waiting to give them up until either my heart gives out on me, or I retire, but as long as I’m here and forced to still work, 5-hour it is.
I prefer the strawberry banana flavor. They’re all pretty terrible, but it’s just a shot, so I hold my breath and down my second shot of the day. I toss the empty bottle into the trash can just as someone knocks at the front door.
