The words hang in the air, heavy and significant.
A year to the day.
My mind reels. A whole year since the film adaptation of my last novel released. A year since my world turned upside down, since the public scrutiny became a suffocating blanket.
I, the author who used to churn out two books a year with effortless grace, haven’t even been able to finish the one I started eighteen months ago, nor have I been able to face live questions since the last live video I did ended so badly. Why my publishers thought it would be a good idea to do a live stream with the biggest bookstore in New York City the day after the movie released is beyond me.
Well. It’s not beyond me, actually. That’s what publishers do. That’s what authors do. It’s standard publicity. Live streams just don’t usually end in disaster with the author crying and running to the bathroom.
God, I’m still embarrassed.
I barely have time to react to the memory because Nora is switching to FaceTime. I see her face, and she’s giving me a look through our phone screens. I don’t really know what the look conveys; I just know I don’t like it when I get it.
“Do this.Please.I think if you see that there are still people out there who believe in you, it’ll inspire you.”
“Nora, they’re going to be mean.”
“You’re right, they probably will be, but you won’t see it because you aren’t going to look at the comments. Leave it to me, okay?” shesays. “I’m going live. You can hang up if you want, but I don’t think you should.”
I’m reacting like someone is asking me to bury a body for them. It’s freaking Facebook, for Christ’s sake.Suck it up, Petra.
I quickly run my fingers under my eyes, hoping to wipe away any leftover mascara smudges from the day.
Our readers were used to seeing us like this, though. Unpolished and real, usually in the middle of the night when inspiration (or in my case, frustration) struck. Nora and I used to go live on a whim all the time, mostly because we had smaller fan bases that were much more positive.
But the bigger I started getting, the meaner the questions became. And that was before the latest drama with my leaked text exchange.
For a while, our lives were a regular thing, so much so that we started monetizing them and counting on the paycheck to cover a few bills. Our late-night live videos were surprisingly popular on TikTok, gaining us more readers than any marketing strategy ever had. Writers tuned in because we were honest about the creative process—how hard it can be, how frustrating it is to write a sentence that feels right one minute and wrong the next. We talked about the days when we wanted to quit, and it seemed to resonate. I believe our transparency gave people comfort, made them feel like they weren’t alone in their struggles. And it wasn’t just writers—readers loved it too. They got an inside look at the making of our books long before they hit the shelves. Nora and I shared just enough to keep them interested, a line here, a plot point there, dropping hints that left them buzzing with anticipation.
I guess, in a way, it was like giving them insider access, a peek behind the curtain that they wouldn’t get anywhere else. They didn’t even mind the spoilers—they just wanted to be part of the process.
But then, a year ago, I stopped. Nora still goes live, but it’s just her now.
“No TikTok, I promise,” Nora says. “Just your Facebook group, and your group is private, so unless they’re in the group no one will see this.”
I can hear her hope building, though mine is laced with pure dread as I pull my laptop in front of me.
“Nora,” I say in a pleading voice. “I don’t think I can—”
“Just focus on me.” Nora’s voice cuts through my thoughts, calm and reassuring. “And on the camera. I’ll vet every single question, Petra. You’ll see how easy and familiar this is, and it’ll make you feel so much better. You know better than anyone that nothing motivates us more than the readers. And you’ve cut yourself off from them for way too long. This is going to help you write, I promise.”
I take a deep breath, try to smooth my hair a little, and open my group. I wait as Nora cues up the live video and invites me to join.
After getting a glimpse of my shadowy face on the screen, I jump up and flip on the kitchen light so my screen won’t be so dark. The harsh overhead light flickers for a second before illuminating the room, casting long shadows against the walls. It’s not flattering, but it’ll do.
Just as I sit back down, we’re live.
There’s no countdown, no time to second-guess my appearance or what I’m going to say.
When Nora and I first started doing these live sessions, it felt a little awkward—like we were performing for an invisible audience. The pressure to be entertaining, insightful, or even just coherent was always there, however mild it was. But now, after a year of only Nora being on-screen, and my long absence, that pressure feels like it’s going to make me combust.
“And ... we’re live!” Nora says. “You guys, I was finally able to nail Petra down with her busy schedule! She’s here!”
I wave. And love that she makes it seem like I’ve been too busy for these, when all I’ve been is too terrified.
“Petra, I have missed you so much, you have no idea. How’s life? Anything interesting to share?”
We both laugh, knowing the questions were rhetorical. Everyone knows how my life has been. But I answer with “Oh, you know. Same ol’ same ol’.”
