My DMs fill up with fellow authors congratulating me. This time, I don’t even need to apply to join the 2021 debut group—I get sent an invite to join their Slack group that very same afternoon. I do so and arrive in the Slack to yet more congratulatory messages. Most books have a lead-up of two years prior to publication, so everyone here knows everyone already, and I am a newcomer. But I don’t feel intimidated. I’ve been part of a debut group before, and I have weathered the worst possible outcome that could ever happen to a writer and come out ofit triumphant. I know all the pitfalls of being part of such a group, and I know how to avoid them. My posts in the various channels are measured; I never click Enter without checking my messages, asking myself every single time: If this were to be screenshotted and shared publicly, would I be okay? If the answer is anything aside from a confident yes, then I don’t post it.
Two months later, I hand in the finished draft to Julia, who reads it in three days and sends me a three-page letter, two and half of which are her gushing over what an amazing job I’ve done. The changes she requests are nothing compared to what I went through with Lindsay, and I get to work with enthusiasm. Meanwhile, the marketing and publicity teams have already started working on my book. I am sent to a professional photographer for a full day of shooting, and they hire a hair and makeup team, as well as a costume person who puts me in a bright-yellow dress that ends just above my knees. The resulting photos make me look vulnerable, sincere, and hopelessly likable. After some back-and-forth, the team picks one photo and uses it as the cover. “I have a book cover, and the book cover has me on it,” I write in my gratitude journal. When I show Mom and Dad, they actually get a little misty eyed. They don’t go as far as crying, of course—this is still my parents we’re talking about—but that’s about as much emotion as I could’ve hoped for from them, and this, too, I jot down in my journal. There are so many things to be grateful for these days.
Six months before my book release, the publicity goes into full gear. My publicist has me booked for dozens of interviews, some of them for podcasts, some for radio, some even for local news channels, and others for magazines. I think of the external publicist I hired. She would never have been able to get half these things for me.
I am nervous at the first couple of interviews, but after that, I quickly get used to them, and I find that, to my surprise, I am actually good at talking about my book. It’s one of many things I am learning about myself, that maybe I was never an introvert. Maybe I was always an extrovert, but years of trauma in Haven’s hands turned me into anintrovert, and now that I’m free of her, I can finally embrace my true nature. During these interviews, I joke easily with the hosts, and our chats are filled with easy laughter. When they ask me a question that’s too tough, I say, “Oof, I don’t think I’m equipped to answer that.” I don’t apologize; I don’t give an explanation. I am comfortable with setting boundaries.
Then they tell me that they’ve booked me an interview with—my god—Good Morning America.
“Normally,” Julia says, “they’d fly you to New York for the live interview, but since we’re in a pandemic, it’ll be done virtually. I hope that’s okay with you?”
It takes me a moment to reply because my brain has short-circuited at the news. When I can finally speak again, I say, “Wait, what? With ... theGood Morning America? The show? That everyone watches?”
Julia laughs. “Yes!”
“Oh my god!” I scream. “Yes! Of course, I’m okay with it! Oh my god!”
The morning of the interview, I wake up at 4:00 a.m. and begin getting ready, steadfastly curling my hair one lock at a time before applying my makeup with the care of a neurosurgeon. I log on a good hour before the interview is due to begin and sit there practicing my smile.
The interview is a lot easier than I’d expected. The hosts, Marie and Kevin, are warm and inviting. Their questions are friendly ones, nothing that makes me uncomfortable or wary, no gotcha moments.
Marie is in the middle of a question about my baking when she stops mid-sentence. Her gaze flicks to somewhere beyond the camera, and she says, “Uh, hold on, everyone, I’m just getting some breaking news.” She presses on her earpiece and listens to it for a few moments.
My curiosity is building, but I don’t feel nervous or anxious at all. I wonder if the breaking news is something COVID related. Maybe they’ve found a cure for it? That would be pretty cool.
But when Marie looks back up, it’s obvious that what she’s about to say isn’t anything positive. She clears her throat, her expression somber. “I just received news that Haven M. Lee passed away last night.”
The world falls away from me. Everything fades into a fuzzy background as I struggle to absorb what Marie has just said.
“Fern, are you all right? Fern?” Kevin says.
I blink, jerking my attention back to my laptop. “Uh,” I manage to cough out.
“I am so sorry,” Kevin says. “This must be such a hard thing for you to hear.”
Marie shifts in her seat, and it’s as though I can see her stance changing in that very second, going from a friendly show host to a hungry reporter who senses a good story. “Wow,” she says, “yeah, you must be having a ton of emotions right now. Would you like to talk about them?”
My mouth opens, but no words come out. I’m still not quite grasping the reality of what’s happening. Haven is dead? How? No, that doesn’t matter right now. I need to focus. Haven is dead, and I am finding out onlive TV. This is all my fault. No. It isn’t. I merely wrote the truth. It’s not my fault that Haven couldn’t face the truth. She was a bully, and she got a taste of her own medicine, and it isn’t my fault at all. Yes, it is. If I hadn’t published that op-ed ...
“Fern?” Marie presses. “We are here for you. Anything you’d like to share with us ...”
I blink at the screen and grapple with my mind, trying to force it to pay attention to the interview. My instinctive reaction is to tell Marie I’m fine, but I manage not to do that somehow. Because I am not fine. I’m not. “I ...” I say.
Marie leans forward, her eyes wide and expectant.
“I don’t ...” My voice trails away. What do I say? What should I say? “I’m sorry.”
Marie makes an empathetic frown. “Oh, Fern, we’re all very sorry for this loss. Haven Lee was ... well, how would you describe her, Fern?”
Thankfully, Kevin reaches out and taps Marie on the arm. He leans toward her, covering his mic, and says something in a low voice. Marie sighs and nods.
“We apologize to everyone,” Kevin says to the camera. “But Fern’s publisher has requested to cut this interview. Thank you everyone for tuning in, and thank you, Fern, for talking to us about your upcoming book. The title isI Didn’t Mean to Do That, and ...”
I don’t hear the rest of Kevin’s words. I stare blankly as they wrap up the interview and log me off the call. The moment I’m off camera, I grab my phone and do a search on Haven.
And sure enough, the first hit is a news article with the headlineDisgraced Author found dead in Apparent Suicide. A picture of Haven that I recognize as her author photo is published under it. I speed-read the article.
Haven Michaela Lee, 30, was found dead in her parents’ San Marino home yesterday. Officials believe it was suicide and are not looking into foul play. Lee was the author of the bookShe Asked for It, which had sold to Wallace Books in a seven-figure deal. However, an op-ed revealing Lee as a bully was released, and Lee was dropped by her publisher. Friends and family said she became depressed with suicidal ideation and chose to end her life.
