CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
FOURTEEN MONTHS LATER
The email arrives while I’m in the shower.
I’ve been expecting it. My phone’s been on full volume for two days. When I hear the chime, I leap out, wrap a towel around myself, and try to make out the message on the fogged-up screen.
Claire’s note is polite but firm.
Lila,
Thank you for your bravery. This story is everything I dreamed it would be, and I truly believe it is one that will make a huge impact on the world, as well as the market. As you know, we want to amplify your voice, and as the team behind your story, our only goal is to do that. That said, you’ll see several suggestions here for softening some passages to avoid alienating readers who are still coming to terms with these issues. Whether you or I like it, we live in a world where Althea Ralston’s name carries weight. The entire team is behind you and ready to make this book a tremendous success, but we do ask for your trust aswe navigate this sensitive topic. Strategic diplomacy is the key to ensuring the book’s success. We hope you’ll agree, and we can’t wait to see the story with the suggested changes.
I feel sick. Dizzy. I sink down on the bathroom floor, opening the door to clear out the steam. There, I open my manuscript—my story, my pain, my trauma—to see red lines glowing like scars. It’s a storm of tracked changes and suggestions.
My first sentence, the one I saved all this time:Her name is a shadow that lingers. She remains, and we disappear into the darkness.
Only now it’s:Some names are like shadows that linger. Through it all, they remain. Others disappear into the darkness.
I barely breathe as I realize my blistering critique of the university’s complicity will be replaced with watered-down language about institutional challenges. My head pounds as I see the detailed accounts of Ralston’s theft must be reduced to vague interpersonal conflicts. Any mention of Dean Carlyle’s involvement, including the recounting of his overheard confession, is required to be removed entirely. There’s a whole section about survivors’ trauma that she wants me to change, morphing it into a bland overview of common hardships faced by women in academia. It reads like a textbook, like I’m meant to define these things rather than put a face to them.
When I reach the end of the manuscript, I’m completely dry, my towel stiff, hair flat. I drop my phone on the floor and sit back, numb.
What have I done?
I lean against the cabinet behind me. This isn’t my story anymore. It’s a sanitized version that could belong to anyone who could’ve been hurt by anything. My voice has been strippedof its edge. The language has been filtered. There’s no rage left, no pain, only a recounting of events that don’t even feel familiar.
I stand, moving to the kitchen where I pour a cup of tea. I wish I could call my mom, but she’s in Chicago. It’s her first vacation since Dad passed, and I refuse to burden her with this.
I want to call Isabelle, Ayo, and Miriam to tell them they were right, that I wish I’d listened, but it’s too hard. We haven’t spoken since I ignored their advice, and I have no idea if that’s because they’re mad at me or because they’re not paying attention.
Two hours pass before I craft a reply. It’s late. There’s a chance she won’t see it tonight, but I need her to know where I stand.
I’m really sad to see all of these changes. I do understand you have to protect Black Elm, but I thought we were on the same page about this story and its intent. I can’t in good conscience agree to most of these changes. I will not dilute my pain to appease readers or the market. I will take a careful look at your suggestions and give them deep consideration, but please know that I will remain faithful to the truth I presented in the first place, regardless of the risk.
I hold my breath and hit Send, then head to my room to get dressed.
Claire’s reply comes before I have the chance.
Lila, you know the thing I appreciate the most about you is your commitment to the truth. Your unflinching honesty is what brought me to your work, and I will always admire you for it (can you come talk to mymother-in-law for me? haha). But as I mentioned in my notes, books that are too confrontational don’t sell. We have to toe that line, and it’s our team’s job to know where that line is, not yours. We would never expect you to water down your truth based on your own discretion, but we do ask that you trust us to do our jobs here. You are the expert at writing, but we are experts at marketing and sales. Without sales, your message won’t reach the people who need to hear it most. We must be strategic. Please let me know if you’d like to have a call sometime next week to discuss this further. In the meantime, sleep on it. It’s totally normal to feel discouraged and anxious over edits, but most authors find they feel better after they’ve sat with them for a few days, or even weeks. If you absolutely feel unable to proceed, we can discuss next steps in canceling the contract and returning your advance. But I’d hate to lose the opportunity to tell this story together. Let’s talk next week, okay? Send me your availability.
I stare at the screen, the weight of her words sinking in. The women’s voices echo in my head—their advice, my mistrust of their warnings.
Am I becoming what I despise?
Most of my advance has already been spent on Dad’s funeral, Mom’s vacation, and paying down my debt. I have absolutely no way to return it.
But if I publish this memoir with the changes she’s asking for, if I change the story to protect the guilty, does that make me any better than Ralston?
Will I just be another woman complicit in silencing women—including myself—all in the name of personal success?
Two days later, I’m staring out the window of my tiny apartment, walls plastered with notes, photographs, and fragments of memories I’ve forced myself to relive. Some of these women’s stories will be removed from the memoir altogether. Some will be so watered down they’re unrecognizable. In all of them, Ralston will remain nameless. Simply, The Professor.
I squeeze my eyes shut, a single phrase repeating in my head.Have I learned nothing?
Over the next month, I complete the edits with my nose plugged, eyes closed. This isn’t the dream. This is the nightmare. This is where I hoped I’d never be again.
Then again, maybe this is all we get.
