The anonymous author behind the bestselling Halos and Heathens series, the one who’s taken the internet by storm for the past two years, is none other than Nora Robertson, a first-year Creative Writing major who, until last week, was just another face in the back row of a class you might be in.
If you think some of the characters or scenes in the book seem familiar, well, of course they are.She has based characters off people she knows in real life, including friends, family and even her enemies.
I mean, can you blame her?Keeping an identity like this hidden – especially when your writing has sparked entire fandoms, ending in a major multiple-book deal with a film adaptation in the works – takes a lot of risk.I’m sure there is a certain appeal to being anonymous and all, as you can call out whoever you want, whenever you want: haters, trolls, someone who pissed you off.Fame looks different when you’re building it behind a screen.
Nora didn’t just write under a fake name – she built an entire persona.Nora Robertson – known online as Valiant Vixen – is recognised online as being mysterious, edgy, sexy and unapologetic.She has clapped back at critics, written thespiciest of spice scenes and aired out the dirty laundry of those she holds nearest and dearest.
Meanwhile, Nora in real life?You mean … the quiet girl who keeps to herself, who spends her days writing in the dark loneliness of her bedroom, who is more invisible than not, is the face behind this Valiant Vixen?You mean to say, the girl who has had such miserable luck in her own love life she coerced her friend’s brother into a fake relationship, since she wasn’t able to achieve it on her own?
Pathetic?Yes.Desperate?Absolutely … but hopefully it makes for a good story.
Now … I know what you’re thinking.Is posting this article fair?Maybe not, but remember, despite these books being fiction, they are based on very real people.The question is: Do they have a right to know that their friend, possibly their family member, is out exposing their secrets to the world?
So, next time you’re chatting away with a friend, a family member or even a stranger, remember what you say to people and how you treat them – it might turn into a bestselling novel or show up on the big screen.
Famous people aren’t always far away.
Sometimes, they’re sitting right next to you.
I try to delete the story with the link to the article when suddenly my page refreshes and I’ve been booted out of my account.My mouth falls open as tears swell in my eyes, making my vision blurry.At first, I think it’s just a glitch.I tap the Instagram icon, like I’ve done a thousand times before, but instead of my feed, I’m staring at a login screen.My stomach crampspainfully.I try my password.It doesn’t work.I frown, retyping it slower this time.It still says it’s wrong.A tiny knot starts to form in my chest as the panic sinks in.
I exit the app and try my other social media accounts.The same thing happens.I’m logged out.I hit the reset link, but the email never comes, even though I must refresh the screen ten times.My heart drops.Someone has attached a new email to my account, meaning I can’t access anything.I try again, desperately this time – email recovery, backup codes, anything – but it’s like someone’s erased me and replaced me with a stranger.A stranger who now has everything I’ve posted, everything I’ve shared, every message, every DM, every photo.
I stand up, my phone still in my hand, my fingers shaking.This isn’t just a hack.It feels like someone has climbed into my life, cracked it open, and is doing everything in their power to tear me down, exposing me for everything I spent years building – and hiding.
My stomach twists.I have over one million followers who Riley now has access to.Who knows what she is going to do with that.My mind turns to the worst case scenario of her sharing our conversations, private information about me, or even worse, somehow scamming my followers.At this point, I wouldn’t put it past her.
Please God, let this be a nightmare.
The room around me is quiet, but I feel as if everything is too loud: the soft whirring of the ceiling fan as it pushes the blinds lightly into the windowsill, my heartbeat, my breathing, the thoughts slamming around my head as my worst nightmare becomes my reality.
I can’t breathe as my knees buckle and I sink to the floor.My phone is on the rug in front of me, its screen still lit up with notifications.Messages.Mentions.People saying my name.My real name.
They know it’s me.All the vulnerable words and stories I’ve shared about myself, exposing people in my real life for things they’ve said and done to me, the explicit, detailed scenes … everyone knows they have all come from me.People will suspect I’ve written aboutthem.I was bold and cut-throat with some of the things I mentioned.I mean, a lot of it was word-for-word quotes of things people have said to me, words that cut me deep and hurt me for a long time, but as a people-pleaser and someone who hates to create waves, being attached to my books is the worst thing that could have happened to me.
My chest tightens and my hands are shaking.I don’t want to see the influx of notifications.I don’t want to know what they’re saying.I don’t want to deal with any of this.
Tears soak my cheeks and my t-shirt.I curl into myself, arms around my knees, trying to disappear into the floor.I want to take it all back.I want to erase every line I’ve ever written, every book, every character, every part of me I thought I could keep hidden behind a screen.I want to scream.
‘Stop,’ I whisper, staring down at my phone screen that keeps brightening every few seconds, accompanied by a series of vibrations.
But it doesn’t.
And right now, it feels like it never will.
I keep my head down as I walk through campus.
I’ve hidden away in Zayden’s house for a week, but my leave of absence is up and life must go on.I have lectures to attend, tutorials to get through, assignments to complete.All of this doesn’t stop because my life has fallen apart.
Checking my social media and crafting posts was such a big part of my life and now that it’s been stripped away from me,I feel lost.I reported that my account has been hacked, but nothing has been resolved yet.
I’m sure they’re not, but it feels as if every pair of eyes is swivelling in my direction.I know there are so many people who would not have seen the article or have any clue who I am, but it doesn’t change me feeling as if everyone is staring at me.A girl points at me, whispering behind her hand, and I cast my eyes down.
The bag filled with my textbooks feels too heavy.Every step feels louder than it should, my Converse scraping on the cement beneath me.
‘Is that the girl from the article?’I hear someone ask as I walk past a group.
I want to disappear.I want to sink into the pavement, but instead, I keep walking.Past the library, past the coffee cart, past the building where no one looked twice at me a week ago.I’ve always been impeccable at being invisible, and now it feels like suddenly everybody knows who I am.
