Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
The audience erupts into immediate applause. I feel instant relief at the reaction, despite knowing once this Q&A hits the internet, there will be a myriad of opinions on what I just said. But finally saying my piece without throwing anyone under the bus while doing it feels good. The same can’t be said for Allister, but for all I care, he can continue parading around on podcasts and calling me difficult all he wants. Because the truth is, I am going to be difficult if another adaptation happens. I’m going to fight tooth and nail for the story the readers supported, and I don’t mind having the reputation Allister is out there giving me. It’s probably better that I do. I’d rather have adaptations I’m proud of than adaptations that don’t even resemble their original forms.
The woman who asked that question thanks me, but then pauses before handing the microphone off to someone else. She brings it back to her mouth and says, “You used to be more active online, but then disappeared for a while. We thought you gave up. I just wanted to say thank you for not giving up.”
“I did give up,” I say quickly, cutting off the applause. People’s reactions are mixed. There’s confusion on some of their faces. “I mean, I know that wasn’t a question, and thank you for saying that, but I do want to clarify that I did give up.”
I straighten up in my chair, preparing to continue answering the nonquestion. I don’t know how to put what I want to say into words, or if I even should. It almost feels too vulnerable to be sharing with a room full of strangers, but without this room full of strangers, I wouldn’t be here. So I speak honestly.
“I wish I could say I’ve developed an impenetrable skin being in this industry, but I haven’t. Sometimes the negativity can be too overwhelming, and all I can do is hide from it. And yes, I’ve read the self-help books, I’ve tried just ignoring it, I’ve tried therapy, I’ve tried it all. But I find myself still reacting to things I read, and sometimes I need a break from those reactions. I think it’s okay if you aren’t someone who can just let everything roll off without it seeping into your heart just a little bit. I don’t mind admitting I don’t have that kind of resilience. I show up when I’m mentally capable, and I’ll interact when I’m emotionally stable enough to. But my mental health is precious to me, and as much advice as people give me, nothing anyone has said to me so far has cured me of feeling the sting of a hit every now and then. And I’m sure I’ll continue to give up as I move through life. But as long as I keep starting over, I’m okay with being a fallible human.”
When I finish speaking, there’s another loud burst of applause. The woman who asked the question thanks me, and then hands the microphone to the next girl in line. I glance off to the side of the stage and see Nora standing there, watching me with a look of pride. She gives me a thumbs-up, and her reassurance puts me a little more at ease.
“I was going to ask about the movie, too, but I guess you covered that,” the next girl says. Her comment is met by a round of laughter. “First of all, I love your books. My name is Christian, big fan. My whole book club is here.” She gestures toward a group of women all wearing matching shirts.
I use the break in speaking to reach for the water bottle on the floor next to my chair. I look back at the girl just as she asks her question. “I was wondering if you have any advice for aspiring writers.”
I nod as I unscrew the lid to the water bottle. Just as I’m bringing it to my mouth for a sip, I pause. At first, it’s just a flicker of recognition, a face in the crowd that pulls me in like a gravitational force.
But then I freeze.
My eyes lock on him. On Saint. He’s sitting a few seats behind the woman with the microphone. The room around me seems to shrink in an instant, like it has just run out of air. He raises his hand with his eyes locked on mine. He wants the microphone.
The room is silent, waiting for me to answer the question I was just posed. What was the question?
“Google,” I say, my voice strained. “Google is your best friend. Every question about writing has been answered online. It’s just a matter of finding the answer that inspires you.”
I take a quick gulp of the water. Oh, God. I feel myself starting to sweat as she hands the microphone back a couple of rows. She reaches it out toward him. No. He stands up confidently as he takes it from her, his presence commanding my attention, even though every fiber of my being screams for me to look away. To run.