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)
“Should we write what we know, basically,” I summarize.
“Oh yeah. I had a good answer for this before the rant. But yeah, sure, we could describe emotions and reactions better if we lived through each situation we ever write about. But how boring would books be if all authors did was write the things they’ve experienced and felt? It would be so limiting. I’m not here to write a biography. I do this to use my imagination. It’s as much of an escape for us as it is for you guys.”
“Agree,” I say. “But I think every writer questions this themselves. Right?”
Nora waves off my comment like it doesn’t apply to her. “I don’t question it,” she says confidently. “We’re storytellers. Our job is to imagine lives beyond our own. If we had to live everything we write about, we’d be too busy having affairs with hot cops and chasing down murderous mothers of cheerleaders to actually sit down and write the books.”
I chuckle at her candor, the tension in my shoulders easing just a fraction. Nora’s eyes skim the screen again, and she reads off another question, clearly enjoying this back-and-forth.
“Here’s a fun one: ‘If given the chance, would either of you willingly experience all the things your characters have ever gone through? Like the tornado that killed . . .’” Nora stops reading the question and says, “Spoiler alert, not finishing the rest of that sentence. But . . . hell yes,” she says adamantly. “I think a tornado would be exciting. And I just finished writing a book about a hockey player falling in love with his agent. Sign me up. I’ll take that romance any day.”
“Ditto. Sign me up. For the hockey player, not the tornado.”
“What about Carrie’s life?” Nora asks, referencing her favorite character of mine. “Would you live that one?”
I put that poor character through hell, but I can’t say I wouldn’t have liked to experience it before writing it. It does make me wonder whether that book could have been even better if I truly knew the misery she was feeling. “You know what? Yes. I would do anything if it meant I would be a more confident writer. A better writer. I’d live through all my stories if it meant you guys would enjoy them more. Believe them. Five-star them.”
There’s a playfulness in my voice about the five-star part, but I’m being very serious. If living through these dramatic, heart-wrenching moments could make me a better writer, why wouldn’t I? Sometimes I wonder if I’d get closer to the real emotions I’m trying to capture if I let myself live a little more recklessly. My current life is boring, predictable, and not at all worth writing about.
“Well,” Nora says. “Next time you’re in New York, we’ll go cop hunting and see what happens.”
We both laugh, but the question persists in the back of my mind long after that section of the conversation moves on. A writer asks Nora if she’ll continue a series she says she stretched out two books too long. A reader asks us when we’re going to write a collaboration.
“Never,” we both say immediately.
“We have too many solo deadlines as it is,” Nora says. “Also, that’s the kiss of death for authors. It’s rare to find two authors whose friendship survives it.”
“Yes, we like our friendship too much to risk it.”
We answer four or five more questions, with Nora still expertly filtering. I watch her face, her eyes scanning the comments, and occasionally she’ll give a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head before moving on to the next question. She’s keeping her promise. People aren’t saying anything rude, or if they are, I’m blissfully unaware.
This really is easier than I thought. My responses are still a little more curated than they used to be, but the initial tightness in my chest is starting to loosen. I feel like the more I get back into this, the more candid and relaxed I’ll become.
Nora is carrying the conversation, drawing me in with her infectious energy, and the familiarity of our banter slowly begins to resurface. The ease of our old live sessions, the feeling of just talking to Nora, starts to overshadow the awareness of the thousands of eyes watching.
I find myself relaxing into the rhythm, focusing on Nora’s questions, on the friendly tone of the comments she reads aloud. It’s like a tiny, safe bubble, a controlled exposure to the world I’ve been hiding from. Maybe this is the answer. Maybe doing things like this, gradually easing back into the public eye on my own terms, in a space that feels safe and familiar, will actually help. It’s not the public forum I dread, anyway; it’s the lack of control, the vulnerability to untamed negativity. But here, with Nora as my shield, I’m almost enjoying it. The conversation about realism, about the importance of imagination versus experience, even the playful jabs about dating cops . . . it all feels like stepping stones back to the comfortable routine I once had.