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)
“Okay, I have to ask this one,” Nora says. “Alex Brown wants to know if you’ll ever do another movie adaptation since this last one seemed to be stressful.”
“I hope so,” I say with honesty. “I did enjoy that the book was being adapted. I just didn’t enjoy the process, and how many people I had to work with and speak to. Writing a book is a solo mission until the editing phase, but working on a film is like welcoming a hundred people into your office with you every day. I bowed out of that as fast as I could. It was not for me.”
I do sometimes wonder—if the result had been different, and there was no fallout, would I have felt differently about the process? I guess I’ll never know, and neither will readers, because I’m never giving that adaptation a platform again. Not even to explain my side of things, or why I texted Allister what I texted him.
Because yes, Caleb was cut from the film, and yes, I did send that text. But it was the reasoning behind me sending that text that I still grapple with. Caleb was integral to the original story. I fought for him at first when they mentioned cutting his character. I argued his necessity, but not with the fire I usually have.
The truth is, I didn’t trust myself enough. I thought the people in Hollywood who have made countless movies knew better than I did. At first, I did what I could, tried to articulate Caleb’s importance and depth, but there was a certain detachment as I advocated for him in those endless production meetings. I presented my case, explained his arc, but deep down, a part of me felt like a fraud, fighting for a character with words born from feelings of inadequacy and incompetence.
In one of the meetings, Allister brought up several of the negative comments regarding Caleb’s character, reading them out loud to the entire table of creatives. He said, and I quote, “The character was written poorly in the book. He can’t hold up to the brevity of the script. It could be detrimental to this film.”
I didn’t hear much after that. I was so mortified after that meeting, I went home and started contemplating the character more in hopes I could come up with reasons to fight for him harder in the next meeting.
Some reviews hinted at a lack of emotional depth in his character, or that he felt less vital than the others. There were murmurs on forums, questions about why his storyline felt underdeveloped compared to the rest.
Of course, in the midst of all that were all the people who absolutely loved and adored Caleb, but their words were whispers to me, and the negative words were more like screams.
My issue has never been with accepting criticism. My issue is that I tend to believe the criticism is the only truth, and find it much more difficult to believe the positive feedback.
By the end of that night, I was convinced the people in that room, including Allister, were right. That they knew better than I did about people I made up in my own head.
I caved over a text exchange with Allister. In the next meeting, Caleb was ultimately deemed expendable, a narrative casualty, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that my own lack of conviction, possibly born from a lack of lived experience, played a role in his demise.
I just thought I didn’t write him well enough. And I’m still not convinced I did.
These thoughts are still swirling in my mind, loud and persistent, when Nora wraps up the video. The conversation about “living the story” has opened a new avenue of self-doubt, focusing the spotlight squarely on my perceived shortcomings.
Yet, paradoxically, the live session itself wasn’t the nightmare I anticipated. The fear I carried thanks to past experiences feels a tiny bit lighter now. Nora, in her unflappable way, proved that with the right safeguards, the reconnection with my readers doesn’t have to be terrifying.
I attempt a smile for the camera, tell the readers good night, and then give Nora a quick, tired farewell. But the moment I close my laptop, a wave of relief washes over me, so intense it almost feels like physical release. I sit in the quiet, staring at the blank screen, and the doubts about my writing keep gnawing at me, a persistent little worm in my brain.
However, the broader fear of the internet, of the public, feels less like a monster under the bed and more like a grumpy old man who’s been effectively muzzled. Maybe this private group, this controlled environment, is exactly what I needed to ease back into the book world.
A baby step, perhaps, but a step nonetheless.
I turn off the lights, the soft click of the switch echoing in the stillness of the cabin. I double-check the locks on the doors, the habit of someone who’s spent enough time alone to know it’s better to be safe than sorry.