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)
“Caught a raccoon in the trap!” he yells across the backyard. He holds up what looks like a floppy dead animal, and my sympathy for the poor creature seeps in. “Sorry if I scared you!”
I manage a weak, wobbly smile and a small wave back, my heart still trying to settle from its impromptu sprint. The lake is public—anyone can be out there—but I find it odd he would choose to be out there when he has a renter in this house. I hit the button to lower all the shades, and just as I’m about to turn away from the window, my phone buzzes, startling me again. I glance at the screen. Nora.
Shit. I forgot I was supposed to call her once I got settled.
“Hey,” I say, my voice still a little shaky.
“Okay, so my idea,” Nora says, her voice brimming with an almost frantic energy that buzzes through the phone line, a stark contrast to the quiet panic I just experienced.
“What now?” I ask, my brow furrowing. “Please tell me it’s not another macramé owl kick. My office can’t handle any more of your craft projects.”
Nora laughs, a bright, unburdened sound. “Not a macramé owl, though that’s not a bad idea. I was getting really good at those. No, I mean I have an idea to help your situation. But I need you to trust me.”
I sigh, a long, weary sound. I know that tone. It usually precedes a suggestion that will be either incredibly brilliant or utterly terrifying. “Nora, what are you talking about?”
“Your private group,” Nora begins, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “I think we should go live in it. Just us, and the few thousand people we have always trusted implicitly not to screenshot our bad hair days.”
My breath hitches. “Go live? Nora, are you insane? I am traumatized by people online. What if someone shares it outside the group?”
“So what if they do?” Nora’s voice is sharp now, cutting through my anxieties. “Honestly, Petra, you really have to stop caring so much. Do you think other famous authors care about social media? Do you think they obsess over every comment, every insult, every word they write that could end up a potential screenshot?”
There’s a beat of silence on my end. Then, hesitantly, I say, “Um. Yes. Yes, I do think that.”
Nora actually snorts. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” she concedes. “But it’s time, Petra. It’s been a year since you stopped doing the live videos with me. To the day.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and significant.
A year to the day.
My mind reels. A whole year since the film adaptation of my last novel released. A year since my world turned upside down, since the public scrutiny became a suffocating blanket.
I, the author who used to churn out two books a year with effortless grace, haven’t even been able to finish the one I started eighteen months ago, nor have I been able to face live questions since the last live video I did ended so badly. Why my publishers thought it would be a good idea to do a live stream with the biggest bookstore in New York City the day after the movie released is beyond me.
Well. It’s not beyond me, actually. That’s what publishers do. That’s what authors do. It’s standard publicity. Live streams just don’t usually end in disaster with the author crying and running to the bathroom.
God, I’m still embarrassed.
I barely have time to react to the memory because Nora is switching to FaceTime. I see her face, and she’s giving me a look through our phone screens. I don’t really know what the look conveys; I just know I don’t like it when I get it.
“Do this. Please. I think if you see that there are still people out there who believe in you, it’ll inspire you.”
“Nora, they’re going to be mean.”
“You’re right, they probably will be, but you won’t see it because you aren’t going to look at the comments. Leave it to me, okay?” she says. “I’m going live. You can hang up if you want, but I don’t think you should.”
I’m reacting like someone is asking me to bury a body for them. It’s freaking Facebook, for Christ’s sake. Suck it up, Petra.
I quickly run my fingers under my eyes, hoping to wipe away any leftover mascara smudges from the day.
Our readers were used to seeing us like this, though. Unpolished and real, usually in the middle of the night when inspiration (or in my case, frustration) struck. Nora and I used to go live on a whim all the time, mostly because we had smaller fan bases that were much more positive.
But the bigger I started getting, the meaner the questions became. And that was before the latest drama with my leaked text exchange.
For a while, our lives were a regular thing, so much so that we started monetizing them and counting on the paycheck to cover a few bills. Our late-night live videos were surprisingly popular on TikTok, gaining us more readers than any marketing strategy ever had. Writers tuned in because we were honest about the creative process—how hard it can be, how frustrating it is to write a sentence that feels right one minute and wrong the next. We talked about the days when we wanted to quit, and it seemed to resonate. I believe our transparency gave people comfort, made them feel like they weren’t alone in their struggles. And it wasn’t just writers—readers loved it too. They got an inside look at the making of our books long before they hit the shelves. Nora and I shared just enough to keep them interested, a line here, a plot point there, dropping hints that left them buzzing with anticipation.