I WAKE TO A dull pounding behind my eyebrows, my throat so dry it feels burnt. Fridays are now a day off, a day for drafting my next novel, though I already know I won’t get any writing done. The champagne intake I’d so carefully monitored before my speech had been all but forgotten after it. Once the crowd thinned and only the diehards remained, the evening had devolved into debauchery. The yummy mummies had insisted on shots. My old roommate had taken to the stage to perform a raunchy dance solo. I’m not normally a big drinker, but I partied like I was in college. And now my forty-four-year-old body is paying for it.
A glass of cloudy water sits on my bedside table. (Theo, I assume? I have a foggy recollection of him pouring me into an Uber, helping me into the apartment, putting me to bed.) I reach for it, my mind drifting to the antics of the night as I gulp the tepid liquid. Despite my inherent discomfort with the spotlight, I’d relished it: the dancing, the laughter, the words of love, support, and admiration. I’d felt so happy, so worthy. And yet there is an ugly gray feeling pressing down on me, a malaise unrelated to alcohol’s depressing effects. The email.
Those hateful, accusatory words snake their way into my memory. As a high school counselor, I’m no stranger to abuse. It’s my job to break up fights, mediate vendettas, soothe disgruntled students angry at the world. I’ve been called horrible things to my face; I can only imagine what is said behind my back. But those insults came from a place of anger. Those kids were lashing out at an authority figure. The email is different.
The name is trapped in my mind like a wasp in amber: Ingrid Wandry. She’s the woman who bought my book, sat down to read it, and assessed it as “mindless garbage.” She has a right to her opinion, but why did she want me to know it? Maybe it never occurred to her that most writers are highly sensitive beings, and that attacking their book is like a physical blow. Perhaps she thinks AI robots devoid of feelings have already taken over. Or did she want to hurt me? Sending a disparaging email directly to a writer seems so extreme, so unnecessarily mean. Who does that?
Shaking off the memory, I drag myself out of bed and into the attached bathroom. My reflection is nothing short of monstrous, the remnants of Liza’s makeup smeared and garish. I wash my face, brush the fuzz off my teeth, and run a brush through my hair. Wrapping my robe around me, I move into the apartment. My place is “cozy” (in Realtor speak) but adequate for me—and Liza, every other week. It’s on the third floor, at the back of a squat building, a corner unit with windows on two sides. I bought it for the light that filters in through the trees, the leaves that tickle the glass in spring and summer making me feel like I live in a tree house. It was also the only place I could afford that was within walking distance of Adrian’s house. If Liza must grow up in two homes, we want them to be close together.
In the open kitchen, I find a cold pot of coffee, more evidence that Theo was here, that he spent the night, that he left early for work. Turning the machine back on, I spy my tiny purse discarded on the counter and dig my phone out of it. I have several congratulatory texts from family and friends who couldn’t attend last night’s celebrations, including one from my agent, Holly.
How was the party?!?!?
Holly and I have become friends over the past two years. After she signed me, we spent several months editing my manuscript, getting it ready for submission. When it sold to a big five publisher, I flew to New York to meet the team and Holly and I had lunch with my editor. That night, Holly took me to a quaint Italian restaurant in the West Village where we talked long into the night over red wine and espressos. My agent is younger than I am, she doesn’t have kids, and she lives in Manhattan, the center of the economic universe. (Vancouver, in contrast, is known for its exceptionally laid-back lifestyle and high marijuana use.) But we’re both divorced, both dating men with whom we have little in common (her boyfriend owns a butcher shop), and we share a dark sense of humor. Sometimes I wonder if our relationship is unprofessional—the gossip, the snarky jokes, the inappropriate conversations about Jason Momoa—but I can’t deny I enjoy it.
Amazing, I text back. So hungover.
My phone rings in my hand, Holly’s name on the call display.
“Hey, party animal,” she teases when I answer. “How was it?”
“I had a great time,” I tell her, rummaging in the freezer for a loaf of bread. Toast might help this queasy stomach. “A ton of people came out to celebrate. I felt really supported.”
“How many books did you sell?” Despite our friendship, Holly is an agent, a New Yorker.
“I think about fifty? I’ll check with the bookseller.”
“Great. Every sale counts.”
“I got an email from a reader…” I begin, closing the freezer door, but I trail off. I feel awkward, even ashamed. I know there’s no truth to Ingrid Wandry’s accusation, but what if Holly doubts me? What if the allegation plants a seed of suspicion?
“That’s a good sign,” Holly says. “It means readers are engaging with the book.”
“It wasn’t good,” I admit, removing a slice of bread from the bag. “It was horrible. This reader accused me of stealing stories from the students I counsel.”
“People are crazy.” Holly dismisses it. “Unfortunately, when you put your work out into the world, not everyone is going to love it.”
“This was more than not loving it. This was a serious accusation.” I drop the bread into the toaster. “Do I respond? Or should I ignore it?”
“I’d say ignore it, but that’s a question for your PR person.”
My PR rep, Olivia Lopez, is calm, confident, and capable. She will know how to handle Ingrid Wandry appropriately, but my stomach dips at the thought of bringing this issue to her. As a debut author, I want to be easy. I want to bring positivity, not problems and negative feedback. I want her to spend her time promoting my book, not troubleshooting my issues.
“Right,” I tell Holly. “I’ll talk to Olivia.”
“Don’t let it bother you,” Holly says. “Readers are going to love this book. And the next one.”
The pressure is subtle but there. My publisher has first right of refusal on the next book I write, and Holly hopes they’ll make an offer based on an outline and a few sample chapters. Unfortunately, between promoting Burnt Orchid, my day job, my daughter, and this hangover, I haven’t made much progress.
“I’m on it,” I assure her, and we say our goodbyes.
With buttered toast and reheated coffee, I sit at the small round dining table and scroll through my phone. I respond to texts from my mom, my sister, and a dear friend down with the flu. Next, I sift through emails from charities I support, clothing sales I might be interested in, petitions related to others I’ve signed in the past, searching for anything work-related. There is one from my publicist, Olivia, confirming a Zoom interview with a library in Cleveland. And below it is the email from Ingrid Wandry.
I open it, hoping that in the cold light of day, the message won’t seem so horrible. My launch party was a heightened environment. Perhaps I’d taken Ingrid’s words the wrong way? But as I reread the missive, it is just as biting, just as critical as it was last night. My cheeks feel hot and the burnt coffee churns in my stomach. Is Ingrid “crazy” as Holly suggested? Or could she have a point? Had I subconsciously usurped my students’ angst for my own gains?
My character, Orchid Carder, was abused and abandoned. She went to juvenile detention for stabbing a man to death. She became a grifter, a criminal, a master manipulator. The young women in my novel are addicted to hard drugs, suffer sexual and police violence, are caught in the cycle of poverty and crime. My students have very real struggles that are not to be diminished, but they are simply not at that level.
Maple Heights Secondary School serves grades eight to twelve. It has an innovative counseling program that allows each counselor to work with the same kids for all five years. They come to me wide-eyed and nervous, and I support them through their academic, social, and behavioral progression. I’ve counseled my students through bullying, eating disorders, parental divorces, STDs, gender dysphoria, racism, drug use, shoplifting, and more… Had any of their experiences seeped into my work?
I hadn’t told the kids that I was publishing a novel. The entire mandate of my job is to focus on their needs, not talk about myself. And even after five years with the same students, they show remarkably little interest in me as a person. But our principal, Nancy, felt the need to make an announcement.
“We have a Shakespeare in our midst!” Nancy crowed over the intercom that morning. I knew she was talking about me even though Shakespeare was not a novelist (no one cares). “Please congratulate Ms. Lane on her new novel, Burnt Orchid. And tell all your parents to buy a copy.”
A handful of teens (all enriched English students, but one) had stopped by the counseling suite to congratulate me, but most of the school seemed uninterested. Would any of the kids tell their parents to buy my book? And if their parents did, would they recognize their children’s problems in its pages? Is it only a matter of time before they come after me with pitchforks and torches?
No, it’s not. Because I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve betrayed no trust, invaded no one’s privacy. I care about these young people, and I would never exploit them, even unconsciously. In fact, I’d purposely steered my story away from any real experiences, anything remotely recognizable. Ingrid Wandry doesn’t know me or my students, and she has no right to make assumptions, to judge and accuse me. She is a bitter, miserable, angry loser with no friends (a safe assumption given that her Thursday-night hobby is blasting writers for imagined offenses). I have just published my first novel. It’s a huge achievement. I’m not going to let the words of a troll bring me down.
“Goodbye, Ingrid,” I say into the empty apartment. With a swipe of my finger, I archive the email. Then I down my coffee and head to the shower.