A Reader Reports Back

I met Mary last year. She immediately struck me as intelligent and thoughtful. I mentioned my book The Seer to her, and that it would be coming out this year.

A bit like Game of Thrones, I told her.

"I don't know, then," she said, doubtfully, glancing down at her four-year-old, holding her hand as the girl fidgeted. "I got through the first two books and the story is good, but way too violent. It was making me paranoid. I love to read, but that..." she shook her head. "I had to stop. It was too much."

At that point I was finishing up the final draft of Seer. I had been wondering if the story's harsher parts were hitting the right note. It was important to me that the rough sections weren't gratuitously violent.

I asked her if she would tell me what she thought of it, if she read it. "Even if you don't finish it," I said, "That's fine. I just want to know what you think. You, especially."

"Sure," she said.

Since Seer's launch a month and a half ago, I've heard from some readers who found the book darker and rougher than they expected. When someone writes that they found the story too violent, or that they were negatively triggered by it, I think about it. I take such comments to heart.

Because I don't write for the spectacle of gore. I write for story and characters. For a plot that matters. For the ring of truth.

Today I saw Mary for the first time in months. When she came up to me and said, "I finished it!" I had some trepidation about what she would say next.

She smiled hugely. "I loved it," she said. "So much. It was great!"

For a moment I just let that sink in. Author food, every word.

And the violence, I asked?

"It was fine. It was there, sure -- that's the world -- but it wasn't... for show. You didn't dwell on it.  It was appropriate to the story."

She went on, listing the many things she liked.

"The ending," she said. "I loved how you wrapped things up, without being depressing, like so many books. There was hope. A lot of it."

Yes.

When a reader understands my story, I feel a soaring joy, a deep humility. I become keenly aware of the connection I've made with this other human being who has taken taken the time to journey through my world.

"I want the next one!" she added, taking her daughter by the hand.

This. This is why I write.

The View from the Other Side of the Autograph Line

A week ago, my novel The Seer was released into print. (An interesting phrase, isn't it? I can almost see a large purple book flapping its covers and taking flight into the air. Fly free, my released darling! Fly!)

That very night I read aloud to a group of people from chapter one at the University of Washington bookstore. Everyone who showed up, it seemed, wanted me to sign their copy. Not just sign it. Personalize it.

A few days previous I had bought Jump Start Your Novel from Mark Teppo at the Rainforest retreat. The book he gave me was already autographed, so I asked him to personalize it.

"To Sonia," he wrote.

"No, wait," I said, laughing. "That's only my name." I handed it back. "I want something personal. Just write something. Anything you like."

It seemed perfectly reasonable to me. After all, how hard could it be to write a quick note to someone you've talked to for hours over the course of a few days? Heck, we were practically friends.

Some ten minutes later, I got the book back from him, with a few sentences scrawled in a barely legible hand. Good enough, I decided, and thought nothing more of it.

Back to the night of my reading, where a growing number of people want me to sign their book. Fast, because the store is closing in mere minutes.

And, in addition to their name, could I personalize it? Write something? Anything I like.

My mind, ever the stalwart companion, goes utterly blank.

What is this close friend's name again?

Oh, how very different all this looks from the other side of the line.

As a reader I think I'm being all agreeable and easy-going by saying, just write what you like. But the catch is that we readers don't mean that. We want something unique, something that reflects our connection to the author and this special moment we're sharing together.

This moment in which the author is signing as fast as they can and horrified to discover that she can't remember your name.

You know what the author really truly wants to write in your book? I'll tell you: whatever will make you happy, as long as you spell it out for her, word by word.

"Just tell me," I beg a woman with what I hope is a charming smile but is probably a stressed, maniacal grin. I try not to look past her to the growing line of people, many clutching multiple copies.

She gives me a confused look. Which I understand. As a reader, I expect the author can write something easily. Just a line or two. Small, but witty. About that one time we went camping together, maybe. Or that joke we shared. Remember? Come on, I'm not some stranger. You know me!

Meanwhile, the clock is ticking, the store is about to close, and the only clever thing I can think to write is: "Thanks for all the fish," and that's not okay.

I had no idea it would be this hard, being on the other side of the table. My mind has never been so clean.

I'm not complaining, you understand. This is the best possible outcome for a book launch, to have lots of people want a signed copy. It's an honor, and truly, I do love this. I just want more than a few seconds per person to do it right. A lot more time. A week per autograph ought to do it.

I muddle through. I come up with what I hope are a few slightly witty things, and I make liberal use of the phrase "remind me how you spell your name again?" and hope it's not "M-A-R-K." (Sorry, Mark.)

The line shrinks. The clock strikes the hour. After a few more minutes, it's over.

Later, over a much-appreciated glass of red wine, I reflect on the evening. That's when my exchange with Mr. Teppo comes back to me. I wince, remembering what I said to him.

I send him an abject apology, explaining that I didn't know what it was like.

He writes back: "Delighted that you had a line of people, and I appreciate that you now understand the complete terror that comes with 'oh, write whatever you like!'"

Boy, do I ever.

So the next time I'm the reader, standing in line to get an autograph -- especially from a new author like myself -- I'm going to tell them exactly what I want them to write. Word for word.  I will not say, "whatever you like," or "make it personal -- you know me!"

And then, even if I've known them for twenty years, I will say my name. Because now I know what it looks like from the other side.

I'll even spell it for them.

Real World Magic

So much research went into The Seer, from weapons to central heating, from shoe-making to the arcana of various magic systems.

Magic. Some people will tell you that we don't have magic here, in this world, the one in which my book is published, the one with lattes and doctor appointments. But let me tell you what I saw the other day.

I'm at my doctor's office, at lunchtime, finishing up an appointment. I show off my ARC -- that's the Advance Reader Copy, also known as an uncorrected proof -- to a woman behind the reception desk. Let's call her Ann.

Ann is delighted. She says she must, right this moment, now that it's her lunch break, start my book. I have to take my ARC with me, so I direct her to my publisher's website where the first ten chapters are available for free. She starts reading on her computer, as I stand there.

She laughs. I'm hoping that's a good thing, since it's not exactly comedy, chapter one. She glances at me, then back to the book.

"I like this," she says.

"I'm glad," I answer. I'm a little stunned at this suddenness, this enthusiasm, but very pleased. I'm a writer, of course I'm pleased. I gather my things to go.

"Oh," she breathes, reading on. "Just my kind of book!" Again, she sends a grinning look my way.

"Thanks," I say.

I turn to leave. I pause. I turn back.

She's still reading.

I've never seen this before, a near-stranger reading my book with this immediacy and gusto. Surely, I think to myself, she'd rather read it without someone watching her, let alone the author. I mutter something polite, something about leaving, hoping she'll say goodbye or wave or some other indicator that she's done with me.

Aloud she wonders what will happen next.

A reader wants to know what will happen next. These are the words writers live for.

Right in front of me, my world and characters are taking shape in the mind and heart of another human being. There is no sensible reason for me to stay here and watch, but I can't seem to make my feet move.

Minutes pass.

More minutes pass.

"Well," I say. "Guess I'd better go."

She cackles at some action in the story. My story. The one I wrote.

"Yes, I'll just --" I say, as if I'm just coming to this idea. I'll just what? "-- just get on with the day," My words are undercut by how stationary I seem to be.

See, she's reading. My book.

I feel foolish, standing there, but also I feel something else I can't quite name. In another moment it comes to me: I am awestruck. Spellbound. I want to pull out my phone and take a picture to mark this moment, but of course I don't, because it would break the spell.

When at last I summon the will to leave, it's been over fifteen minutes of me standing there, watching Ann -- still smiling and chuckling -- read my book. This is a magic I have never before had the privilege to witness, to see a new reader step into my world.

I give myself another moment to take it in. This moment. This magic.

Finally I go to the door, my eyes misty and my smile wide. I glance back before I leave.

She doesn't look up.

She's reading.