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Thoughtful questions from readers about the process, story, relationships, and the meaning behind certain moments.
Ask Away

rachelc81 asks:

Do you write in order, or do you jump around between chapters?

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Mostly in order, but not rigidly. I usually know the major scenes I’m working toward, and sometimes one of those scenes becomes so clear that I’ll jump ahead and write it before I get there chronologically.

 

That usually happens when I can hear the dialogue clearly or when a particular scene has a very specific emotional rhythm. If I wait too long, I sometimes lose the exact tone that made me want to write it in the first place.

 

Then I go back and build toward it properly. Quite often the earlier chapters change a little once I know exactly what the later scene has become, because I can add small details or references that make the progression feel more natural.

 

So the book is mostly written from beginning to end, but there are usually a few pieces sitting ahead of me waiting for the rest of the story to catch up.

paperlantern72 asks:

One thing I keep thinking about from the book is how differently people can understand the same situation depending on what they know. Can learning the larger context completely change the meaning of things that once felt private, or significant?

 

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Absolutely. That is also why context sometimes has to be carefully controlled. If certain information stays outside the frame, a person can continue interpreting events exactly as they were meant to be interpreted. The mind tends to fill informational gaps with assumptions. 

Human nature can be predictable that way. 

 

Context can change meaning without a single fact changing.

 

Sometimes people who were presumed to be keeping secrets from each other were actually encouraging lives beyond each other, sometimes in surprisingly practical ways. That’s why Nora tells Troy, “Why keep paying for something when an enthusiastic substitute is available for free?”

 

A conversation believed to be private can look very different when it turns out it was being discussed elsewhere in real time. Even something as simple as unanswered calls can take on a different meaning when another conversation was already happening at the same time. That becomes important in Chapter 11, because what Alex understands as one private interaction looks very different once the conversations happening around it are included.

 

The same thing can happen with language. A phrase that felt personal can lose some of its significance when the wording was not unique to that relationship, or when similar language was being used elsewhere.

 

Nicknames can work the same way. Something that feels intimate to the person receiving may also serve a practical purpose. A repeated nickname can make it easier to move between separate relationships without risking the wrong name slipping into the wrong conversation. To each recipient, though, the name can still feel entirely their own. Amanda and Alex become a good example of that distinction..

 

Believing there was only one exception creates a very different understanding of a situation than discovering the exception was never exclusive. That does not change what happened, but it can change the meaning and significance of that position. Later in the book, that distinction becomes especially important, because exclusivity and significance are not necessarily the same thing.

Sometimes the person who appeared completely outside the dynamic was actually helping shape several parallel stories at once, each experienced by the person inside it as though it were uniquely theirs. Nora is a good example of someone who appears peripheral while still helping maintain those separate stories.

 

There can also be an assumption that someone was simply tolerating a situation or secret when, in reality, knowledge and permission were already part of the arrangement. Reciprocity can make that even harder to recognize from outside. If both people had permission to have relationships outside their primary one, staying together no longer carries the traditional meaning an outsider might automatically assign to it. What looks like unawareness may actually involve knowledge, permission, reciprocity, or some combination of them. Chapter 8 gets much closer to that part of the story and shows why knowing who knew what matters so much.

 

There is another reason that kind of misunderstanding can be remarkably easy to maintain. When someone believes they have an informational advantage over a person they assume is unsuspecting, they have less reason to question their own understanding. Feeling cleverer, more informed, or somehow outside the rules can create a kind of confidence  that makes it difficult to consider that a seemingly unique position may be serving a role or purpose they cannot see.

 

The irony is that the person who feels most certain they understand the arrangement can sometimes be the person working with the least complete version of it. When someone is emotionally invested in their own significance, contradictions can become surprisingly easy to explain away. It may never occur to them to ask for the information to fill the gaps because their assumptions give them emotional security. The possibility that the perceived secrecy itself belongs to a larger arrangement may never even be considered.

 

In that circumstance, the sense of being chosen can make someone underestimate the person they thought was outside the dynamic. Silence or non-engagement may be interpreted as weakness, fear, or passivity when it may simply mean the situation was never considered important enough to enter into directly. That can make it considerably harder to recognize that the role itself was very different from the one they believed they occupied.

 

That is why revisiting a timeline with different context can be so revealing. Something that once felt spontaneous, private, or uniquely significant can look very different when parts of it turn out to have been discussed, shaped, or even rehearsed elsewhere.

Nothing about what happened has to change.

 

Only the context around it.

 

Sometimes the difference is simply knowing what else was happening at the same time.

inkandbooks asks:
Do you have a favorite place to write, or can you write pretty much anywhere?

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I can write almost anywhere once I get focused, but I tend to do best somewhere with a little background noise. Coffee shops are good for that. There is enough going on around me that I can tune everything else out without feeling distracted by complete silence.

There is also a tiny cupcake shop in North Carolina that I love writing in. Something about the atmosphere makes it easy to settle in and disappear into the story for a while, and it has definitely become one of my favorite places to work.

That said, I have written in plenty of much less charming places too, usually with too much coffee nearby and several other things I was supposed to be doing instead.

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