Life gets a little weird after you’re published. If I’m being honest, my life was a little weird already, so maybe Find Me just brought it into full bloom. It’s probably my fault. I have a bad habit (one of many, actually) of wearing my riding clothes almost anywhere and, when you walk through Winn-Dixie in your breeches and boots, people think you took Fifty Shades a little too seriously.
But, for the most part, no one asked me any questions. Actually, for the most part, people avoided eye contact, but that’s another post. Now that I’m published, people ask lots of questions. Not necessarily in Winn-Dixie. I don’t walk around with my book in front of me.
But I have thought about it.
Anywho. I’m always amazed by the fantastic questions readers ask me. I have the best readers. They’re much smarter than I am, which means that sometimes I don’t have any answers for their excellent questions. Then I have to squint (it makes me look like I’m Thinking Hard) before screaming “Ack! Monkeys!” and running away. But, because my readers are so smart, they never fall for it.
Mostly it’s my nonreaders who crack me up. Okay, okay. Mostly it’s my coworkers. I have a corporate job that involves spreadsheets, PowerPoint presentations, and looking like I haven’t dug my clothes out of the laundry basket (I do it anyway), and they’re completely fascinated by my book.
Until they find out it’s a thriller.
And a dead girl.
Then all of a sudden it’s very “Um, where’s the exit?” and “Does Legal know about this?”
Of course, legal doesn’t know, silly rabbit. And, if they do find out, I’ll know it was you and I will find you and make you pay because I work in HR and have access to your home address, m’kay, pumpkin?
Kidding! I’m kidding. But that’s what I so so so want to say every single time. Because the follow-up to my coworkers’ really wide eyes and hanging-open mouths is always “So, like, are you a hacker or something?”
For the record, I am not a hacker. I will never be a hacker. I’m not even qualified to type the word “hacker” because until a year ago I thought my television was powered by hamsters running reeeeaaaalllly hard on a wheel behind the screen.
Okay, that’s not true either. I know it involves electricity and the hamsters have to plug stuff in. I just like talking about hamster wheels because Boy Genius is genius enough to be a hacker, and it makes the blood vessel on his forehead pop up when I tell people we’re rodent powered.
Thankfully, he consulted heavily on Find Me, or we might be looking at a very different book.
The point (surprise! You didn’t think I had one, did you?) is that you don’t necessarily have to be something to write about it. Instead, you use your imagination, Google, and whatever experts will take your phone calls. In the meantime, however, Find Me’s sequel, Remember Me, has a serial killer, and my coworkers are slipping me worried sideways glances. I don’t mind though. They invite me to fewer meetings.
And that’s a win-win for everyone.