Hello, Protagonists,
Welcome back to Letters from the Creative Life. These occasional essays explore the quieter corners of living: small reflections on art, ambition, and the tender balancing act of building a meaningful life in a noisy world. Think of them as letters from my life to yours. Enjoy!
The Invisible Thread: What Authors and Readers Offer Each Other
Years ago, when I was still unpublished and hungry for any connection to the literary world, I had the opportunity to be the conversation partner for a well-known author visiting our local bookstore. I spent hours preparing for the event, and on the day of, I asked thoughtful questions and felt genuinely excited about the discussion we had on stage.
But afterward, when she didn’t follow me back on social media, I felt stung. Didn’t she appreciate what I’d done for her as host in our local community? Wasn’t I worth a simple follow?
It wasn’t until years later, when I was published and began experiencing the reality of public-facing author life, that I understood. That well-known author wasn’t being snobby—she was protecting her sanity. The event we’d done together was just one stop on a long tour, one conversation among dozens, not to mention all the press and interviews online. It wasn’t mentally healthy for her to follow every bookseller, every conversation partner, and every reader who wanted a piece of her digital attention without drowning in the noise.
Then vs. Now
There was a time when a novelist’s job was simply to write novels. Authors like J.D. Salinger and Harper Lee could disappear from public view entirely, letting their work speak for itself. Readers had to seek out authors through carefully crafted interviews or rare public appearances, if they encountered them at all.
Today, the expectation is radically different. To sell books in the current market, authors are expected to be accessible, relatable, and constantly engaging. We share glimpses of our writing process and our daily routines, and some of us—like me here on Substack—build communities around our creative lives.
This intimacy is beautiful, in many ways. But there’s also a shadow side to this accessibility.
When Knowing Becomes Claiming
The challenge with parasocial relationships—those one-sided connections where someone feels like they know a public figure personally—isn’t that they exist. Parasocial relationships have always existed. People have felt connected to actors, musicians, and even authors for as long as we’ve had public figures at all.
The difference now is proximity and expectation, because digital platforms create the illusion of personal relationship. When an author shares a photo of their morning coffee or talks about their writing struggles, it feels like a text or video call from a friend. The human brain, which evolved for small communities where we actually knew each and every person we interacted with, struggles to distinguish between true intimacy and technologically-enabled accessibility.
This confusion can sometimes lead to a sense of ownership over an author’s time and attention that feels different from other relationships. Almost every author I know has, at some point, been on the receiving end of a reader lashing out because they were disappointed/upset that the author didn’t respond to their email, DM, or social media post.
But if we step back and try to look at this objectively, isn’t this strange? For example, if a friend recommends a restaurant to you, the friend doesn’t expect the chef to come out and personally thank them.
Yet, in a world where technology creates a parasocial mirage, it’s easy to forget that authors might be fielding hundreds or even thousands of similar messages, or simply taking a much-needed break from being online.
The New Reality
I think about Suzanne Young, who told me about co-authoring a book with Tom DeLonge from the band Blink-182. During a book signing, a fan approached with scissors because he wanted to cut a piece of Tom’s hair to keep as a souvenir. Tom’s bodyguard intervened, and afterward, Tom turned to Suzanne and said something like, “Isn’t it crazy when that happens?” She laughed and told him that that doesn’t happen to authors, it only happens to rock stars.
That conversation happened years ago. I’m not sure it would be as clearly true today.
Recently, bookstores have had to implement security policies that would have seemed unthinkable just a few years ago. At some events, signs now explicitly state that authors “do not owe fans access, attention, or physical proximity simply by virtue of being public figures.” The fact that this needs to be spelled out shows how normalized certain expectations have become.
What We Already Give Each Other
Instead of focusing on the negatives, though, I now want to turn this around and look at the wonderful things we all do for each other. I think it’s good to remember that, above all, we love books and we love storytelling. That beautiful common ground is what brings readers and authors together in the first place.
What strikes me most about the author-reader relationship is how generous it is on both sides. Readers invest their precious time and emotional energy in our stories. They champion books they love, create communities around shared reading experiences, and offer the kind of support that sustains authors through the inevitable challenges of creative life. This generosity moves me every single day.
And authors? We keep showing up to the page, sometimes when inspiration feels elusive, because we know there are readers who need the stories only we can tell. We share parts of ourselves through our work, trusting that these offerings will find their way to the people meant to receive them.
The invisible thread between author and reader is real, and it’s powerful. Despite what I said before about parasocial relationships, platforms like Substack, Instagram, TikTok, YouTube, etc. are great for allowing us to connect like never before. We just all need to remember to set and keep respectful boundaries of mutual admiration.
When we honor both the magic of that connection and the humanity on both sides of it, something extraordinary happens. The stories we share and love become bridges between us—not because we know each other in real life, but because we recognize something true and universal in the work itself.
What we offer each other—story and attention, creativity and care—is already enough. Everything else is simply a gift.
What brings you the most joy in your reading life? I'm always curious about the moments that remind us why we fell in love with books in the first place.
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