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THE STAGE LIGHTS are blinding, the back of my neck sweaty despite the air-conditioned chill. I’m seated between Zoe Carpenter and a New Zealand bestseller named Timothy Rush who writes police procedurals. The audience stretches out before us, filling the rising seats. There are at least three hundred people in the theater, although I can only see the first few rows. Their presence is tangible, though, the hum of their energy and attention. They are excited to be here. They are captivated by us.

Our moderator, Analena, a compact woman in her fifties, is an author herself. A memoir, I think. She’s also a book critic. Her questions are incisive and thoughtful. Zoe and Timothy are pros, their answers effortless, intelligent, and articulate. I know I’m too quiet. I know I should contribute more so the festival organizers don’t wonder why they spent the money to fly me here, but I can’t help but defer to their experience. Analena, however, won’t let me off the hook.

“So, Camryn, what do you think about the term women’s fiction? Is it simply a marketing term or is there something patriarchal in labeling books written by women?”

Oh god.

“Umm…” My voice is reedy. “I really don’t worry too much about labels like that. I know women read a lot, and if my publisher thinks that’s the best way to market the book, then… uh, that’s okay with me.”

“I agree with Camryn,” Zoe says, and I want to hug her. “At the end of the day, it’s about appealing to readers. Historically, women often wrote under male or gender-neutral pen names to get their books read, but now the tables have turned. There are a lot of men writing under feminine or ambiguous pseudonyms hoping to appeal to the female market.”

“I think the notion that men won’t read fiction written by women is ridiculous,” Timothy adds. “I’d say sixty-five percent of the books I read are written by women.”

I sense an opening. “For me, it’s about eighty percent. And most of the writers I admire are female. Like Zoe.” I hastily add, “Though I’m looking forward to checking out Timothy’s work.”

He nods at me. “Likewise.”

“Thank you.” Analena smiles at us in turn. “We’ll take questions from the audience now.”

It’s almost over. I’ve almost made it! And this part will be easy. The audience will have few questions for me when I’m sitting next to two such prolific writers. Plus, I have no problem talking about Burnt Orchid. It’s like talking about my daughter or myself. The story is a part of me.

As predicted, the first few questions are directed at my compatriots. After Timothy shares a hilarious story about a snake encounter at a writers’ retreat in Darwin, Analena wraps things up.

“We have time for one last question.” She points toward the back of the theater, the rows obscured from my view. A volunteer with a microphone sprints up the stairs.

“My question is for Camryn Lane.” The voice is feminine, disembodied.

I sit up in my seat, paste a pleasant smile on my face.

“Are you really a high school counselor?”

It’s the tone, not the question itself, that makes my stomach drop. “Yeah, I am. Part-time now.”

“So kids come to you to talk about their problems, and then you write about them. Don’t you think that’s wrong?”

Beside me, Zoe flinches, but I relish this opportunity. If I can’t defend myself online, I can at least defend myself here.

“I’m a professional, trained counselor. I take my students’ issues very seriously. And I would never write about them. In fact, in my novel, I purposely steered away from any issues I’d encountered on the job.”

“But surely your students’ private problems could seep into your work subconsciously. I mean, why write about teenagers at all given the risk of exposure?”

“Burnt Orchid is a story I’ve wanted to tell for years,” I respond. “The teen story line is integral to the theme of catharsis.”

“But if you care so much about these kids, why not just write about something else? To be safe. Couldn’t you come up with another idea?”

“As I said”—my voice has taken on a defensive edge—“the teen issues in my book are entirely fictional. And they’re far more serious than the ones I encounter at school.”

“So you’re diminishing the problems of your real-life students?”

“No. Of course I’m not. I—I’m just saying that they’re different.” My pulse is skittering, my words floundering.

“Why not quit your job, then?” the faceless voice says. “I guess you want to keep mining these kids for material.”

“I—I’m a single mom,” I stammer. “And a debut author. I don’t feel secure enough to leave a job with a pension, and summers off…” Now I’m sounding privileged and pitiful at the same time. I press a hand to my throat, flustered.

Thankfully, Analena steps in. “We’re out of time. Thank you all so much for coming…” She goes on to thank a number of sponsors and supporters, but I am deaf to it. All I hear is the rush of blood in my ears, my heart pounding with a mixture of anger and shame. Finally the crowd bursts into appreciative applause and we are dismissed.

Zoe catches my arm as we walk offstage. “There’s one in every crowd,” she assures me. “You handled it really well.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, emotion threatening my voice. “But I’m not so sure.”

“You were frank and composed. You stood your ground. It was perfect.”

Backstage, Analena apologizes to me. “I’m so sorry. People can be combative. But the rest of the event was amazing. You did a great job. All of you.”

“See?” Zoe adds. “It was fine.”

Timothy approaches us. “That was bloody ugly,” he says. “I think we could all use a drink.”