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I FIRST MET JODY Edwards at a writers’ workshop. She was the instructor, a published author sharing her wisdom about the business with other writers. It was held at a rustic resort on one of the nearby Gulf Islands. I was there with Rhea and Navid from my writers’ group. Rhea had been haughty and superior in class, suggesting that many of the issues Jody encountered as a romance writer wouldn’t apply to Rhea once she published her literary masterpiece. Jody had been patient, conciliatory even, but our eyes met. We’d shared a knowing look, and a friendship was born.

Jody lives on the north shore, two bridges—and at least an hour with traffic—away from me. We meet downtown (one bridge each) about once a month, to chat about writing, the publishing industry, and books in general. When the weather is good, we walk the 10K seawall around Stanley Park. When it’s pouring, we go to Jody’s favorite vegan café. Today a spattering of rain falls, which we’ve deemed acceptable walking weather. We’re both fortunate to own good waterproof gear.

“How bad is it?” I ask from within the tunnel of my hood. Jody had agreed to look at Burnt Orchid’s Readem page for me, to screenshot the worst offenders and give me the lay of the land without the soul-crushing specifics. I have a call to discuss the matter with my publishing team this afternoon, and I want to be informed and fortified.

“There are about thirteen hundred one-star reviews now.”

“Fuck.”

“Some of the reviewers are articulate. They feel you’re being precious about your book. That you’re trying to block a reader’s right not to like it by having bad reviews removed.”

“Of course readers have the right not to like my book,” I mutter. “I didn’t expect everyone to love it.” But if I’m honest with myself, I’d never really considered people hating it. I’d worked so hard on it, poured everything I had into the pages. I’d taken for granted that people would respond positively.

Jody continues. “Others are accusing you of exploiting the kids, of writing about their personal trauma for your own benefit.” She sighs. “And others are just calling you horrible names.”

“Like?” She shakes her head; she doesn’t want to tell me. “I can handle it,” I say.

“Fat whore. Pedophile. That type of thing.”

It shouldn’t sting—they are generic insults from people consumed with hatred for a total stranger—but it does. It feels like an assault. A physical slap.

“Anyone who looks at the reviews will see that it’s review bombing,” she says, arms pumping. (Jody has one speed: fast.) “It has nothing to do with the quality of the book.”

“But what about people who just look at the numbers? It was down to three stars last time I checked.”

Jody winces. “I think it’s dipped below that now.”

“Oh god…”

“If you tweet about it, you’ll probably get some author support.”

“My publicist told me to stay off social. She said it could inflame things.”

“True,” Jody agrees. “It’s all being spurred on by someone called I.W. They comment on every post, egg on the outrage.”

“Her name is Ingrid Wandry,” I explain. “She emailed me directly and made the same accusation.”

“It’s like she’s trying to derail your career. But why?”

“I’ve been trying to figure that out,” I say glumly. “Was she really that offended by my book?”

“Readem can be a scary place,” Jody says. “I was extorted once. When I self-published my first romance.”

“What do you mean, ‘extorted’?”

“I got an anonymous email threatening to tank my book with one-star reviews if I didn’t pay them ten thousand dollars.”

“Oh shit. What did you do?”

“I took the book down. I didn’t have a publishing house behind me. I couldn’t afford lawyers or a crisis PR team. I put it up again a few years later, with a different title and a pen name.”

“How can that be allowed to happen?”

“It’s not allowed, but the site is hard to police.”

I listen to the rain tapping on my hood, feel the hopelessness clogging my throat. There is a dark side to this business that I’ve been entirely unaware of. “Why does this Ingrid Wandry hate me so much?”

“It’s hard to know what triggers people these days.”

“I know there are trolls and keyboard warriors out there who love to do battle. But this feels so personal.”

“Maybe it is,” Jody suggests. “Could it be someone from high school? Or a former student you counseled? Maybe someone you met in a writers’ workshop?”

“I don’t remember anyone called Ingrid,” I say. “It’s not a very common name. And even if it’s a fake, I can’t think of anyone who hates me enough to do this.”

“She’s probably just a stranger with too much time on her hands. She wrote an angry review that got traction with the one-star brigade, and now she’s getting a high off it.”

I nod, force an agreeable smile.

“Smudge your office with sage,” my friend suggests, because she’s into such things. “Chase out the bad energy.”

“It’s worth a try,” I respond, even though I probably won’t do it. And while I feel low and fragile, at least I can talk knowledgeably about my online reviews now. I change the subject. “What’s new in the romance world?”

Jody tells me about a new book she’s working on, and a savvy marketing plan for her backlist. I try to focus, but I’m not there. My mind is stuck in the muck of my own issues. And the impending call to discuss my publishing future.

The Zoom call includes my agent, Holly; my PR rep, Olivia; and my editor, Nadine. Nadine Sommers is a vice president and director at the publishing imprint. She’s in her early fifties, sleek, savvy, and intimidating as hell. But I’m lucky to have her. When I submitted Burnt Orchid, it was good, but Nadine made it better. She made it publishable. She made it something I can be proud of.

“Hi, Camryn,” Nadine begins from the top left corner of my screen. “Nice to see you.”

“You too.” I address the other faces in the small boxes. “Hi, everyone. Thanks for coordinating this meeting.”

There is a chorus of greetings, and then Nadine continues. “Olivia is going to give us an update on the issues with Burnt Orchid.”

My publicist clears her throat. “We’ve been in contact with Readem several times. They’re aware of the review bombing and they’re taking steps to control it. But these issues can take time. And sometimes it’s impossible to remedy them.”

My mouth falls open, and I scramble for the words to fill it. “Impossible? What do you mean?”

Nadine’s composure never falters. “Olivia means that our interventions have had little to no impact. We think it’s best if we all focus on moving forward.”

“So we’re just giving up on Burnt Orchid?” I cry.

“Sales are holding steady with our mass merchants and warehouse clubs,” Olivia explains. “The Readem reviews only seem to be impacting online sales.”

“But that’s a lot, isn’t it? I mean, online sales are a huge percentage of the market.”

“We’re really excited about your next project,” Nadine says, the picture of composure. “We think it’s best to focus on the future and let Burnt Orchid sort itself out.”

Holly jumps in. “We’re excited to move forward, too. Camryn’s been working hard on an outline and some sample chapters.”

“Yeah,” I mumble, feeling a bit guilty. “This mess has been a little distracting, to say the least.”

“But you’ll have something soon, right?” says Holly, eyes boring into me.

“It’s getting close.”

“That’s great.” Nadine smiles. “Let’s all agree to move forward. Thanks, everyone.”

And one by one, they disappear from my screen.