M.B NOVELS®

Every author secretly wonders the same thing after publishing a book. “What if someone actually does this?”Not the healthy parts. Those are fine. I mean the objectively terrible decisions. Like writing a 20k-word document about your lover’s favorite artist.

Please.

I’m begging you.

Use your own judgment. Do not make an example out of me.

One of the funniest parts of writing fiction (or poetry or autofiction) is realizing that your characters are often wildly entertaining and completely unqualified to offer life advice. If I met some of them in real life, I’d cross the street. I certainly wouldn’t let them borrow money, date my friends, or make important decisions on my behalf. Yet they’re magnetic and romantic and extravagant on the page.

That’s because stories aren’t built around people making consistently responsible choices. Imagine a novel where everyone communicates perfectly, attends therapy regularly, respects boundaries, makes financially sound decisions, and goes to bed at a reasonable hour. It’d be the least dramatic book ever published.

Conflict requires people to do things they probably shouldn’t. Love stories require vulnerability that would make most sensible adults hesitate. Literary fiction practically survives on people making questionable decisions with extraordinary confidence. If characters behaved exactly the way we wish people behaved in real life, most novels would end around chapter three.

So no, don’t copy my characters.

I’ve never wanted readers to leave one of my books thinking, “I should do exactly what the protagonist did.” That would be deeply concerning.

I’d much rather they leave asking, “Why did that decision make so much sense to me?”

I’ve always been one to believe that stories have a sneaky way of exposing us. The character you defend says something about your values. The ending you hoped for reveals what you crave the most. The scenes that make you uncomfortable often point toward questions you’ve been avoiding. That’s why two people can read the same novel and come away with completely different experiences. They aren’t just reading the book. They’re reading themselves through the book.

That’s where literature does its best work: by asking better questions. A novel can’t tell you whom to love, where to live, or what career to pursue. It can’t solve your life in three hundred pages. But it can make you notice the story you’ve been telling yourself. It can challenge the beliefs you’ve accepted without examining them. It can make you understand someone you’ve never met. It can even make you recognize a version of yourself you hadn’t put into words yet.

So please don’t base your life decisions on my books. Don’t date the emotionally unavailable wannabe cowboy because one of my characters made it look poetic. Don’t romanticize suffering just because it sounds beautiful in a paragraph. Don’t confuse longing with compatibility or chemistry with commitment. My characters are professionals. Please don’t try this at home.

But if one of my stories encourages you to become a little more curious, a little more compassionate, or a little more honest with yourself, then maybe take that with you.