There is something mildly terrifying about publishing a book.
Not because people might dislike it. Not because they might leave a bad review. Not even because they might find the typo you somehow missed after reading the same paragraph forty-seven times.
It’s because, for the first time, you aren’t there to explain yourself. A reader can close your book and say, I think this character did this because…
And you might want to scream: No! That’s not why they did that at all!
But here’s the uncomfortable question: Does that matter?
What I Meant vs. What You Read
As writers, we know our characters in ways readers never will. I know things about Kate that never made it onto the page. I understand the experiences that influence Axel’s decisions, even when he doesn’t explain them. I know exactly why Luke reacts differently than another character might in the same situation. I know what Abigail believes, what she refuses to believe, and where those convictions came from.
I know because I created them. Surely, then, my interpretation is the correct one.
Right? I’m not so sure… There is a difference between knowing what you intended to write and controlling what someone experiences when they read it.
A reader doesn’t meet a character in a vacuum. They bring their own experiences (and doxa– a cool word that you should look up if you don’t know) into the story with them. Their relationships affect which characters they trust, their fears affect which moments make them uncomfortable, and even their values influence which decisions they forgive and which ones they can’t.
Two people can read the exact same chapter and walk away feeling completely differently about it. And… neither necessarily read it wrong.
The Version of the Character I Can’t Meet
This might be one of my favorite, and strangest, things about storytelling: I will never experience Contingents the way someone else does. I can’t. I’ve known too much for too long.
I can’t meet Axel without knowing what he’s thinking. I can’t wonder whether Kate will make a certain decision without already knowing the answer. I can’t become suspicious of someone based solely on the information available in Chapter Five because somewhere in my head, I’m already holding Chapter Twenty in between my fingers.
Even when I reread my own book, I’m not really reading it… I’m remembering it. A reader gets a version of my story that I can never have.
And because of that, they also get versions of my characters that I’ve never met.
Maybe someone will adore a character I considered frustrating. Maybe they’ll immediately distrust someone I carefully designed to appear trustworthy. Maybe they’ll forgive something I personally wouldn’t. Maybe they’ll notice a relationship between two characters that I never considered particularly important.
My instinct as their creator might be to explain. Well, actually…
But maybe sometimes the better response is simply: That’s interesting.
Intention Still Matters
I don’t think this means authorial intent becomes meaningless.
There are things I deliberately wrote into Contingents. There are themes I wanted to explore, clues I intentionally planted, character decisions with very specific motivations behind them. If someone asks why I wrote something, I can answer. There is an actual answer.
But perhaps intention and interpretation don’t have to compete. I can tell you what I meant. You can tell me what you experienced. And somehow, both can exist inside the same story. That’s part of what makes storytelling so different from simply communicating information. If I wanted every person to leave with precisely the same conclusion, I probably shouldn’t have written a novel.
Stories ask readers to participate, and they leave spaces. And, readers inevitably fill those spaces with pieces of themselves.
So, When Does It Stop Belonging to Me?
Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe that’s the wrong question.
Contingents will always be mine in one sense. I wrote it. I know where it came from. I remember versions of these characters that nobody else will ever meet. There are pieces of myself buried inside the story that a reader may never recognize.
But the experience of reading it? That was never going to belong to me.
The moment someone opens the book, something happens that I have absolutely no control over. My story meets their life. My characters meet their experiences. My words meet meanings I may never have considered.
And suddenly, the story exists somewhere between us. Maybe that’s what publishing really means…
You!