“Right now, I’d probably autopsy your brain if I could figure out how you do it. Sorry. Grim.”

This is an actual sentence from an email I sent to a famous writer. I like to think I’m immune to celebrity. I could pass Kim Kardashian or Rihanna on the street without recognizing them. If I were introduced to Taylor Swift I wouldn’t even blush. Great lyrics, I might say. Catchy tunes. I’ve shaken the hands of politicians famous and infamous and thought I knew better people on student council. But when it comes to great writers, I’m a fool for love. Perhaps you, too, have sent love letters you regret.

When I closed This is Happiness, I had a complete crush on Niall Williams. Oh my God, those sentences, those characters, that Ireland! I read everything he wrote and then stalked him online. He runs occasional writing workshops from his home in Kiltumper (his home!) So I emailed him, ostensibly to find out when the next one would be, but really just to snuggle up. I struggled to express my appreciation:

Is there actually a chance of a writing workshop in Kiltumper? I’m an as-yet-unpublished-but-hardly-less-enthusiastic-for-it novelist. I would love to do a workshop with you (to be frank, right now I’d probably autopsy your brain if I could figure out how you do it. Sorry. Grim.)

I know. Cringe. It gets worse.  I actually suggested I’d bring my husband, Mark, to tour their garden with his wife (to be fair, Niall and Chris have written a whole book about their garden and Mark is good with a trowel). I’m still cringing. Niall responded with a generous message and I imagine some relief that they didn’t have any workshops planned for the near future.

Now that I’m published author, I’ve loved almost everything about the experience. It’s wonderful to have readers join you in the imaginary world you created on your laptop. But other parts of being published are more fraught. There’s the asking for blurbs. I chased poor Lauren Groff to the tip of Florida for a blurb; I hounded her. She was absolutely lovely in saying she would try, but in the end she couldn’t pull it off. I’m still embarrassed by my increasingly desperate notes: My publisher tells me you could have one more week … If I could retract that last email, or maybe the last several, I would.

I also asked Allegra Goodman, the author of Isola, for a blurb. Another author crush. She declined because she was too busy unexpectedly teaching a course. Some months later, when I did an event for Radcliffe, they proposed that Allegra do the interview. She might be busy, I told them. Indeed, she was writing to deadline and declined.

Then there are the blurbs you do get. To my delight, my publisher scored one from Kiran Millwood Hargrave, author of the sublime The Mercies. My thank you note started with a bang:

Dear Kiran,

(Here is what I’m really thinking: how do I write a literary legend who is obviously humble and kind, and who must get notes like this every single day, how possibly to say thank you without sounding like just another smitten fan (but truly I want to say that I’m the BIGGEST fan)). Deep breath. Here goes:  Dear Kiran, …

I wrote her on October 31, 2025, at 10:25 pm. Was my message over-the-top? She’d been inducted into the Royal Literary Society. Surely that made you a literary legend. Right? I checked my inbox at 10:30 pm. Of course, it was 2:30 in the morning in Oxford (where she lives with husband and daughter and cats Luna and Marly. Yeah, I know it’s creepy that I know that.) I checked again ten hours later, and ten days later. Nothing. That’s it, I thought, I’ve done it. I’ve completely alienated my favorite author with my loose-limbed, flailing, downright groveling email. Completely. I fell into a bog of fangirl shame.

But that’s not the worst of it. I’ve done it in person, too. A perk of being published in Boston is that you might get an invitation from Wendy Dodson, the owner of Hummingbird Books, to join a local author reception. Wendy held a large event at the Newton JCC for Virginia Evans, the rockstar author of The Correspondent. But, much as I admire her novel, Virginia Evans wasn’t the object of my ardor. In the cc line of the invitation, I spotted the name of another author whose novel I had read three times, whose characters I would recognize if I passed them on the street. Her book made me laugh and cry and marvel at human history.

At the reception, I sidled up to my author crush at the hors d’oeuvres table. I needed a pick-up line. I needed a drink. I pulled a bottle of wine from the ice bucket and struggled with the cork. She watched me with what I imagined was some small amusement, then reached in and pulled out a bottle with a twist-off top.

“Try this,” she said.

“Oh, thanks!” I blushed. And then, bottle in hand, I managed to sweep every last champagne glass off the table and onto the floor. Thank God they were plastic.

The author helped me pick them up.

“Um, I should introduce myself. I’m Janet Rich Edwards, and I am your biggest fan …”

Layers and layers of awkwardness. Brace yourself.

“In fact,” I blurted out, “I’m working on a new novel and want to include one of your characters in it!”

She looked at me, puzzled.

“I mean, I’m just such a fan. He’s a great character. Of course, he wouldn’t have a big role. He’d just be kind of a minor figure, but I thought he’d be perfect, and of course I wouldn’t do it without your permission and having you read it, and …”

I watched horror dawn in her eyes.

“It would be kind of an Easter Egg in my story pointing back to yours …” I trailed off. Oh God, I’d done it again.

Two weeks later, I received a very kind email saying that she’d prefer I not use her character. It is such a totally fair and reasonable reaction. In fact, the reaction I’m sure I would have if I were her. She accepted my apology and my hope that we could start on a new foot the next time we meet. So now I scan every event to see if she’s present and decide whether to approach her or hide in the bathroom until she leaves.

Last May, six months after I wrote to Kiran Millwood Hargrave, I finally received a response.

Janet!! I found your GORGEOUS email in a ‘promotions’ folder (?!) and oh, what a lovely surprise.

Oh, my relief. I might even meet Kiran someday. I will try not to smear the treacle or upset the crystal. Though I think she’d forgive me.

Great authors invite us into rooms no stranger normally enters, corners of grief, desire, family shame, private joys. We feel we know them, and when they capture our humanity in their pages, we feel known. So we approach with our clumsy throbbing hearts in our hands. An author’s kindness—a gracious no, a blurb, a gentle reply—can feel like a gift.

I get my own fan mail these days, in a minor sort of way, and I answer every one. I blurb with enthusiasm. I say yes to co-hosting events. No one has asked to cop a character from Canticle, but if they do I will smile graciously like Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca. “You’re too kind,” I would say, “but no.”

In November, Harvard Bookstore is hosting an event for the paperback release of my debut novel.

“Who would you like to interview you?” the organizers asked. “How about Allegra Goodman?”

Dear reader, she said yes.

Please (please!) join me at Harvard Bookstore at 7 p.m. on November 17, where I will be in awkward conversation with Allegra Goodman.