Status Updates From Snap

“Do you like it here?”
“I’m starting to. Takes a long time to make friends. Vancouverites are friendly but flaky. Hard to pin down.”

No living author is allowed to write a book that is over eight hundred pages, she thought. Unless you’re Donna Tartt or Ann-Marie MacDonald. In which case you can write double that and I will read every delicious damn word.

They were afraid of being found guilty by association. Afraid that they might get uninvited now, too. Afraid that by being seen with her, their careers might also suffer. And she couldn’t totally blame them because they’d all heard the rumours that these things, while hard to prove, really did happen in their insular industry.

“Ms. Atwood, I’m a huge fan. I’ve read everything you’ve written. Well, almost everything, I might have missed one or two of the dystopias.”
“There’s a hot plate on the counter,” said Margaret Atwood. “And a bar fridge. Doesn’t have a lot of space, but since you’re sad and alone it will probably fit what you need. Which I’m guessing is mostly wine.”
“Ha ha ha ha. Your trademark caustic wit.”

Jules gazed at her, unblinking. “You know, Francy-Pants, I rather thought that as a writer, you’d be able to see the shades of grey.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised. We’re good at it on the page, but less so in real life.”