Delusions and a Cursed Book
by Gina Tron
Rotating stage lights illuminated the words in my hand hot pink, morphing them to electric blue and then magenta as I read a poem about toxic workplaces,
a boss in the boardroom
but a baby in the bedroom
& a baby in the kitchen
& a baby when there are boobs around
The folks sitting in chairs by the stage laughed enthusiastically, fueling me. I knew they were primarily spouses and friends of the other writers reading, but their reception was as genuine, as warm as the lights above me. I continued to read,
dote on them
at home
like their mommy does
who they don’t even call on Mother’s Day
don’t forget to call your mom,
the receptionist says
babies forever
who can’t cook an egg
or tie their own shoelaces
but can destroy the lives of ten people
if they so wish it
People standing around the core crowd clapped, and more so after I finished reading the poem. Middle-aged men sitting on barstools, likely oblivious to the show when they walked in, appeared focused on my words.
This is the kind of reading I love most, I soon exclaimed, clinking shot glasses of whiskey with the other three readers. It was a hot, sticky summer night, and we spent much of it basking in our own sweat and glee at the reception of our performances. It’s not always like this.
While I went to bed alone a few hours later, I felt connected to others. My writing touched people, if only for a moment, all the intimacy I craved that night.
I woke up to the sun shining on cardboard boxes scattered on the floor around my bed. I reached for my phone and smiled, reading a good morning text from my longtime love Ryan, my now husband, the man I’ve loved since middle school, the man I was accused of wanting to kill when we were both in high school; an incident that fueled my book Suspect which was slated to come out that autumn of 2022, four months from this morning.
After sending him a message back, I saw an email from my publisher. The subject said Apologies. Clearly, this is about the continued delay of the book’s publication, I assumed.
But it wasn’t.
The publisher instead informed me he received a “disturbing email” from a woman who claimed I had something to do with “ex-partner” “Alex’s [name changed] death.
The world didn’t just feel out of focus — it felt like it tilted, like I was suddenly in a different, colder place.
Alex is not my ex-partner, but that was a small inaccuracy that was not worth debating compared to the rest. We dated casually for a couple of weeks in 2015. Then, without any drama or breakup, we transitioned into platonic friends. From across the country, we’d share memes and engage in writing projects, occasionally teaming up for an in-person reading together. He died of an opioid overdose and underlying heart condition in 2019 out west when I was in Brooklyn. I helped organize a memorial for him at the request of his family. Before he passed away, I tried to convince him to enter rehab, but he denied having an issue. Like many self-medicating pain, his personal relationships suffered. Several friends dropped him. Even when I knew he was lying, I remained his friend, offering my love and support. I learned a tough lesson after being too hard on an actual ex before he died of an opioid overdose a few years prior. I vowed never to cut out someone who was struggling again.
Still, I felt guilty I didn’t push Alex harder to go to rehab. This woman, my former friend, knew that. We had moved in together in late 2021 before I realized she was having a severe mental health crisis. I tried to help her, but when it was clear it was not safe to do so, I tried to distance myself from her as kindly as possible. For my own safety, I felt no choice but to break the lease. Days after, she began telling people–including my boss and Alex’s mom–various stories about Alex, the common denominator being that I was responsible for his death: claiming I emotionally tortured him to death, that I murdered him, that I drove him to suicide.
The email from my publisher stated, I don’t know what this is about, and honestly, I don’t want to know. I don’t want to be involved in any way. The net effect, however, has been to reignite the legal and publicity fears that I discussed with you some months ago. As I expressed then, I am in no financial position to fight any legal battles, and I am in no position mental-health-wise to deal with these sorts of hatemails or possible public dragging of [our press]. I don’t know what this woman has planned, how many friends are planning it with her, or how many others may follow, and I desperately do not want to know.
For these reasons, I need to rescind my offer to publish your manuscript. I know this must be incredibly disappointing to you, and I am sorry. […]
My hands began shaking, and I had to sit down to catch my breath. An embarrassingly animalistic whine escaped my mouth. Trembling, I continued to read the publisher’s words, which stated he would still allow me to tell others that the press granted me an award two years prior.
I’m sure [the press] could still be hated/targeted for this alone, but there’s nothing I can do about that.
This felt like a gut punch: someone thinking they would be hated for having anything to do with me.
I do not want to publicly rescind your manuscript. I know that other presses have made public performances of de-listing authors when under pressure to do so, but I have no interest in making this public at this time.
The e-mail went on to say, I like you. You’ve never hurt me or the press.
I didn’t hurt Alex either, I said aloud, angrily.
I stood up and circled the boxes in my tiny apartment like an animal in a cage, the view of Mount Hood blurred by tears. I had spent years building this life, this book, and now it felt like I was standing inside its ruins. I zig-zagged around boxes of books and mugs, in my preparation to return to the Green Mountain State to be back with Ryan.
This cannot be happening, I mumbled.
With hands still shaking, I emailed the publisher back to ask if he could speak on the phone. I reassured him that there was no truth in any of this, that Alex’s death was devoid of foul play, there was no group of people ready to cancel me, that it was one person having a mental health crisis. But he had already made it clear that he would not grant me the courtesy to explain.
I thought back to a recent email I had sent my publisher, when I exclaimed joy for partnering up for life with “Evan” from my book, an email he never responded to. I winced, thinking about what he made of that correspondence now.
He likely assumes I’m sick, I thought. That there is and was something to all those rumors after all and to the email. How humiliating.
My heart beat fast. I could barely catch my breath.
He thinks I’m going to get canceled, I soon cried to Ryan on the phone. He thinks this is real, that there’s a group of people behind her.
When it’s definitely only her and her delusions. What does the book contract say? Ryan asked. How can he break it like this?
He never signed the contract, I replied. I have asked multiple times over the past few years but I just let it go, like an idiot.
There was no contract for the indie publisher I worked with prior, and everything worked out fine. I felt uncomfortable about it, but didn’t want to press my luck. I lost one opportunity in the past for being impatient. And now, I had become perhaps too patient. Too scared to even demand a signed contract. Too timid to do anything but listen and offer support when this publisher discussed his personal woes and mental health issues every time we talked, for years, while I stayed professional, my emails and discussions revolved around my written words and not any drama that took place outside of the plots of my book.
Why am I, the “crazy writer,” often more professional than those who are supposed to be the business-orientated ones? I seethed inside. Oh, the joy of indie publishing: when an author’s success depends on the emotional strength of the one unstable human running the press.
How could I explain all this to future publishers, to anyone in the lit world? I didn’t want to talk shit. The publishing world, the indie publishing world, in particular, is an ice skating rink in Spring. I didn’t want to be labeled a problem author or perpetual victim. I’m a woman who has written publicly about my mental health issues and sexual assault. I didn’t want to write my way out of this situation.
Only one thing to do: write about it, one pal offered. I knew they were probably right, but I wasn’t able to yet.
So far, my publisher was the first to give her any merit. My boss and Alex’s mom, as well as others, were extremely supportive of me.
I don’t want people to think this is true, I cried.
Literally, no one believes what she is saying, Gina, my husband, who spent much of that day trying to cheer me up, told me.
Sitting on the edge of my bed in my towel, unable to get ready for the day, I messaged another person who works at the press, someone I spoke with more regularly. I tried to explain the situation to her. She replied with empathy and kindness. Soon, the publisher sent me another email, telling me to stop messaging her.
It’s not her decision, it’s mine.
He seemed worried I was still trying to convince them to publish my book. Ashamed, I stopped chatting her. I didn’t want to be published by the press anymore. I just didn’t want them to believe this email contained even a morsel of truth. Trying to convince someone I’m not a killer was not a feeling I have felt since I was a teenager, the literal contents of the book I was trying to publish. There are plenty of things I’ve done and said in my life that I could be shamed for. This, the contents of that email that led to the rescinding of my book, was not one of them.
It’s ironic, I thought. No, not even. She likely got the idea from the teen stuff.
She befriended me because she was a fan of the viral article about that incident, the short-form version of the book. Once a vibrant, talented writer, her mental health took a turn for the worse, and she became someone I no longer recognized.
To give context, she appears to genuinely believe ASAP Rocky, Kim Kardashian, and Marilyn Manson were hacking into her social media and bank accounts to steal her ideas and money. She believed Trent Reznor had “taken” my “side” because he’s scoring the new Tron film. In addition to stalking celebrities, she targeted regular people like myself, who do not have the resources or buffers to deal with it in the way celebrities do. Several of us formed a support group of sorts to deal with her actions. A couple of us went on a true crime podcast dedicated to stalking, which helped us cope with her targeting us. We also bonded over mourning someone who was once our friend.
Of course, when faced with a legitimate accusation, it’s reasonable for a publisher to choose not to work with an author. But he didn’t even look into this, I rambled months later as snow fell outside the window of our bedroom in Vermont. I don’t want them to think I did anything like that.
I don’t actually think he believes you killed anyone. Ryan tried to reassure me, again, his hand on my back. He was just looking for an out.
You’re right, I replied, uncertain. I adored this press for curating great indie writers. I was proud to be among them, but I worried I didn’t exactly fit. They had noted that my manuscript was not the most literary, but that the story itself was powerful. I reminded myself that yes, even before that damn email, the publisher expressed concerns about “backlash” from the book. Once a firm supporter of the story, over time he grew worried its release would entangle him in some sort of legal battle. I tried to explain I was actually quite generous in my treatment of people in the memoir section of my book, probably kinder than they deserve.
I said I’d take all legal responsibility if anyone sued, a scenario I highly doubt will happen. Please put that in the contract, I insisted.
But it was becoming clear: he liked the idea of being a champion of edgy, difficult work — until it got even a little difficult.
The day after my book deal was rescinded, I got a temporary stalking order granted against my former friend. Since then, I filed and received a temporary order of protection in Vermont, after she posted dozens of death threats against me online, along with hundreds of pages of more bizarre accusations, including that I was gearing up to “finally” kill my husband as originally planned in high school. It has been surreal and deeply upsetting. After an evidentiary hearing in which I had to show a judge evidence of stalking and that she posed a threat, I was granted a two-year long order on her.
The amount of emotional energy I spent on this has been draining. Still, filing for restraining orders and putting together evidence in the same way I’d organize chapters of a manuscript was a welcome distraction from the destruction.
Some of their authors went on to win prestigious awards, a friend told me. I mean, publishing with them may have jump-started your career to another level.
All the hope I had stacked up like so many careful stones — magazine by magazine, reading by reading, tiny wins stacking into a small but real career — now felt like it toppled in an instant.
I had flashes in my mind, fantasies, delusions even, of what could have been. Always battling feelings of inadequacy, it took many years to get to the level I was at. I was and am by no means a famous or financially successful author. I don’t have a huge following. It was hard enough to get to the foothills, to get to the point where I’d even feel comfortable sharing the experiences I did with the world, to develop a decent reputation and some recognition. I didn’t imagine reaching the mountain top but I was okay with where I was. Now I felt like it was an impossible feat to even reach that point again.
I questioned if I should release Suspect at all. Perhaps it’s cursed. Maybe the universe doesn’t want it out. I was starting to doubt everything.
As hard as it was, moving forward was the only choice. If I didn’t try to get that book published, after all it had been through, I couldn’t live with myself. I mourned the future career I could have possibly had if this didn’t happen, concluding that this was all for the best, even if that’s a delusion in itself.
Gina Tron is the author of poetry collections and memoirs, including You’re Fine (2014) and Suspect (2024). The Rumpus praised Suspect for capturing the 1990s “without sentimentality, and with a very clear lens.” Her reporting has appeared in Oxygen, The Washington Post, VICE, Politico, and The Daily Beast. She holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts. Her writing and advocacy have helped spur several bills and a DOJ investigation into the NYPD’s Special Victims Department. Learn more at ginatron.net.