“Esther”—Dr. Cordoba reeled her into the conversation—“it’s clear from this that you’re someone who places great importance on the nature of the author-reader relationship.”

She hadn’t until then, but Esther could work with that. After all, she’d brought Mary Shelley to the table.

“Surely all literature is a communication from the author to a reader, and therefore every reading, whether we wish it to be or not, is a tacit acceptance of this contract?”

Back in Tackleford, a casual “tacit acceptance” might have been enough to impress the rest of the class into agreeing, but had Esther attended more of her course-mandated seminars, she would have discovered that university debates were not so easily concluded.

From the far end of the table, with a voice like soil scattering over a coffin, Goth Girl spoke up.

“Surely one can hypothesize that literature is a construct of lies, and therefore one cannot trust the concept of authorial intent? Even if one were to argue that an author can make a statement of their intent—in a foreword or an interview—the truth of such a statement is in and of itself a lie.”

Esther had been in and of itself-ed!

“Would you care to expand on that, Vectra?” Cordoba said.

Her name was Vectra. Could she be any more awesome?

“The mechanics of intent, action, and reception are complex, but you’re asking us to draw a straight line from intent to reception without taking into account how a person goes about writing. Any examination of our reaction to a book for the purposes of finding our identity as readers should be taken in isolation.”

So many words arranged in such complicated syntax. Esther was out of practice and could no longer translate intellectual doublespeak fast enough to provide a counterargument.

The discussion was over. Vectra had won, but maybe that was for the best. People felt happy when they won, right?

Esther met her eye and gave an “all’s fair” kind of smile that wasn’t returned.

“Vectra makes a compelling point. From now on, we will disregard whoever authored your favorite books. I want to hear about how you interacted with the story only. And where better to start than with a book that was famously published anonymously by the author herself, arguably because she knew that the perception of who she was would negatively affect the critical reception . . .”

Everyone was looking at Esther, who in turn looked down in despair at the cover of Frankenstein.

“Esther, please tell us what is so special to you about your relationship with Mary Shelley’s seminal novel.”

Esther wished she’d been honest enough to bring Jackie Collins.