“I was concerned,” said Regina. “I thought, this campus is a place where people come to get inspired by big ideas, not to debate the issues of the day. But then I realized something. Those issues that people are interested in”—she tapped the board—“those are big ideas, and the interest they have represents an Opportunity to get your message across.” She turned and wrote Opportunity on the board.

“If you can connect with what is happening in your state, in the country, and use it in your writing, you have many platforms, not just the traditional book-sales platforms. Leverage your message across these platforms, and that will generate Interest from stakeholders, which will then generate interest in readers. And then—”

“Totalitarianism? Tyranny? Tragedy?” Manfred guessed at the next word under his breath. Beth giggled, and Janine shushed him.

“Tell your story,” said Regina, neatly looping the words across the board, “in a way that connects both with what you want to say and with the political landscape, and you will not only be creating art, you will be winning hearts and minds, and most importantly, making an impact on the culture. Let me give you an example.”

Regina capped her marker and leaned on the podium. She drew a long breath, like she were about to share something difficult, or profound, or personal. “Let’s say you are the author of a romance series. How many of you read romances?”

A few tentative hands went up. “Be honest,” she chided, raising her own hand. A few more people joined her. “I’ll admit, I read them. But sometimes I think they’re not that wholesome, you know? Or realistic?” She pulled out a fat paperback and held it up for everyone to see. “This book? It’s about a woman whose husband leaves her, but then she finds love with her gardener. How many of you have gardeners?”

One silver-haired woman sitting near the center of the room raised her hand.

“Would you want to find love with your gardener?” Regina called to her, making a face.

“That is a personal question,” the woman said, crossing her arms.

“Is that Lilian?” Manfred asked, craning forward. “It is!”

“Wouldn’t it be better—more inspiring—if the woman and her husband worked it out? If they got back together?”

Lilian snorted.

“Okay, what’s your problem with that? The husband, he’s old news, right? He watches too much television, he snores?”

“Among other things,” she said.