The Bold Choice That Nearly Killed My Novel—and Saved It

My latest novel, The Resilience of Red Thread, tells the story of a woman escaping an abusive relationship—and the role female friendship plays in making that escape possible. But I didn’t begin there. 

At first, I wrote the story entirely from Emily’s point of view in close third person. It felt flat. Predictable. I came close to abandoning the manuscript altogether. 

Then An American Marriage, by Tayari Jones, burst onto the scene. Everyone seemed to be reading it. When I read it, I was struck by the power of its structure: three first-person voices—Roy, Celestial, and Andre—each shaping the story of a wrongful imprisonment and how it fractured the marriage of Roy and Celestial. Andre’s perspective, slightly removed, gave the narrative depth and tension. 

Reading it made everything shift for me. I remember the physical sensation of it—goosebumps rising—as I realized I could tell my story through alternating first-person voices. I wanted readers to understand that the damagedone in domestic violence begins with insults that break the spirit long before danger is detected. I wanted them to see the gap between what the abuser, Jake, promises—protection, safety, love—and what he is actually building: control and dependency. 

To do that, I had to let him speak. I needed to write in the voice of the abuser. 

It was a risky decision. 

By then, I had done extensive research. I listened to stories of survivors, psychotherapists, social workers, lawyers, and a family court judge. I read case studies written for law enforcement that disturbed my sleep. I consumed so many survivor memoirs and novels, I lost count. 

When survivors shared their stories with me, one comment came up again and again: One of the most painful moments happened when a loved one asked, “Why didn’t you just leave?” 

Answering that question became my mission. 

Writing Jake—giving him a voice—was intense. At one point, I wrote a murder scene (not of Emily) that left me physically shaken—hands trembling, skin damp with sweat. When I finished, I stood up unsteadily and thought of the phrase, If you can imagine it, you can do it. 

I actually said out loud, “Oh no.” 

What unsettled me even more wasn’t the act itself, but the aftermath—how Jake manipulates the story to keep Emily afraid, dependent, and tethered to him. Fear, I realized, isn’t just paralyzing; it reshapes decision-making itself. 

Emily’s fear didn’t begin with Jake. Since childhood, she has survived violence and criticism by making herself small—quiet, agreeable, unobtrusive. By 21, that strategy has kept her alive, but it is no longer a safe choice. What protected her at 10, endangers her at 21. 

When survival depends on appeasement, you don’t suddenly become defiant. You don’t flip a switch and escape. Statistically, the most dangerous moment for a survivor is when she begins to leave. 

I wanted readers to feel that reality—not judge her for being afraid.  

When I shared the manuscript with beta readers, they praised its authenticity and pace. But when I pitched it to agents, I could see hesitation the moment I mentioned writing from Jake’s point of view. One agent physically recoiled before saying, “That’s brave.” 

It was not encouragement.  

Even my trusted editor pushed back: “It’s Emily’s story. Stay with her perspective.” 

That stopped me. For a while. 

I set the manuscript aside and began another project. But Resilience waited patiently. The “Me Too Movement” came and I saw Emily’s story playing out in a universal sense. Women were being objectified, gas lighted, and marginalized in large numbers. By then, I had read many novels told solely from the survivor’s perspective. I didn’t want to add another. I wanted something that would leave readers closing the book thinking, Now I understand—and damn, where did she find that courage? 

I returned to the manuscript with a decision: This was my book. It would stand or fall on my instincts. By then, I understood what I was resisting. Not the dual perspective itself, but the discomfort it creates. To write from the abuser’s point of view is to risk proximity—to refuse the safety of distance, the clarity of a single moral lens. 

But distance, I had come to believe, was part of the problem. 

Bookshop | Amazon
[WD uses affiliate links.]

Writing dual perspectives required more than alternating chapters—it demanded distinct psychological and linguistic identities. 

Jake and Emily share a core of insecurity and fear, but they express it in opposite ways. Jake compensates with control. He is methodical, hyper-organized, and obsessively maintains a Plan B. He speaks in short, declarative sentences, often using elevated language to project authority he hasn’t earned. He never finished high school and carries that insecurity like a live wire. 

As an exterminator, he works with toxic, combustible poisons—dangerous elements that require precision and control. In his mind, he is a protector. He eliminates threats. He saves families from invaders that bite, sting, and can be deadly. So, when he removes a hornet’s nest from the eaves of Emily’s home daycare and her estranged, drunken husband shows up, Jake’s logic extends seamlessly: He will protect her too. 

Emily, by contrast, filters everything she says. She starts a thought, then redirects mid-sentence, afraid of being judged or provoking anger. Intellectually, she knows she has a right to her emotions. But experience has taught her to soften her tone, and choose words carefully, in order to stay safe. Beneath that careful neutrality is deep, seething resentment. 

Where Jake asserts, Emily absorbs. The tension between those voices is where the story lives. 

When my Kirkus review concluded that the novel was “likely too dark and dispiriting for a mainstream audience,” my first reaction was discouragement. What bookseller wants a dark and dispiriting novel? 

But over time, I saw it differently. 

A woman living under constant threat is living in darkness. A woman judged for her fear becomes dispirited. To soften that reality would have been disloyal to the women who entrusted me with their stories. 

I wrote the book I set out to write—an unflinching portrayal of abuse, fear, and survival. It is difficult, yes. But it is also, I hope, a gripping and ultimately empowering story that holds the possibility of change. 

And that is the risk—and the reward—of writing from dual perspectives: When you allow every voice its truth, the story becomes larger than any single point of view. And perhaps, that is the reason to try.