Toward the end of Saturday's episode of Outlander, "Je Suis Prest," Claire finally opens up to Jamie about why she has been in a traumatized fugue state for days on end. As rebellion looms, Claire is reminded of her own experience of war, when she served as a nurse during World War II. Jamie—as always, Prince Charming in a kilt—offers for Claire to return home to Lallybroch, but she refuses, saying she doesn't want to wait, helplessly, "powerless to move, like a dragonfly in amber."

That phrase—"dragonfly in amber"—is, of course, the title of Diana Gabaldon's second novel in the Outlander series upon which the television series is based. The line serves as a reminder that, yes, these were books first.

But it also indirectly raises a different question: Does that matter?

Adaptation is always a tricky thing. Given the source material, there is a built-in fan base—a passionate throng of readers who get to see their beloved novels brought to life on the small screen. That throng, however, is not the show's only audience. The television series also needs to be able to stand on its own for those people (myself included) who are watching the show without having read the books.

It has been striking, over the past two seasons, to see how many people justify some of *Outlander'*s choices by saying, "It's the book," with a kind of reverence usually held for biblical texts. The book is certainly the source material and should be respected, but attributing the television show's choices to "the book," as if that somehow adequately answers a question, is silly. And for those of us trying to make sense of the show on its own, it's also frustrating. After all, maybe the choices we complain about in the show are also worth complaining about in the book. Source material is not infallible—just as our parents are human, flawed creatures.

Now, I do plan on getting into the books at some point. I tried once but couldn't get past the first few chapters. The writing was too overwrought—which is, I know, part of the appeal; to each her own. I suspect I'll try again, though, mostly because I want to then re-watch the TV series to see how it holds up. The adaptation is, I am to understand, very faithful, in no small part because Gabaldon is directly involved in the show's production. Any writer in her position would be protective of her vision.

Believe it or not, recapping is not my main gig. I too am a writer and as such have empathy for the complications of adaptation. The show's creators have to try and meet readers' (often lofty) expectations—making sure to include the most beloved scenes, ensuring the characters that were so vibrant on the page are equally vibrant on the screen, staying true to the various plot twists and turns. At the same time, the show needs to be just as coherent for viewers who are watching the show without the same context fans of the book have.

No matter how good an adaptation is, no one will ever be completely satisfied. Readers will often disagree with certain adaptive choices while those who come to the show without the background provided by the books might be bewildered by the complex spectacle they fall into. In Outlander, so much happens in any given episode that it's clear that the show's writers are trying to pack as much of the books as they can into one-hour episodes.

What I find sacred in my book may not be seen as sacred by these other stakeholders. What I hold sacred may not work for the screen.

The challenges of adaptation have been on my mind not only because I recap Outlander, but because I am about to co-adapt my novel, An Untamed State, into a screenplay for Fox Searchlight. I am thinking about the choices and compromises I need to make for a 100,000-word novel to work as a two-hour movie. I need to relinquish the complete control I had over the book to a director, producers, the cast—and, eventually, the audience. What I find sacred in the book may not be seen as sacred by these other stakeholders. What I hold sacred may not work for the screen. I've also been wondering about what Gabaldon holds sacred as the TV series continues to unfold. I've wondered how, if at all, she has compromised in adapting her work.

The one thing I hold sacred in my own process is the love story between Miri and Michael, the couple at the center of An Untamed State. I'm inordinately fond of their romance and want to be sure that it comes across, not only because I had fun writing their love story but because their romance tempers the darker themes the book explores. On the other hand, one of the biggest challenges I'm going to face will be how to communicate the violence (it's a novel about a brutal kidnapping) in a way that doesn't traumatize the viewer while honoring what Miri endures. (Outlander, in my view, has been more successful at capturing romance than in negotiating the perils of on-screen violence.)

Because movies have a much wider audience, I do not expect that most people who see the movie will have read the novel. (That's at least partially because I know my book's sales figures.) I hope my adaptation will stand on its own and, maybe, inspire people who enjoyed the movie to seek out the book. And by that measure, the Outlander adaptation is working quite well. I am far more interested in reading the books now that I am a season and a half into the adventures of Jamie and Claire Fraser.

Starz

I'm also thinking about adaptation because, mercifully, there is relatively little happening in this week's episode—hence my delay in getting around to it. For once, the show seems to have slowed down; it feels less like an overstuffed adaptation and more like an episode of television. Murtagh is back, and as ornery and sexy as ever. Also along for the ride are Fergus, Dougal MacKenzie, Angus, and Rupert. It's just like old times! There's a lot of gorgeous scenery to chew as Jamie and Claire and the men they've brought with them make camp in the Highlands to train for the impending rebellion. And that is mostly where the episode holds its focus.

Because the men Jamie has recruited are just regular guys, Murtagh has his work cut out for him. He spends a great deal of the episode trying to get them in formation—to fight like well-trained soldiers, with bluster and colorful language. Jamie tries to rouse the men to discipline and passion with a stirring speech about the destruction a disciplined army can wreak, the love of country, etc.

There is also an intense power struggle between Jamie and Dougal—because there has always been an intense power struggle between Jamie and Dougal. Of course, it's not only for power, but for the love of a woman.

Dougal shows up with some new recruits, who are clearly not there of their own volition. In response, Jamie has the sentries who allowed the men into camp punished (with a beating, though one far less brutal than that which he suffered at the hands of Black Jack, who is, mercifully, nowhere near this episode). Jamie also lets the recruits return to their homes, putting Dougal and his men on guard duty so Dougal can put his money where his mouth is.

Near the end of the episode, a young Englishman, a boy really, attacks Jamie with the ambition of slitting Jamie's throat. The boy is prepared to die as Jamie tries to torture the lad into answering his questions. Claire appears, calling Jamie a "Scottish barbarian." She pretends to be an English damsel in distress while Jamie threatens to ravish her—and it is this, the threat to delicate English womanhood, that compels the boy to confess. He is William Grey, traveling with 200 English infantry, 30 cavalry, with "heavy armament" camped only three miles away.

Because Dougal's men allowed the boy to breach the perimeter, Jamie decides he is at fault (the unshielded fires allowed the boy to spot their camp). He has Murtagh whip him 18 times so the men can see he is not immune from fault or discipline.

That night, Jamie and a few men go on a commando raid, their faces painted and everything, but Dougal isn't allowed to come out and play, which makes him very pouty indeed. The Highland commandoes steal all the wheels from the English cannons as well as the firing pins. When Jamie returns to camp he is, understandably, feeling randy, but before he and his wife can get down to sexy business, he tells Claire to get dressed—they need to be on their way, what with the recent mischief. As the episode ends, Jamie and his small army make it to Prince Charles Stuart's encampment. Jamie throws Dougal a bone and lets his uncle ride ahead to announce their presence. And that, for now, is that.

This episode was, all in all, a good one. For readers of the Outlander books, there was a direct reference to the show's provenance. Nothing traumatizing happened. We were serenaded with a lot of gorgeous Scottish music. The relative quiet of the episode got me to thinking about challenges (and pleasures) of adaptation.

Clearly, the process of adapting fiction for the screen, small or big, is fraught. There are many masters to please. I am left wondering if there is such a thing as being too faithful to the source material. Because the Outlander TV series so diligently follows the book, it often feels like an intimate conversation to which much of the audience is not privy. It leaves a lot of us enjoying what we see but feeling, somehow, left out. As I embark on my own adaptation project, I hope no one feels left out—while realizing, even this early on, that inevitably, someone will.