PHOTO: Norman Bacal, bestselling author and former legal powerhouse, now crafts compelling stories inspired by Shakespeare and shaped by boardroom experience.
From Legal Titans To Literary Thrillers
Norman Bacal, lawyer turned novelist, blends Shakespearean drama with corporate intrigue in powerful fiction rooted in ethics, addiction, and legacy, all while inspiring professionals through his nonfiction insights.
Norman Bacal has lived many lives—and few of them quietly. As a law firm leader, he shaped one of Canada’s most formidable legal institutions. As a board member of a major Hollywood studio, he bore witness to the machinery of international entertainment. And as a writer, he has pivoted with startling grace from memoir to business wisdom, from legal drama to psychological thrillers steeped in the timeless conflicts of Shakespearean tragedy.
His nonfiction debut, Breakdown, was not merely a chronicle of a fallen law firm; it marked the beginning of Bacal’s own rewirement—a journey into reinvention and, ultimately, storytelling. In Take Charge and Never Stop, he distils the kind of hard-won lessons one can only learn through collapse and resurgence. And in novels like Odell’s Fall and Ophelia, he turns his eye toward the shadows cast by ambition, identity, and moral compromise.
Bacal writes fiction the way he once practised law—with discipline, precision, and a deep understanding of human motivation. His characters are not just lawyers or executives; they are people in crisis, caught between who they are and who they hope to become. These are stories that don’t flinch from the ethical edge.
In both the courtroom and on the page, Norman Bacal has pursued truth with intensity. The result is a body of work that challenges, inspires, and lingers in the mind long after the final line.
Your most recent thriller, Ophelia: Drowning in Guilt, reimagines Hamlet as a boardroom saga—what inspired the shift from legal memoir to psychological thriller rooted in Shakespeare?
First and foremost, I wanted to make Shakespeare more accessible. The subtleties of the plays are difficult to follow for modern readers. Like building a law firm, this became a passion project. I set out to breathe life into Shakespeare’s themes by modernizing the stories, exploring the ethical dilemmas his characters face, and taking deliberate detours to make the narratives uniquely mine.
In Ophelia, Tal Neilson battles addiction and legacy. How did you weave familial obligation into modern corporate power struggles?
“To be or not to be”—Hamlet’s most famous line—became Tal’s dilemma. Do I give in to addiction or rise up and fight my uncle for my legacy? That’s the existential struggle at the heart of the story. Capitulation would be easy, but legacy demands sacrifice. And Ophelia herself is driven by an oath her grandfather made—a promise that defines her very identity.
Your first novel, Odell’s Fall, modernizes Othello in Manhattan. How did you adapt themes of racial tension and jealousy to today’s legal elite?
Shakespeare’s story of an African general in Italy who marries a Roman senator’s daughter still resonates. They elope, and life quickly descends into prejudice, betrayal, and jealousy—sound familiar? I wanted to explore whether we’ve evolved at all. In Odell’s Fall, a U.S. senator respects Odell as a lawyer—but what happens when his daughter comes home with Odell as her husband? I also wanted to examine the fragility of whirlwind romance: once the fire dims, lovers must learn to trust—or lose everything.
Both your novels feature lawyers at moral crossroads. How does your legal career inform those fictional ethical dilemmas?
I’ve managed law firms, advised world leaders, and watched clients make emotionally driven, catastrophic decisions. The best fiction comes from internal battles. My characters either fall from grace (like Odell), act selflessly and become heroic (like Ophelia), or pull themselves back from the edge (like Tal, the drug-addicted son of a pharmaceutical kingpin). Impossible choices make for compelling stories. I want readers to root for the hero—or scream at the page, “Don’t do that!”
Your book Take Charge guides emerging professionals. What anecdote from rebuilding after Heenan Blaikie’s collapse best illustrates resilience?
After I wrote Breakdown, which became a Globe and Mail bestseller, I asked my editor to review the manuscript for Odell’s Fall, my first novel. She eventually called and said, “Norm, there are ten core skills great fiction writers master—and you have none of them.” It was a shattering moment. I had a choice: give up, or learn the craft. I chose the latter, put in the proverbial ten thousand hours, and I think the results speak for themselves.
Your nonfiction and fiction both explore leadership and failure. What differences did you encounter writing memoir versus suspense fiction?
Writing suspense is exponentially harder. Nonfiction is about organizing real experience and shaping insights. In fiction, you invent characters from scratch—and then put them in situations that reveal who they are. Hopefully none of them are me. I back them into corners, give them hard choices, and let them make glorious messes. Interesting characters must grow or crumble—or the reader loses interest.
As a former entertainment lawyer and studio board member turned novelist, how does your experience in global film finance enrich your international settings?
I’ve lived the boardroom scenes I write. The characters—business leaders and legal sharks—are inspired by real people I’ve met. I’ve been in the room for intense negotiations, strategic betrayals, and high-stakes deals. So I write with emotional accuracy. The instincts, tension, and reactions—those are authentic.
What single piece of advice would you offer aspiring authors, especially those transitioning careers later in life?
Don’t wait for inspiration. Make a daily appointment with your computer. I write for at least five hours a day—even when I don’t feel like it. Some of my best material has come out of that initial half-hour of drivel. Magic happens when a character says or does something I didn’t plan—and I find myself thinking, I had no idea.
