Blurb Your Enthusiasm

A woman in one of my Facebook writing groups recently solicited advice on how best to approach a “rockstar” level person for a blurb, given that she’s a “nobody.” I laughed when I read the post, remembering a time long ago...

...It’s 2005 and my second book/first novelsecond book/first novelis soon to be released and my editor is all askew with worry that I don’t have any blurbs for its back cover. She’d sent off 30 galleys to A-list writers, but none had yet to respond. I suspected not one of those 30 authors were going to put out.

Why? Mostly because I wasn’t part of the in-crowd. Much like what goes on in Hollywood, it all comes down to who you know, and I knew no one in the literosphere. (If you look at some of the “highly praised” novels on your bookshelf there's a good chance you'll see a lot of the same authors passing blurbs back and forth amongst themselves like massages in a college dorm.)

While attempting to secure my own valuations, my editor asked me to blurb a book by one of her authors. I said, “Of course,” since that was the polite thing to do. Ultimately, I found the book—a memoir about growing up on an Indian ashram—a little too self-absorbed. (This, from a writer who would go on to publish a self-absorbed memoirmemoir about living in a bamboo hut in Bali). As I needed all the good blurb karma I could round up I opined that the book was “wonderfully entertaining and wholly original.”

Once I realized that said blurb karma wasn't going to kick in, I emailed A-list author Jennifer Weiner directly. Her (many bestselling) books had little in common with mine other than that they were both pigeon-holed as “chick-lit.” Her reply to my ask was curt, polite, and utterly forgettable. Interestingly, in an essayan essay she wrote nine years later, she decries blurbs but goes on to say how sympathetic she is to blurb-seekers:

It’s hard out there for a new writer. It’s especially hard for new women writers who, statistics tell us, are less likely to get published or reviewed. If you’re lucky enough to be in a position to help, why wouldn’t you? I believe in karma, in paying it forward, in using whatever influence I have for good.

Not having been in the path of Weiner’s forward-paying behavior, I began to look further afield. I read a news clip about the actress Emma Thompson who said she adored traveling to  Zanzibar. Since my novel takes place almost entirely on the Tanzanian island, I felt it reasonable to ask a famous movie star to blurb a novel by an unknown writer.

A nobody.

As luck would have it, a writer friend of mine knew an agent who knew her agent who generously offered to send the book to her in London.

Alas. She didn’t blurb it, but she did mail me a lovely handwritten note on personal stationery:

By the time Emma’s (naturally we’re on a first-name basis) note arrived I’d received three good-enough blurbs: one from a local author whose reading I’d attended. The other two came from lesser-known writers enlisted by my editor. One called it a “sexy triumph.” The other stated that my “ambitious debut novel brims with heart and heartache.” (My assumption is that they, too, were trying to garner their own blurb karma.)

Did sales of my novel suffer because I didn’t get any rockstar blurbs? Maybe. It also might have been because it’s not a very good novel (please don’t tell my agent I said that). It started out great but then the editor who bought it in the first place left the publishing house for the opportunity to edit Al Gore’s An Inconvenient Truth. The new editor eviscerated my plot, wanted more sex, and, well, that part of the story is best left for another time…

I will tell that Facebook writer that there are no hard and fast rules when it comes to getting attention from A-listers. I will point out that it’s not going to be easy to extract blurbs from famous people, but I will encourage her to give it a try. I will remind her that even somebodies were once nobodies and maybe, just maybe, one of them will remember that and actually pay it forward. ---------------- This essay was also published in the 12/18/2020 edition of Brevity's Nonfiction Blog.  

Model Behavior

California Gov. Gavin Newsom apologized on Friday for attending a dinner party last week at Thomas Keller’s French Laundry restaurant in Napa Valley, noting that he “should have modeled better behavior.”

On a sunny afternoon in the fall of 2001 I did the same thing: I went to The French Laundry when I "should have modeled better behavior." For one thing, there was no way we could afford it. More to the point: I was newly pregnant.

***

Soon after I finished writing my first book I ran into an old friend who introduced me to his agent who loved it enough to sign me on as a client. 

And then I got pregnant. Perhaps for most women this wouldn’t have been so momentous, but I was 40 years old and had recently suffered a first-trimester miscarriage.

Which is why, when my husband Victor suggested we celebrate our plenteous good fortune by splurging for lunch at The French Laundry, I hesitated.

“You know I have to be way careful with what I eat,” I whined, imagining being served unpasteurized French cheeses shot-through with listeria. Mercury-laden fish. Bivalves swimming with fetus-killing bacteria.

“Plus, we  can’t afford it.” Between Victor’s public school teacher’s salary and my non-existent earnings, we were barely scraping by. A splurge for us usually amounted to going out to The Willo Steakhouse on Highway 49 and not paying extra to be able to cook our own steaks.

***

Victor’s college friend Jeff happened to be in Napa for a wedding and asked if he could join us. Jeff was a bigwig at Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory with a bigwig salary to boot. Maybe, I thought as we hugged hello before sitting down, he’d offer to foot the bill.

As a waiter placed the linen napkin on my lap he remarked, “Chelsea Clinton sat in this very chair just yesterday. She was celebrating her graduation from Stanford.”

“That's cool. We’re celebrating too.”

“Oh? What are you celebrating?” he asked, slapping away a non-existent hair from the back of my chair.

Before I could answer, Jeff said,  "A book and a baby! They’ve got both on the way!”

We were giddy, oh yes, were we ever: so when the waiter came back and said, “Thomas

the thomas keller>the thomas keller> would like to prepare a special menu with wine pairings for you today if you don’t mind,” we said, “Of course!”

I quietly reminded the waiter that I was pregnant and would take merely a sip or two with each course so half bottles would probably do just fine.

Oh, and no innards like liver or foie gras, I added before he left. Not good for the baby.

And could he perhaps mention to Chef that I cannot eat unpasteurized cheeses I subtly mentioned when he returned with the first bottle of wine.

Or raw fish, I may have muttered under my breath as he handed each of us a tuile filled with salmon tartare. (Victor ate two.)

We had

white truffle soufflé served in a delicate egg shell (was it okay to eat pig-sniffed fungi?); lamb done three ways; peas prepared in some spectacular guise. On it went, course after course, me alternately fretting and feasting. I cannot remember much more of what we ate because, honestly, two sips of wine multiplied almost a dozen times make for a pretty tipsy pregnant chick.

Four hours later the waiter brought the check.

I opened the brown leather packet.

And almost fell out of my chair.  

***

I won’t divulge how much the bill was (and no; Jeff did not offer to pay), but it was more than we presently spend on our groceries for an entire month. Sure, the food was delicious and the service impeccable, but for weeks after that meal, all I did was worry that I/we screwed up. That something I ate was doing harm to my growing fetus. That I shouldn’t have taken even one sip of wine. That the money we spent was irrevocably reckless. 

But...a month later a slew of  New York editors read my book and fought over it, Hyperion offering me a 6-figure advance for a two-book deal. Four months after that I gave birth to a healthy baby girl.

Knock wood.

***

It’s a shame that Governor Newsom’s memory of that inimitable meal at The French Laundry will be forever stained, like my own was, by the worrisome fallout that followed. He never should have disregarded his own edict in the face of this pandemic. I never should have taken a chance on eating anything beyond whole clean healthy foods in the midst of a precarious pregnancy.

But sometimes we humans forget that our behaviors have the capacity to change others’ lives. That how we act, whether we are public figures or private citizens, can change the course of history—writ large or small.

Which is why it’s more important than ever to model better behavior.

Why it’s a good idea to maintain a distance of 6 feet.

Why it’s imperative , above all else, to wear a mask.

Within Shouting Distance

When my only child left home in August to begin her first year of college, she was supposed to move 3,000 miles away to Claremont, California. Instead, she moved 3 miles away to South Burlington, Vermont. One would assume having her 2,997 miles closer than anticipated would mean I’d get to see her all the time, but I do not. I’m not allowed to.

Right before the coronavirus slapped the planet upside its head, Loy was offered a generous scholarship to attend Scripps College. As much as I knew she’d get an amazing education at the all-women’s school, I almost regretted touring the palm-streaked campus with her last fall. I wanted to keep my baby close. Or, at least closer.

As is so often the case, money—not my whining—was the deciding factor. The University of Vermont also offered her a hefty scholarship (she has a big brain), but when all was said and done and the numbers got crunched, it ended up being cheaper for our daughter to go to a school clear across the country than attending one within walking distance from our house.

Seconds after she accepted the offer, Loy hopped onto Claremont Colleges’ social media and began making friends. In preparation for her new clime, she tossed her snow boots down the basement stairs and stocked up on sandals and shorts. She was ready to be a California girl again (she’d lived there until she was six).

But then.

The earth tilted and we were all thrown off balance. Not only did Loy and her pals miss out on their senior year prom and pomp and circumstance, now there was a distinct possibility these newly-minted adults wouldn’t be allowed to shed their adolescent down and fly out of their nests. Every day she and her friends would check their emails and schools’ websites to see whether or not a decision had been made by their respective college presidents: Would there be in-person, remote, or hybrid learning? Most importantly: would students be allowed to live on campus?

In late spring the University of Vermont announced their plan to invite all students back, using a hybrid teaching model. More than a dozen of Loy’s friends, including two of her besties Eamon and Cecilia, would be attending UVM. They would be moving out.

“You regret not picking UVM, don’t you?” I asked Loy after she told me the news. “I mean, what if Scripps doesn’t open?”

One of her eyes looked up from her iPhone while the other stayed transfixed (how they are anatomically able to do that constantly amazes me). “I’m really happy for them, but nah; I’m glad I’m going to Scripps.”

While the days grew hotter and the pandemic yet more suffocating, colleges across America were slowly making their final calls. When her friend Sonam announced that she was for sure flying to Ireland in September as part of Northeastern’s N.U.in Program, they celebrated by taking a socially-distanced walk along Lake Champlain. Loy was equally thrilled for her buddy Cenia, who would be heading to Clemson come fall. She gave Emily a virtual high-five when the University of Denver said they were welcoming students back.

On July 8 Scripps College arrived at the following decision: “The Administration and Board of Trustees of the College have determined that our community can best achieve its mission and maintain safety by offering Scripps classes online during the fall 2020 semester and a residential experience in spring 2021.”

“Bummer.”

“I know,” I replied from the other end of the couch. I couldn’t see her face behind her laptop but I knew she was heartbroken. Sad. Frustrated.

What I didn’t know was how angry she was.

“I can’t do this anymore, Mom.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t,” she said, slamming the top of the computer down with a force she rarely exhibited. “I’m sick of being here. I miss going out. I miss seeing my friends.”

*

Even though their social scene should have come to a screeching halt in March, most of Loy’s friends held tight to the (now erroneous) belief that teenagers couldn’t get sick from the virus. For months, Loy flung herself onto the couch after dinner and scrolled through her various feeds with a frown on her face as she watched everyone else having fun. As my husband and I cleaned up, she’d swamp us with a running commentary.

“There’s like a hundred people hanging out down at Oak (local speak for Oakledge Park). No one is wearing a mask.”

Or, “Lilly’s throwing a party tonight at her parents’ camp in Colchester. She’s invited, like, everyone.”

As much as I wanted my child to have fun too, I knew she wouldn’t because she was scared she’d expose her older parents to the coronavirus. Additionally, I’d recently been diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin’s B-cell lymphoma, and while I was doing okay post-treatment, Loy was deathly afraid of killing me.

*

In late July, Loy marched into the kitchen and announced, “There’s no way I’m living at home while I do remote college. We need to figure something out or I’m gonna go crazy.”

Four seconds after my husband and I agreed that, yes, it’d be best for everyone if she rented a place, Loy called Ella (Colorado College), one of her few friends who socially-distanced, didn’t attend parties, and wanted as much as Loy did, to find some freedom.

Given that both CC and Scripps had tentative plans to fully open in the spring, the girls needed to find a month-to-month and since Burlington already has one of the lowest rental vacancy rates in the country, their options were limited. The four-bedroom house in a quiet neighborhood by the airport they found was perfect: a year’s lease was not required, and it was not within walking distance of either of their parents’ houses. Now all they had to do was find two more roommates.

When they couldn’t find anyone local to fill the two rooms, Loy shared the openings to all five of the Claremont Colleges, figuring it’d be cool to go to college with someone she should have actually been going to college with. With Vermont having the lowest covid rates in the US, there was a lot of interest. After one FaceTime chat, the girls deemed Monty (Pomona) from Chicago a perfect fit. Two days later Monty’s friend Roz (Smith College) became roommate number 4.

And that was how it came to be that my daughter is attending college three miles from where I sit typing, but since she refuses to see us, she may as well be 3000 miles away. Besides the fact that she works part time at a consignment store, she’s become a zealous political activist. Every night she masks up and attends local BLM and police reform protests, chanting into bullhorns; marching through the streets of Burlington; lying down in front of the mayor’s house for a die-in.

“I’m out in public all the time, Mom,” she texts me. “I’m being careful, but I am exposing myself and I don’t want to take the chance of exposing you or Dad.”

I’m glad she’s getting this first taste of adulthood. I applaud her righteous indignation and fervent beliefs. I’m also thrilled that she is doing well in her remote classes, even the boring one.

I just wish I could hug her.

END