Archive for April 3rd, 2010
My Crazy First-Time Author Moment
Okay, I’ve officially had my Crazy Author moment. Never again.
Even though the book release date is April 6, friends told me they had received their copies through Amazon, and a few had already read it. Some began spotting our memoir in stores, chain and independent, and reports were coming in about where it was placed: Biography. Self-help. “Is that where it should be?” they asked. “Will people be able to find it?” others worried. “Should I talk to the store owner?” offered one friend.
I ventured out to a local bookstore after dinner last night to see for myself. No sign of “Three Wishes” in the window. No copy on the front table or the bestseller rack (you can already see where this is heading: Nowhere good. The book wasn’t even officially out yet!) or New Non-Fiction.
What the &*^&$? I thought to myself.
I took the escalator upstairs and checked every possible category I passed. Women’s Health? Nope. Spirituality? Nope. Nutrition? Not a chance. Around the corner, around another corner. And there it was, one aisle away from a dozen people lounging in armchairs and sitting at tables with coffee and laptops: “Three Wishes,” facing out to greet eager potential readers. There we were in Wellington boots, on a set of swings, Carey, Beth, and the top of my head. In the New Biography stacks. Right next to Elizabeth Gilbert’s (of Eat, Pray, Love fame) latest book “Committed.”
It looked pretty. But my first thought was, looking at our book then Gilbert’s and back again, Is this merchandising magic, or madness?
I’m no marketing genius so I couldn’t answer that, but I am fairly certain that I kind of flipped out. It felt simultaneously like horrible product placement (I mean, biography is where I thought people went to read real stories about historical figures and World War II or fake stories about celebrities) and like brilliant product placement. I mean, there we were, next to one of the biggest bestselling authors in our true genre: Non-fluffy chick lit memoir. But there’s no aisle for that.
One part of me wanted to shriek with promotional glee — apparently the same part that took a photo of the two books side-by-side with my iPhone 
and wound up sneaking two copies of “Three Wishes” onto the front table downstairs and another one onto the Customer Recommendations shelf. One book at a time. (This is where the Crazy emerges.)
Another part of me, the private part that somehow managed to expose my life and the life of my family in a mainstream hardcover book, wished I wore a wig, hat, and sunglasses even though you’d have to look at the author photo on the inside jacket flap to have a shot at recognizing me in person. (This is where the Crazy comes home to roost.)
It was a completely surreal experience. I sent an obnoxious message to our publicist asking about the placement. This is the weekend, remember. And she is a fantastic publicist. And an incredibly sweet woman. I then copied the photo to close friends, who were nothing but happy for me and ready to celebrate. And then I went home, told Mark what I had done, felt immediate shame and realized I had gone temporarily insane. How fitting that my book was next to “Committed.”
Because, honestly, since when did writing a book become for me about obsessing over whether that book is sold on Table A or Shelf B or Counter C? I wrote it with two close friends to tell a story. Period. It got published, and for that I should be happy and eternally grateful. And for an embarrassing and humiliating second — well, let’s say half-an-hour on a Friday evening — it became about something else. About feeling vulnerable and arrogant and out-of-control all at once when I saw a book containing my story, my intimate real life story, was for sale, and anyone could buy it.
The good thing, I realized just in the nick of time, is that I am in charge of at least one thing: My dignity and perspective at a joyful and humbling time. True, people can buy and own the book. But, regardless of what happens from here on out, no one owns me and my life but me.
