Yesterday marked 1-month till my publication date. “Pub date” if you enjoy industry-speak. Which means the next month (especially if the epic snow and traffic keep up) could go one of two ways in terms of my plausible emotional state: bat shit crazy or bat shit crazier.
Kidding. I’m obviously super chill about publishing my first book. It’s NBD. Like, hopefully you like it… Maybe you won’t. It’s cool. Either way… [Shrugs apathetically].
ARE YOU INSANE? Of course I am praying and chanting and setting intentions that you like it. Sure, there’s a freedom and relief in knowing that the creative process is out of my hands now, but the only thing that’s genuinely super chill about me these days is the climate in which I live, a city formerly known as Boston, now an Arctic Land of the Lombardi Trophy. (Hooray, Patriots!).
I would be wise to build myself a sanity bunker made of snow (lord knows we have enough) in which I do nothing but drink tea, eat things exclusively made of chocolate or caramel or both, and watch Downton Abbey. It’s not that I felt crazy yesterday (today is a different story: thank you, Pats victory parade making all travel in and around the city impossible literally atop so much snow). But yesterday, I felt pretty great. Future Hubs and I managed to shovel both our cars from beneath 40-inches of snow before spring, so that’s something (see triumphant Rosie the Riveter-Shoveler pose above). And, then, there was the massively exciting literary announcement that Harper Lee, famed and elusive author of To Kill a Mockingbird, will publish her second book this summer. We have the same publisher, which I’m hoping is a good omen. Friend and former OG superstar intern, Giuliana, who clearly knows me better than most, thought maybe she should check to see how I was handling such monumental news.
File under: favorite tweet. Ever.
Something tells me Lee will not need to coddle her sanity in a bunker drinking tea before her pub date. She’s done it all before, nevermind that it was in 1960. Still, she will likely drink whiskey like a genuine recluse writer legend, smoke cigarettes, and tell people that whether they love or feel let down by a book for which they’ve waited generations, she, frankly my dear, doesn’t give a damn. Bless her and her Atticus Finch, always and forever.
Meanwhile, in preparation for the high octane psychological territory leading up to publication, my dear friend, Priscilla Warner, also an author and two-time best seller to boot, recently advised that I would be wise to “up my meds” right now… She means meditation, of course. And I am taking her seriously.
In Boston proper, where parking is scant to begin with, there’s always a kerfuffle around newly shoveled, hard-earned parking spots following snowstorms. For decades, people marked their spots with orange cones, kitchen chairs, or other household items to save them. Urban legend has it that if you moved one in the wrong neighborhood, it might cost your life—or new tires after they’d been slashed. Nowadays, we’ve evolved into what seems to be an unspoken agreement that maybe you can save a spot for 24-hours.
But, then, you have to let it go.
All that lifting and lunging, huffing and puffing, till your back hurts and fingers freeze… After a certain period, the hard work no longer belongs to you. It’s your contribution to the neighborhood. Like a book in the world.
One month from now I hope you lift my book off a bookstore shelf or out of an Amazon box (you can pre-order Do Your Om Thing here) and upon reading, the affect is one that makes you feel lighter, less crazy, more balanced (think: the opposite of epic snow and snarling traffic), quicker to laugh at the tribulations of being a modern yogi, stronger in body, mind, and spirit. But of course I’ll settle for no one slashing my tires;)