I do give Josh’s comment a second thought and then raise my hands to mimic a video camera with him in the frame. “But now that I think about it, you would give Harry Connick Jr. a run for his money inHope Floats.”
He pauses, looking at me with his head tilted. “Is that a good thing?” he asks. “I’ve never seen it.”
It’s a very good thing, I think, recalling late-nineties Harry in those denim shirts and cowboy hats as he flitted around town playing Mr. Fix It. Every preteen girl who managed to sneak into the movie theater had a crush on him, including me.
“It is indeed a compliment, Josh,” I admit, trying not to picture him in a cowboy hat. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
He tosses a piece of foam from the furniture packaging at me and rises to lift up the last remaining shelf. I reach down to start grabbing books, and he shakes his head at me, telling me to be patient. The shelves need to get secured to the wall first. I perform a dramatic pout and head out for the last box of books.
“I think my next question might be a big one for you,” he says when I’m back through the door with the final box. “How will you organize your books on the shelves?”
“So many options. I’ve always wanted a book wall organized bycolor because it looks so pretty, but it doesn’t sit well with my inner librarian—you grow up with the Dewey decimal system, and it shapes your entire worldview. I think I’ll group them by genre and then be as close to alphabetical as possible.”
“My very first crush was on the school librarian.” He’s blushing big-time as he says this. I’m not surprised, though. Josh is the most process-oriented, methodical guy I’ve ever met. A librarian is exactly the sort of person I would expect him to be into.
“If I ever need to be evil and distract you, at least I know what costume to wear,” I say, trying to make a joke and also to invite some flirtatious banter. He bites his lip and shakes his head but doesn’t take the bait. It’s like I told Dr. Lisa—he’s just not interested in me that way. Or maybe I’m just bad at flirting? All the possibilities are on the table at this point.
The only thing I’ve succeeded in doing is making things feel weird again, so I decide to remove myself to the writing room upstairs and brainstorm essay ideas for a little bit before my meeting with Lucia.
“Don’t rush,” I say. “The books can wait until tomorrow.”
—
Lucia and Ihave been hard at work for an hour straight. We spent the first half covering early ideas and planning for the book tour next year. Lucia will be my stand-in to work with the publisher on the book tour. I’m thrilled to outsource that job to her. She’ll be more direct when it comes to my preferences and the pace that I want to take.
It’s important to me to have a variety of engagements on thebook tour. I want big bookstores that can hold two hundred people, small independent shops where I can speak to a group of twenty, virtual book readings, and the ability to stop by actual book club meetings where my memoir is the selection of the month. It’s going to be a lot of work, but I can already sense it will be worth it.
Even though it feels like a lifetime away, we click between tabs for my kids’ school calendar, the family calendar, and the camp calendar for next year. The goal? Find days when the kids are either on break (and can travel with me) or firmly safe somewhere else, like camp, so that I don’t need to rely on childcare from others to make it happen.
Lucia is in her late twenties and doesn’t have kids. Her reaction to the logistical nightmare that is my solo-parenting life makes me feel incredibly validated.
“Gracie, I literally don’t know how you manage to do all of this. And write essays. And write your book. How are you not snorting cocaine at every free moment?” she asks.
“How do you know I’m not?” I respond with a straight face, at least for a few seconds.
We both laugh at this because I am the squarest square that’s ever squared. I smoked pot once in college while in Barcelona, got irrationally paranoid, and decided that drugs were definitely not for me. I told her this story over drinks the one time we’ve met in person, and she couldn’t get enough.
The holds we place on my calendar for tour dates only crowd things up more, and I mentally prepare myself for what a wild year it’s going to be. I need to appreciate the relative quiet time between delivering the manuscript and the book being launched into the world.
“Before we get into discussing your interview bookings for the coming few weeks, I want to run an idea by you. Have you considered starting a newsletter? In addition to generating buzz for the book, you could charge for subscriptions and potentially have a steady income stream,” she says.
“I have considered it,” I answer with a deep sigh. “But right now, I can’t imagine committing to writing even more content. Maybe I’ll feel differently in August when I submit the manuscript.”
“It would go a long way to creating an even stronger bond with your readers, your fans,” she pushes. “It wouldn’t have to be all about grief, either. It could be about parenting, dating, friendship, and just life stuff. I recognizeThe New York Timeswouldn’t like you double-dipping content, so if you stuck to different topics, it could be a way to cross-promote your essays between the two platforms.”
Lucia is sharing these ideas with me because she wants to help build my brand. The bigger my brand, the more the book sells, the more I need a personal publicist. We all make money, and everyone wins.
I like the idea because it would allow me to diversify my income streams. Even with a sizable cushion in the bank thanks to life insurance and my book advance, everything still feels tenuous. The need to churn out content and keep money coming in matters. I have two kids to raise and another eight years minimum with at least one of them in the house.
“I’ll strongly consider it,” I finally relent. “It’s a great idea, and I know that I should do it. I just want it to be for the right reasons. I promise to brainstorm the second the manuscript is submitted.”
“Perfect. In the meantime, I’ll dig around to see if there are anyconsultants we could work with to help you put structure around the newsletter concept when you’re ready.”
I thank her and prepare myself to move on to the list of upcoming interviews. After theCosmodebacle, I insisted that Lucia give me one or two sentences of context into the angle the journalist is likely to take. We go through the list, and everything in the next ten days feels easy and tame.
“One last opportunity, and it’s a doozy,” Lucia says, grabbing my attention immediately. “There’s a reason I saved this for last.”
“I’m intrigued,” I tell her. “Not sure I’ve seen this look on your face before.”
