Discouragement, Optimism, Transformation
And another chapter (yay!) from Ten Days, Ten Pounds, my book about Carnevale in Venice. Some salty language.
Ten years ago, I was in Italy for the first time in my grown-up life. It was a tempestuous time in my life, and one of those trips in which everything was all supposed to go right. But it didn’t. Still, I was in Italy.
In the years since then, I’ve been back twice, spoken at an arts colony in Florence, published a speculative novelette in Italian. I drink wine like I know what I’m doing and pursue La Bella Figura in all ways I can that are good, not oppressive.
I wrote a memoir about that first trip, which represented a keen turning point in my life, and as it turned out, in history. Five years ago, I spoke on panel about writing clubs at the San Francisco Writers Conference, then rushed to the airport to meet a friend I’d met on that epic trip.
Last year, I made a splash of sorts at the conference, celebrating the completion of the fifth and ready draft of Ten Days, Ten Pounds. I had a table with wine and chocolates and flyers for a talk I was preparing on secret identities. I had a good long chat with legendary agent Michael Larsen, who sent me to a friend of his in Hollywood and told me to drop his name.
Crickets.
I did my research, hired an expert to polish my query letter, devoured encouraging blogs and writerly podcasts, basically did everything right. I sent out 50 more query letters.
Crickets.
Today I’m back at the Grand Hyatt, but not at the conference really. Just hanging out with members of my writer’s circle and sulking with a glass of not even Italian wine. I’ve been quite disappointed with myself lately, especially watching the cuntservatives (sorry, the wine misspelt that) dismantle America because everything my life is about is bullshit to them.
My friends are sympathetic. They too hear things like, “no one wants to buy memoir right now.” “Agents are overwhelmed.” “Agents only want to represent people who are already famous.” Guess I’m just not famous enough, though people who know me know me.
Just as I begin to think about doing something cuntroversial to get on the news, I realize there’s now a party going on over there on the other side of this amazing atrium (that was way better when they had living plants in it). I brought a pair of heels with me.
There was a big article in the Atlantic that people are talking about lately, which says the US is in a party deficit. Yeah. We’re hunkering and pouting. Ten years ago, I lived for the parties and galas. I was a Decobelle once. I wrote two books about transformation (this one and this one). I put on my heels and shake my hair out of the scrunchie. (Yes, I’m wearing scrunchies again. I can’t believe it.)
I take my wineglass and go over and say hi to my friends with a smile on my face that hides the swirling thoughts about Teen Hackers and Woke Hatred and Teaching Empathy. I tell my people my audiobook is in its final polish and they’re proud of me. And look! There’s legendary agent Michael Larson in a fabulous red fedora! He thinks I look fabulous in my vintage silk robe. He notices the rhinestone “I” on a chain around my neck—he gets the joke even before I tell him I write in first person. Within a few minutes, we’re planning a query letter coaching sesh for the Berkeley Branch of the California Writers Club. Chris Hennessy is there too, and he’s also planning to present workshop for us, on how to dazzle an agent. He’s had five of them ask him for his manuscript today. Oh how I hate him.
I had a few ridiculously wonderful years there, writing and writing my story. My life erupted, the story goes, but really it unfolded on butterfly wings. I felt like I was finally really showing up for myself, being seen by the universe. Doors were opening so I could upshift into higher gears and what great fun it was for me and everyone else. I was getting what I deserved: a firehose of goodness. And then BLAM, I got blindsided by menopause and my Chiron return with people dying and a business relationship and a lifelong friendship both heading south and then there was that disease that wanted to kill me. I didn't deserve that!!!
See what I did there? That's optimism talking. In both The Winning Family and The Bullying Antidote, we talk about explanatory style. Optimism is explaining the bad things as temporary and anomalous, and the good things as normal and expected. We need optimism when things are the hardest. Like now.
Try this thought on for size: the Coup Klux Klan is temporary. (They just don’t know it.) History shows we’ll stand up for our country. Treating each other well is normal, and we’ll return to that program shortly. We’ll TRANSFORM—not going back, but getting better.
A year ago I dropped a chapter of my memoir for my paid subscribers. I’ll share another one today. This beautiful work might never get book covers. I’ve let go of more big dreams than I’ve made come true. It happens. I may never get back to Venice. But I was there once, and I’ve polished the memory into a jewel.
But my readers can enjoy this scene in which I get dressed up for a party, a Carnevale party in Venice (shoutout to my reveler pals, have a great time next week), the party that ruined me for all other parties, in which I transform into a volcano goddess.
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