Declaring a mental health day
I quietly declared yesterday a mental health day. And so I did not blog. Not that blogging negatively affects my mental health. It’s just that it’s one of the many things I try to do every day. And yesterday, it felt like there were perhaps already too many things on the must-do list and that I should therefore ease back, breathe, take a long nap.
And then the power went out. For hours and hours.
CJ ran around the house trying every light switch and reporting back. “Not even the cold cellar, Mommy!” “Not even in my room!” Meanwhile, I cooked supper in an eerily quiet kitchen over the blue gas flame. Partially cooked, would be more accurate. I’d started preparing it rather late, and planned to warm ingredients in the crockpot, leave everything simmering on the counter, and race back home to eat in between piano lessons and “Performing Arts Night” at the kids’ school (see: already enough things to do). I was sauteeing onions when everything but the stove stopped. This is one of those situations when it is extremely handy to work from home. Dump still-frozen ingredients from crockpot to stove. Thaw. Beats arriving home to a chilly house and an unfinished supper waiting on the counter.
Mental health day really only lasted an hour. But it was a good hour. I napped peacefully while CJ watched a movie. He had minor surgery yesterday morning (and it was very minor, no worries), so I kept him home from nursery school. Sleep is good. So good. And it is something I’ve found lacking post-launch-party. Something about coming down off the mountain. Too much oxygen down here. The clutter of the every day. The feeble human mind whirling as it tries to absorb all the good stuff and keep it–and exhausting itself in the process.
After a truly restorative nap, it was back to work. More movies for CJ. Plus some playtime on my office floor. I find myself fearing that what my children will remember of this time in our lives is their mother saying in a voice tinged with the frantic: “Just a minute, please, I’m trying to finish some work!” Or: “Wait, wait, wait, I just have to get this work done!” Or: “Mommy’s working, can’t you get a glass of water yourself?”
You know, that’s not the worst thing ever, come to think of it. A little water-fetching independence never hurt anybody.
This morning the girls were wondering when I might start baking again. It’s true. I bake bread on the weekends, but my cookie and treat-baking has fallen right off the map. Fooey was browsing longingly through a kids’ cookbook from which we used to like to bake banana muffins — together. And I looked at the girls, sitting side by side at the breakfast counter, and I said, “Hey, you’re big enough to try baking together!” “Really? Can we?” “Of course!” (If they’re big enough, I should be big enough, too: to let them learn by trial and error; ie. make a mess, and possibly bake something inedible.)
I’m not going to declare today a mental health day. Nap: check. Power: check. Blog: check. Kids safely to school: check. Supper planned: check. Early morning exercise: check. Discovery of a new blog (by me!) up at the amazing Canadian literary hub The 49th Shelf. The house is quiet. It’s not even 10am. And I’ve got messages like this waiting for me in my inbox:
“I finished reading The Juliet Stories this afternoon. That ending!!!—I’ve read it over and over.”
and this: “My 90 year old mom finished your book. She said something to the effect that you “have an absolutely incredible way with words”.”
and this: “Just wanted to tell you how much I’m enjoying Juliet. In fact, it’s hard to put down! It’s a gorgeous book.”
(If any of you are moved to write such kind words to me, please also consider taking time to let Amazon and Chapters know how you feel too. You don’t have to buy the book from them, but as Tuesday’s post explains, personal reviews and good ratings move the book higher in the rankings.)
Okay, now it is 10am. What am I going to do with my one precious life today? And you, what are you going to do?
Dear Reader* *a practical guide to helping sell a book
Dear Reader,
Say you’ve read The Juliet Stories. Say you’ve liked it. Or even, like this reviewer, say you’ve loved it. You think others should read it too. And you can’t wait to read the next book by this writer. Dear Reader, if this is you, please consider. There is much you can do to help. Small things. Practical things. Things that could make a huge difference in the life of this book.
Here are some ideas:
* Review and rate The Juliet Stories at the big online bookstores. You know the ones. (Visit here and here.) Positive reviews and ratings help move the book higher up in the rankings and bring it greater visability. (Negative reviews don’t help; if these exist, rate the review itself as unhelpful.) As of this writing, The Juliet Stories is sitting #81 in the category “Short Stories” on a major bookseller’s site. That’s pretty awesome. Just imagine where it could go with your support.
* Ask for The Juliet Stories at your local bookstore. If they don’t have it, tell the owner/manager/book-loving-employee why they must. Here’s the thing. The big box retailers, Costco and Walmart, sell bucketloads of books, but my publisher can’t afford to send my book there. Not yet. Not unless word-of-mouth spreads sales like wildfire. Big box retailers aren’t really bookstores, and they treat books like any other piece of merchandise, expecting it to sell itself — and within three weeks upon arriving or they return it. Big box stores tend to return lots of books to publishers, often damaged — and in Canada, they do so without any cost to themselves; the publisher carries the burden of all unsold books (yes, it’s crazy, but that’s another story). Right now, it isn’t practical to place The Juliet Stories in the very lucrative big box store market. So make sure your local independent has it. Or your mall’s Coles. Or the Chapters on the outskirts of town.
* If The Juliet Stories is already at your local bookstore, hurray! Tell the owner/manager/book-loving-employee how happy you are to see the book, and how much you like/love it. Make sure the book’s cover is visible, facing forward on the shelf.
* Buy the book. Sounds obvious, and you already have, right? It may surprise you how often this practical step is overlooked.
* Tell your friends about the book. Heck, tell strangers. Word-of-mouth does wonders.
* If you have a book club, suggest The Juliet Stories for an upcoming pick. If you live near me, ask me to visit your book club — I’d love to, and I will. (And I promise not to cry, drink all of your wine, or answer in monosyllables.)
* If you have a blog, write about The Juliet Stories. Or interview me for your blog. If you’re on Facebook or Twitter or Pinterest, post about The Juliet Stories. Tell people why they’d enjoy the book. “Like” The Juliet Stories’ Facebook page.
Dear Reader, Virtually all of this holds true for any book you love. And virtually all writers are just like me: hoping their offering gets found and read. Spread the love.
One more thing, Dear Reader. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you’ve found and read Juliet. Truly. Thank you.
The week in suppers: starring The Carrot
nacho party; sorry, people, I had to crop us out; we did not look good
**Monday’s menu** Take-out Chinese. For family day. I made steamed rice too.
**Carrot count** Zero.
**Tuesday’s menu** Split pea soup with bacon. And carrots. Bread and cheese.
**Carrot count** Four or five. Not nearly enough.
**Wednesday’s menu** Black beans. Baked rice. Tortillas. Cabbage salad with grated carrots. Roasted carrots with thyme. Toppings for beans and rice.
**Carrot count** Lots! They took forever to peel, but they all got eaten.
**We love company** Invited two of my brothers to join us. That was fun.
**Thursday’s menu** Carrot/parsnip soup (recipe from a friend). Fried kale (should have added grated carrot; forgot). Baguette. Cheese.
**Carrot count** Two pounds. Success!
**We love company** Albus invited a friend to supper. When I said what was on the menu, he said, “It sounds like something my mom would cook!” Knowing his mom, that is a lovely compliment.
**Dear Parsnip** So much peeling! So skinny! You are not a vegetable I can fall in love with. Maybe we could be friends, but …
**Friday’s menu** Crockpot black bean chili with hamburger. And carrots.
**Carrot count** A few. Starting to feel less panicked about using up carrots — we’ve made a good dent.
**Leftovers** This used up three separate containers of leftovers, two of rice (from Monday and Wednesday) and one of black beans. Plus it was quick, easy, and tasted fabulous.
**We love company** Kevin’s mother arrived to join us for Book Launch Weekend. She complimented the chili. The chef was pleased.
**Saturday’s menu** Sweet potato coconut soup. Fancy cheeses. Baguette.
**Carrot count** Zero.
**We love company** Kevin’s mother was with us. My publicist and editor had a bite too, when they stopped in from Toronto just before we all went to the book launch.
**Good reviews** “This is the best supper ever!” “Can I try the stinky cheese?” “I LOVE stinky cheese!” “More stinky cheese!” (The only problem with this: I LOVE stinky cheese too. And it’s expensive!)
:::
**Weekend kitchen accomplishments** Four loaves of way-too-rustic-looking bread. Too much whole wheat flour, proportionally.
**No cooking-with-kids this week.
**However** We did have a Nacho Party on Sunday afternoon to use up the massive bag of tortilla chips I’d ordered for the launch. Apparently 5 kg is a helluva a lot of tortilla chips. But I might order that much again, just to have an excuse for another party.
**Recipe for a Nacho Party** Essential ingredients: One giant bag of tortilla chips. Cheese to grate and melt on top. Sour cream or crema. Salsa. Excellent but optional additions: Freshly cooked black beans. Pickled jalapeno peppers (mmmmmm). Cilantro, green onions. (Any more suggestions to add?)
Inside the party: a Nancy’s-eye view
Thanks to Nancy, my official photographer, for capturing the many-layered evening with her lens. Read all about the party, here.
Better than dreaming: launching Juliet
party venue, yesterday afternoon, pre-cleaning
party venue, one hour later
Let me tell you about the party. Ah, the party. The party!
All of my dreams last night were an extension of the party. It was like I got to drift through its pieces again as I slept, moving around the room, standing on stage, hearing the song being played to a still room filled with people. What I’d hoped for was to create a moment we could all share.
Good grief. I was so nervous before it was time to read. So nervous my teeth were chattering. Every clump of people I greeted, I blurted out “I’m so nervous! Gah!” or some variation on the theme. I was grateful for the distraction of laughter and silliness. And then it was showtime. My publicist introduced my editor who introduced me. My editor’s words had a weirdly calming effect. I stopped shaking. I could feel myself preparing — and prepared.
Stepping on stage. I was surprised by the lights. I couldn’t see anybody. I could hear and sense and feel, but not see. I felt so happy to be there. There is no other way to express it. Pure joy. As I read the words, I felt as though I was also standing apart, observing, watching, savouring. I thought about the years of work. But I also thought about how it had seemed this occasion might never happen, how I’d fallen down and gotten back up again, considered giving up, but been somehow unable to. I thought about the friends who believed in me — many of whom were there last night. I thought about how lucky I was to be reading these words out loud, to a room full of people who had come just to hear them. Actually I can’t even express my feeling of great fortune.
On stage, I felt like I was doing my job. That sounds pedestrian. It’s not. I felt like I was doing the job I was meant to do. My job is to bring everyone along to a different place, in their imaginations, all of us together. A writer standing on stage and reading is asking of her audience a huge favour: have faith in my words, take a leap with me, come along.
That’s what I wanted. And it felt like that’s what happened. Thank you, generous room of listeners.
Afterward, signing books, only occasionally forgetting a name, I kept wondering at how effortless it felt. I mean — everything. The nerves beforehand were as they always are. It’s been a long time, but I used to act in high school and university. I’d feel the same way. Eaten up with anxiety, just get me on stage, please. There is something magical about being on stage. I feel so free. Free to be myself, or some comfortable projection of myself. I can hardly remember anything from the hour or so before reading, though everything was perfect, the room was insanely beautiful (thanks to the incredible efforts of my party planning committee — Zoe, Rachel, and Nathalie), so many people kept arriving, drinks were offered and many well wishes, yet it was a total blur.
But time on stage was so different — it seemed to stretch and expand. I could relax into the moment, drink it all in. I can’t explain it. I guess that’s what I mean when I say it felt like I was doing my job. The very definition of work/play.
When I came off-stage, I was greeted by an absolutely bursting AppleApple, whom we’d let come along. The pride in her face — I wish I could have stopped time and drunk it in. And then it was on to book signing. The bookseller (Words Worth Books) sold out — every last Juliet. The party planning committee seamlessly took down our event’s decorations and packed up, and at 10pm the club opened the doors and their DJs started spinning, and those of us who felt like dancing stayed and danced until finally the place was completely changed. From intimate candlelit book launch to grinding club floor. And then it was time to go home.
“You throw a good party!” someone shouted to me on the dance floor. And it felt like, yeah, this was a good party. Listen, I will happily throw a party like this, say, once a year, if you’re willing to come. As far as readings go, it will be hard to top. I ended the reading by playing the song, the lullaby I wrote for my character Gloria, who is a musician and performer herself. I didn’t say it was me singing; I introduced it as Gloria’s song. One of the most thrilling parts of the evening was hearing from so many people that they LOVED the song and could not believe it was me — and where could they get a copy? I don’t have an answer to that yet, though the song is embedded in the ebook, within the story to which it belongs. Frankly, I’d like to record more Juliet songs and put together a little EP and make that available in conjunction with the book. But that’s still a dream.
Last night. Last night wasn’t a dream. But it felt like one. I couldn’t have imagined a better celebration for the book, the perfect punctuation mark for all those years of work.
:::
I didn’t take my camera along. But my friend Nancy was snapping photos all evening, and she promises to send me the best and I promise to post them here for you.