Holding my own book in my hands

And sleeping with it like a baby.

Did I cry when I opened the box of books that roughly represents the past decade of my life? Not right away. My boyfriend dutifully held the camera, knowing I needed a video. It is neither my instinct nor my desire to document these moments visually. I hate looking at myself on camera, I hate the performance inherent in being filmed, and I extra hate feeling like I need to look acceptably attractive or whatever. But writers, especially debut authors with no name for themselves, are expected to produce “content.” And a video of an author opening her box of final copies is classic writer content.

Ok, so I was going to make a video!

I’ve always wondered, watching these videos from other authors—videos meant to appear spontaneous and off-the-cuff (the books are here!)—if they put on a special outfit and makeup in order to make them, or if people actually, like, wear jeans on an average day at home. Looking at the unopened box—my box, my hard work, my heart and soul manifested into a very heavy cardboard block—I decided I would not let concerns about “content” ruin this for me. I did not put on makeup or change my shirt or put extra product in my hair (though I did throw it up, this felt necessary), then I herded my family into my tiny office, and I opened my box. It only took a quick glance to know there was no world in which I would ever post that video—the angles were all wrong, the lighting was monstrous, I’m awkwardly battling w the box half the time—and that’s a-OK. It feels too personal to post and subsequently get objectified into likes. But, I’m glad I have it, and I can at least offer the still, above, in which I’m glowing at Ben, not the camera, which for some reason is being held at his waist, so while the angles might be terrible, it captures a genuine shared moment, not a pose.

The books are beautiful. They are smooth. The are bursting with color and detail. And they are real. Ben, Charlie, and my mom circled around me, staring on excited and curious, and taking one into my hands felt like welcoming a new member to the family. She’s here! She’s gorgeous! Welcome to the world, we’ve all been waiting.

The camera mercifully stopped, and I cracked the book. It smelled like a bookstore, like the smell so many of us grow up cherishing, a clean, musty scent that conjures the thrill of snuggling into a new story. But now I hadn’t just bought a new book, I had f’ing created one. My throat started to tighten realizing how hard I’d worked, how much I’d wanted this, which is why even just a glance at The Acknowledgements page put me over the edge, tears welling, then pouring. The people I love, who supported this strange pursuit when it felt completely bonkers, who took me and my writing seriously long before I allowed myself to. I flipped to the dedication page and another wave hit—more gratitude, such all-consuming gratitude that it felt as if the tears were like an exhale, something in me needed to escape or I would actually explode.

Then I took off the jacket of the book (the cover image). I’ve always loved doing this on other books—the look of the solid colored binding, a simple name and title embossed on the spine, how sophisticated it was, how impressive it looked. Now, I stared at my own name, shining in silver letters on the red spine, and then I sobbed. I really, really cried.

My mom happened to be over for dinner that night (I did not know the books were coming). And while Ben and Charlie had receded back to their spots in the living room, she knew it was a far bigger moment than the time it took to open a box and flip through some pages. She saw me crying and put her arms around me. I felt silly and tried to explain myself. “I’m so proud,” was all that came out. How gauche, to be so proud of yourself that you say it out loud? I felt ridiculous. But holding my book in my hands, that was all I could think, I was literally bursting with pride and joy.

Anyone who reads this newsletter knows I started writing in my thirties, after pretty intensely directing my ambitions towards tech and business (the opposite of creative writing). Growing up without money, I was hell-bent on making it, and considered fiction a total waste of time. I did not have an exploratory, meandering college experience; studying electrical and computer engineering at Cornell was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. There was no reading involved, only equations and algorithms. Paying for the degree myself, I chose the major that had the highest graduating salary. I didn’t understand how someone could major in, like, “English” and assumed anyone who did had to be rich. I wore a suit and heels to my tech consulting job for years after college. I still have those Zara suits deep in my closet. At the time, they represented a world of corporate opportunity and advancement, the only world I was interested in.

It was delusional to think, at thirty-three, when I first had the urge to write a novel, with no writing experience whatsoever (and frankly very little reading experience), that I could publish a book, let alone with a top-five publisher. I had no idea what I was doing, which is the only reason I tried—if I’d learned anything from tech it was to harness the overconfidence that comes with deep ignorance. I assumed I’d tire of it eventually, lose my motivation if it didn’t work out. But weirdly with writing, unlike anything else I’d pursued in adulthood, it was not about the rewards and achievements associated with it (of which I had none)—I actually enjoyed doing it. I mean, I don’t enjoy writing specifically, which is excruciating and tedious almost all of the time. But occasionally cracking a piece of writing? The awareness of myself and the world that comes from the process of writing? The immense joy of having written?! Bliss. These things invoke an all-consuming, almost spiritual wholeness, a rare glimpse of understanding or at least the illusion of some kind of harmony in an otherwise chaotic and unfathomable world. I was hooked.

So I flipped my life on it’s head to make space for this new thing that I had fallen hard for and was weirdly beginning to feel unsettled and empty without. I left the career I’d worked since my teenage years to establish, a demanding and oftentimes traumatic environment that I had endured and progressed through, and instead used much of my savings to pursue this new, entirely unreliable thing. “You gave up so much for this,” my mom whispered, I think noticing how embarrassed I felt, assuring me that I deserved to be proud.

I’d spent so many years second guessing myself, fighting through rejections, sitting in classes with people much younger, ignoring looks when I told my tech coworkers, who generally spent weekends with their spouses and children (like normal adults) that I was spending mine alone working on a novel (like a college grad). And now here it was—I had made a real thing, and I could finally put that thing into the world.

“You’re going to sleep with it, aren’t you?” Ben asked—returning to my office, where I still sat with my box of books—because he knows me. I have a rather extreme tendency to anthropomorphize. I would have taken the whole box to bed with me that night if Ben wasn’t crowding half the mattress. Instead, I reasoned that what one book experienced, the whole set would, too, as if they were connected like when a starfish looses an leg but it still reacts as part of the whole. And so I took one of the books and slept with it in my arms, I wanted it near me, to look at, to love, to make sure it knew how happy I was that it was finally here.

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Thank you for reading this exceptionally batshit installment of Unresolving! We are getting SO close to the release date, Feb 18th. Please preorder if you feel inclined, and / or share it with a friend. Pre-orders are hugely important.

And friendly reminder that I am going on BOOK TOUR and I would LOVE to see you!! RSVP links and details below if you can make it! Truly cannot wait ❤️🎉

• 2/18 — P&T Knitwear in NYC (+ Release Party)

• 2/20 — Greedy Reads in Baltimore

• 2/21 — Harvard Book Store w/ Sara Petersen in Boston

• 2/26 — Skylight Books w/ Kate Brody in Los Angeles

• 2/27 — Green Apple Books w/ Josh Reidel in San Francisco

• 3/8 — Appletree Books in Cleveland

• 3/11 — Rough Draft Bar & Books in Kingston, NY

• 3/13 — Snowfort Books in Westport, NY

PS. I feel as dire and depressed as everyone else about the state of the world and the upcoming four years. Please excuse the lack of political content in this newsletter at this time, as I know it’s weighing on all our minds. For my own mental health, I need to focus this space on the book journey for now ❤️