Off to Denver tomorrow for the Associated Writing Programs conference. I’m not speaking, reading, or contributing to a panel. Nope. I’m on a junket with my girlfriend who IS on a panel. I get a spouse discount, plus free hotel. Oh, and a free frequent flyer ticket on Southwest. Okay, I’m thrifty.
Readers have told me that the atmosphere of The Palisades, the nursing home where my book is set, is remarkably similar to where their relative or friend lives—right down to the people who share Cora’s table and the aides who mop the floors. Last week I got a note from a woman who actually lives there herself:
I did three live radio interviews last month. Hit the prime time on Sunday morning: 1:00 am until 2:00 am. Who’s up then? People driving home after a night on the town, insomniacs, speed freaks, shift workers? Well, it could be anyone. Pat Thurston was a great host. She was informed and enthusiastic about Bedlam. It was fun. The hour flew by.
Breaking Out of Bedlam got a five-star review in Instinct Magazine. What’s Instinct? I’d never heard of it, but the sizzling Brazilian he-man wearing nothing but a tiny bikini on the cover suggested a readership of either hungry cougars or boys of a certain persuasion. The sheerness of the briefs and what they revealed made me suspect the latter. Sure enough, inside the magazine were grooming tips, info about hip vacation spots, and plenty of celebrity gossip…for men.
I didn’t think a magazine like Instinct would review my book, much less give it five stars, much less call it “A fun—and inspiring—read that proves you’re never too old to really start living.” Wow. I had assumed that gay men would not be a targeted audience for a novel about an 82-year-old, 300 pound woman forced to live in an elder care facility. The book does have a gay character, a medical tech who’s in love with someone half his age and who befriends my protagonist. Naturally he’s done dirty, just like the heroine.
Nothing like a whacked-out back to make you turn to things you otherwise wouldn’t. Was it the 40 lb bags of Kirkland dog food? Over-zealous vacuuming? (Forgot to do that, too—for two weeks.) Or spending too much time cross-legged in my desk chair? Probably a combination. It’s depressing but a little nice to enjoy painkillers while wallowing in bed surrounded by coffee, the newspaper, books, the phone, pens, half-finished meals, and the cat.
Breaking Out of Bedlam will be on bookshelves next week. Advance copies, three boxes of them, are sitting in my living room. I have four readings, two workshops, and two radio interviews lined up in the next month. I had an anxiety dream that I had to lecture on cotton while crouching on all fours, and another that the 747 that was supposed to fly me to my reading decided to take the freeway instead of the sky.
It’s time to dream about movie deals, glowing NYT reviews, and of course Oprah. (Every writer dreams about Oprah, even the ones who deny it. Especially the ones who deny it.) Dollars signs in the eyeballs. Fantasies of home improvements, enhanced wardrobe, lavish vacations. Really, though, I’ll be happy if there are a minimum of five people at each reading, my Amazon numbers stay out of the seven figures, and no one rips me a new one in print. It's asking a lot, but it doesn't hurt to hope.
