The countdown to the release date of my novel, Love Letters of the Angels of Death, has passed the point where the time is measured in months and moved to where it’s measured in days. Look, it’s right there in the column of widgets beside this post. The moment has come to start opening the windows on my advent calendar. The book’s release date is practically here.
In preparation, my literary fairy-god-sister, author Fran Kimmel, came along last week and held my hand as I booked a venue for the novel’s launch event. It’ll be happening here, in the small-ish town where I live, on August 29. The timing – a Thursday night right before the last long weekend of summer – is terrible. I know that. It won’t be convenient for anybody. In my head, I’m already composing the passive-aggressive email I will send to all my first degree relatives living within a 100km radius of my house. The message will explain that, while I will try my best to act like a grownup, if any of my nearest and dearest skip my launch party, I might be stuck thinking very, very hard about their absences for a very, very, very long time.
Yes, I’m fighting against an inclination to take the book’s release and launch far too seriously. I keep coming back to that line from the sappy radio follow-your-dreams pop song that made me cry in the car on the way home from the venue last week: “I don’t want to waste this.”
In what was probably not a great moment in Feminism, I spent an hour in my closet trying to figure out what to wear to the launch. My closet is usually a happy place. It has everything from thrift shop finds to fancy satin bridesmaid dresses. But nothing seemed quite right.
I thumbed through the hangers and thought about Trish – one of the many weekend editors I freelanced for at a car-crash of a boomtown newspaper during our years in the north. She was tall and what someone writing a romance novel might call “willowy” – burgundy lipstick and dark, Morticia Addams hair. She wasn’t satisfied with the mug-shot the last editor had been printing beside my columns and called me down to the office so she could take a better one. When we met, she pulled her elegant spider-leg eyebrows together and tried to imagine my face in her new, fabulous arts-chick vision of the newspaper. All she said was, “Oh, you’re such a mom.”
At the time, I hadn’t yet turned thirty and I had three children under the age six. I hadn’t slept through the night in years. I didn’t own any clothes that couldn’t be tossed into a washing machine. The lipstick I’d put on in the rear view mirror minutes before had a distinct rouge-on-the-dead look to it. I typified the shabby, faded waste of talent this lady (who did become a friend of mine) called “a mom.”
There are a host of arguments I could make for why she was wrong and why she was right and why looking like a mom can be glorious. But in the closet, a month before my book release, none of that mattered very much. I was mired in one of the shallower depths of my consciousness – one that dreads anyone seeing me at a podium with my novel and thinking, “Look at her. Oh, she’s such a mom.”
In passing, I mentioned my wardrobe silliness to my publisher. I think a part of me wanted her to send me a uniform – a matching Linda Leith Publishing t-shirt and cap, maybe even an apron and hairnet. Instead of sending me a kit, Linda’s advice was simply to wear something that made me feel terrific.
Something terrific would be something I could forget about – something that could fade into the tone and rhythm of the reading and talking and celebrating I’d be doing during the launch. And I was beginning to form a vague, shadowy notion of what that might be. Ever since I signed the publishing contract last winter, I’ve been slowly dressing more and more like someone who’s written an artsy, Gothic love story because – dangit — that’s who I am. I knew the spirit of what I wanted to wear but couldn’t yet read the letter of it.
My glamorous sister-in-law understood. We’ve been together for over eighteen years. That’s her entire adolescence and adult life. She sees me from an angle similar to the one her brother, my husband, uses to look at me – one that somehow makes me appear genuine and beautiful and at the same time, one I hardly recognize when she describes it to me. She took me to her favourite jewelry shop – the place where a nice old hippie guy once diagnosed me as psychic – and helped me choose a pendant I could use to anchor my launch-day wardrobe.
It’s set in silver and shaped like an eye – a blue eye like my eyes, my husband’s eyes, and the ten blue eyes I assembled from the atoms of my own body as the mother of our sons. There — that’s me.