I’ve shared with almost everyone that for me, writing a book has proven to be much easier than promoting it. Give me a laptop and some solitude, and I can happily click away on my keyboard for the day. But ask me to try and convince people to read my work? No thank you. I wrote a guest post on Kathleen Pooler’s blog, entitled A Complicated Book Launch. Take my rudimentary salesperson abilities, add a pandemic, and then throw in social unrest and economic downfall . . . and we’re left with a complicated book launch. Thank you, Kathleen, for sharing my post, which can also be found below.
A Complicated Book Launch
What times we are living through. Who could have imagined that at the halfway point of 2020, we’d be immersed in a trifecta of profound crises: global pandemic, economic downfall, and a massive social movement.
Before I continue, let me acknowledge that I am achingly aware of my good fortune. Everyone I care for has remained healthy, I’m able to work remotely, and my skin color has never threatened my safety. I’ve stayed mostly at home since the COVID shutdowns in March, and when claustrophobia kicks in, I can get outside for a tree-lined walk on trails near my neighborhood. All things considered, I’m well. Still, life as I know it has been upended, and in one 24-hour period, my spinning wheel of emotions can land on any number of feelings. Anxiety, hope, exhaustion, and fear are but a few.
In the midst of this, I’m launching my first book, and the process has been . . . interesting. Most bookstores in my town are still closed with no clear plans on reopening, so I will not see my memoir displayed at a local bookshop, and I will not host a launch party where I sign copies of my memoir to flesh and blood family and friends. And oh yeah—will my book even sell, given the belt-tightening for so many right now?
As the countdown to my book’s release date nears, I’ve been gearing up and keeping up with promotion tasks as much as possible. But frankly, some days, my spinning wheel of emotions lands on overwhelm, especially when I dare to peek at the news. Though I want to generate punchy posts for Facebook, write another blog entry for my website, or enter my book into contests, my body does not always cooperate. Overwhelm leaves me with just enough wherewithal to sip a cup of tea on my front steps.
There’s also the question of relevance. Not to be histrionic, but the number of existential dilemmas we face is dizzying. Humanity as a whole is groaning with illness and cries for justice, and democracy is on life support. With insecurity and upheaval in abundance, I can’t help but sometimes feel that promoting my book right now is wrong. “Hey, everyone! I know the world is utterly chaotic, but I’d like to draw your attention to my memoir and me! And in case you were looking for a fluffy read, the subject is about losing a baby.”
When it comes to a book launch in general, my temperament does not help the aforementioned trifecta. I’m well suited for the quiet life of a writer, but sales? Not so much. Both sides of my family tree are filled with busy and friendly introverts; we are private to a fault and do not crave attention. Though time-consuming and often grueling, writing the memoir has turned out to be far easier for me than promoting it. Can’t I just leave a box of books on my front porch and hope readers will find them?
One might wonder, given my aversion to self-promotion and the spotlight, why publish a memoir? Especially on the personal topic of infant loss?
In short, I wrote a book as a tribute to my baby girl.
The death of my daughter was traumatic and painful. I’d carried her for nine months, but her heart stopped beating around her due date for reasons unknown. I was devastated. The year that followed was a slog through a valley of sorrow and longing. I missed her presence within me, and I missed the life I’d imagined we would have shared.
Grief is slow and wearying work, and I wrote about the hard days of mourning in my memoir. But I wrote about more than that.
My relationship with my daughter’s father collapsed shortly after her death, so at age 40, I was childless and newly single. Since I’d relocated two years earlier to be with him, I had not yet formed a circle of close, local friends. In many ways, I was on my own.
Talk about a cascade of challenges. My daughter’s death and subsequent trials felt like a free fall. There I was, starting over solo as a relative newcomer navigating a broken heart and a ruptured identity. The reality of my life did not match the vision I’d had for myself: I was not a mother, and I was not partnered. Who then, was I going to be? Where would I fit in? And could I cultivate a new connection to my daughter?
My book centers on a season of pruning in my life, but as any gardener knows, pruning can bring new growth. Without my usual bearings to guide me, I had no choice but to look inside and reorient myself toward a different future. I wrote in my memoir about how I moved through this season by leaning on a mix of determination, blind faith, and moments of grace.
Ready or not, global crises or not, a predilection for privacy or not, my book will be published. When self-doubt or overwhelm appears, I remind myself that sharing my story is one contribution I can make to our broken world. For those faced with the sting of grief or the ordeal of starting over, perhaps my book can provide hope. Maybe it will resonate with those who agree that from hardship, a wellspring of resilience and healing can be discovered. I also remind myself that I wrote my memoir to honor my daughter. Though she never lived outside of me, her brief life and abrupt death within me was transformative. I am grateful for the enduring impact of this small being, and in the end, that’s a story worth sharing.
