Pretty in Plaid: A Life, a Witch, and a Wardrobe, or the Wonder Years Before the Condescending, Egomaniacal Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase (34 page)

I take big gulps of air as I digest the whole interview. How am I this lucky? I just spent an hour with the
real
Carrie Bradshaw, the one who’s ten thousand times more colorful in person. And she was wonderful.

I realize we probably won’t become best friends. There likely will be no trips to her beach house and she’ll never snuggle my pit bull. We live in entirely different universes. She’s never going to shop at Lane Bryant, and I’m never going to go on a spree at Hermès. But you know what? I made my idol snicker a couple of times and that feels like a little miracle.

I can’t manage to get the goofy grin off my face even as I board the train. I arrange my luggage next to me and settle into my seat for the short trip to Philadelphia. The lights on the train are all the way up for boarding so I can’t really see out the window. I can, however, see my own reflection.

And I realize if we were truly destined to be BFF, she’d have told me I had lipstick on my teeth.

The tour has gone on for what seems like months, but I’m only in the second week. I’m exhausted from the travel and have taken to turning my ringer off during downtimes, which is why I miss Fletch’s urgent call stating, “The cat barfed in the cleaning lady’s shoe. What do I do?”

My phone starts to vibrate again and again. I ignore it because if he can’t figure out to tip her extra, I can’t help him. My room phone rings and I’m aggravated when I pick up. Seriously, can I not nap without being disturbed? Except it’s not Fletch. It’s my agent, editor and publicist. And they’re calling because I just made the
New York Times
bestseller list.

How can this be? I can’t have made the list. Obviously the
New York Times
screwed up its reporting. Yes, my events are going well and the tour audience has been great, but I can’t be on the
NYT
best-seller list. I don’t write those kinds of books. I write stories about my dogs and about my husband’s unfortunate attempts at cooking. I write about fighting with my mother and shopping at Trader Joe’s.

Right now, if the list is right—which it isn’t—I’m on the same list with two books by Barack Obama. He’s going to be
the president
come November. I can’t be on a list with the president. That’s insanity. And I can’t be on the same list as Elizabeth Gilbert and her spiritual awakening. She crossed the globe to discover a true relationship with God. I crossed the kitchen to discover the TwinkWich.
²¹³

Seriously, I’m just a big girl with a big mouth, cute shoes, and positive self-esteem who wrote a book about being a big girl with a big mouth, cute shoes, and positive self-esteem. The book ends with me being slightly less big, slightly more healthy, with the same amount of self-esteem . . . and maybe a few more pair of shoes.

I’ve always considered myself the sum of all my parts. I’m not just a manifestation of my mental and physical self. Personal style and proper wardrobe have been a part of making me who I am ever since I can remember. I’ve spent my whole life trying to accessorize in a way that would help me gain acceptance, so the idea of an entire audience liking me for my words alone is almost too much to comprehend.

Therefore the
Times
is wrong.

Obviously.

On the list that comes out a week later I’m no longer at number twenty.

Now I’m at number fourteen.

Seriously, your readers are not going to put up with these constant errors,
New York Times
. Get your shit together already. Same goes for you,
USA Today
.

I’m on the plane coming home from the West Coast leg of my tour. I’ve still got half a dozen more places to go in the next few weeks and the added pressure of writing an entirely new book
²¹⁴
in the next two months. I feel like I’m at the end of my rope. I’m craving a couple of days where I can be home and make spaghetti and sit and watch TV with my husband, dogs curled up on either side of me, and not have to worry about repacking my suitcase.

It’s beginning to look like the
New York Times
and
USA Today
aren’t going to have to print retractions. Making these lists is the real deal, but at the same time celebrating these victories alone in strange cities feels hollow and fake. I want to be there to hug my husband when I get good news and not just get cursory congratulations from the cabdriver who happens to hear me when I take the call.

I want to share a pink champagne toast with Stacey, rather than have a glass (or four) of minibar wine in a sterile hotel room.

I want to run on the treadmill while yelling at my trainer Barbie, as opposed to doing nothing. Success doesn’t mean nearly as much without anyone around to share it with me.

I was in such a haze this morning that I don’t even remember showering or leaving the hotel. I just want to be home. I’m so tired. Even though I’ve been upgraded, I still have to sit here on this stupid plane for the next four hours next to a snoring jackass before I can kiss my husband and hug my dogs and pet my cats. I want to shut my eyes, so I decide to play some music rather than watch the
Survivor
finale.

The first song that comes on is Eminem’s “Lose Yourself.” I had this on constant rotation when I was in the throes of training. When Eminem sang about having one shot to seize everything he ever wanted, I’d get enough of a boost to run an extra quarter mile or to lift a few more pounds.
I want to capture this moment,
I’d think.
I won’t just let it slip away.

What always choked me up was where he sings about how success is his only (motherfucking) option, failure’s not. More than anything, this is what drove me to work harder, live better, and put my entire self on the page in the third book.

Striving to be my personal best has always been a constant in my life, way before I ever heard the song. It’s what kept me sane when Fletch and I were almost evicted and nearly had to move home with my parents. This quest taught me to fight to have my writing read and gave me the strength to plug along through a series of degrading and ridiculous jobs while trying desperately to get a tiny bit of notice in the publishing world.

So why am I feeling sorry for myself because
I’m tired and I miss my dogs
?

Here I am, on the
New York Times
bestsellers list, practically the greatest barometer for success an author could ever hope to achieve. And I got here by telling
my
story
my
way.

Me. A nobody from Indiana. A random girl with a bunch of sorority dance T-shirts and old Jordache jeans stored in her mom’s attic. Nothing remarkable about her except an unvarying yearning to be better . . . and maybe an unhealthy fascination with cupcakes.

I
did it.

I
made it.

That’s
my
name on the list.

But I recognize that I’m here right now living my dream because my audience connects with me, not because I’m carrying a Prada bag, but because we all have the same fears, insecurities, and joys. Thus,
they’re
the ones who motivate me to be better. And the notion of having an audience pull for me
because I’m one of them
is far more daunting than making a list ever could be.

As I listen to the lyrics, I come to realize I have the ability to work toward other successes in my life. Maybe there’ll be a screen-play or a sitcom or some kind of award in my future. Provided I try hard enough, there
will
be other shining moments in my career . . . and I won’t always be alone when I get the good news about them.

This right here, this tour, this book, this very second . . . this is unique. Finally accepting that I earned a spot on the
New York Times
list for the very first time will never happen again.

When I look back on today years from now, I’ll forever remember as the tipping point the second when everything I’ve ever worked for came together, and exactly when I realized my life had been permanently changed for the better.

But I might not remember what I was wearing.

A·C·K·N·O·W·L·E·D·G·M·E·N·T·S

First, much love and thanks to Fletch, who totally deserves better but sticks around anyway. You make me smile about the past and look forward to the future.

Extra-special thanks and recognition go to my editor and friend (frienditor? edifriend?) Kara Cesare of NAL, along with Kara Welsh, Claire Zion, Craig Burke, Sharon Gamboa, Lindsay Nouis, sales and marketing, art, and production. Y’all are the Cadillac of publishers.

Big fat thanks to Kate Garrick for always having my back. (And to Brian DeFiore and Melissa Moy for having hers.) Four more years! Four more years! (I don’t actually know what this means, but I just made myself laugh and that’s key.)

Stacey Ballis, Angie Felton, Carol Kohrs, Wendy, Poppy, Jen, and Blackbird, the next hundred rounds are on me. Kristin “Kristabella” Johnson, Gina Bee, Shayla, Jolene Siana, Caprice Crane, Stephanie Klein, Kristi Reasons and the rest of the Avanti girls, Jess Riley, Eileen Cook, Stephanie Elliot, Melissa C. Morris and Allison Winn Scotch, you’re invited, too. (Don’t worry. Fletch will drive us. He’s good like that.)

Finally, thanks to Shannon, Karen, Karl, Dave and Dave, Marnie, and Dean. I’m a better me for having known you.