New York, New York
As Andrew and I settle into another trans-oceanic flight, my mind is with a very special suitcase in the cargo hold. That suitcase is full of the first copies of my new novel: The Snowbird. While I’ve enjoyed years of writing and publishing non-fiction, this is my first real foray into the world of fiction, since earning my M.F.A. at Columbia several years back.
It’s only a 100 copy print run, designed to share with agents and editors, and give my friends and family a sneak peek of what’s to come. Yet the magic of holding a physical copy of my first book isn’t diminished. Part of that is the lovely design, thanks to brilliant graphic designer Jim Shannon and printer Stephen Newman, who worked with me on this project. The slim white paperback is smooth in my hands; the lettering is crisp and striking, and the small silhouette of a soaring bird of prey in the lower left-hand corner mimics the feeling in my chest.
Of course, it’s not all sunshine and soaring hawks. Perhaps all writers suffer from the constant anxiety of imagining how to make the story better, the characters more compelling, the semicolon use consistent. Crackerjack editor and writer Edward Higgins, a friend and colleague of Andrew’s, helped me address many of these concerns as we worked toward this print run. And yet, like all art, the artifact we finally hold is never quite like the imagined masterpiece we originally conjured. I wonder if even the legends suffer from this issue of failed transmission. I wonder if Michelangelo looked up at the Sistine Chapel and thought: Great, but just a little to the left. Or if Toni Morrison read Beloved, thinking: Is that the ending I intended?
I only group myself with Michelangelo and Morrison in terms of artistic anxiety. When it comes to the work itself, I group myself among my compatriots in the melee: working writers always striving to be a bit better, to reach just a few more readers, to move another person or two to laughter or tears. It’s been exciting to watch my fellow former classmates’ books and articles pop up on my newsfeed and read about our shared triumphs and struggles as writers in a world that seems to mainly be watching T.V. (while on our phones). Even more thrilling is dipping my oar into the current, casting off my wee little boat into the water, whispering: Read me!
This week will be a balance of great fun with my fiancé—the Highline, MoMA, and of course, pizza—and sending my book out into the world. It’s a strange bird indeed, a story about the power dynamics of modern love, the repercussions of white supremacy, and the gentrification of a banana republic, with a dash of humor and enough eroticism to give me heart palpitations when I consider it in the hands of Granny Jane (who, for the record, told me she “reads racy stuff all the time” when I registered my concern). In New York, I’m meeting with editors and agents, some old friends and some new contacts, who I hope will crack open the fresh pages of The Snowbird and smile at what they find.
If you are keen to join on this journey, I plan to set up a shop on my website to sell just a handful—20 or so—of these advanced copies. Beyond that, I hope to have news of where the book will be landing soon. And until we land in New York, I’m just happy to be here flying among the birds, buoyed by the clouds and this new chapter of life.