When you promote a book, you end up telling the same stories a lot. It’s easier that way. Despite how repetitive and canned they feel coming out of your mouth yet again, you’d be fooling yourself to think that as a self-published, first-time author your following would be big enough for someone to have heard the story enough times to get annoyed by it. So you relive it. Again and again and again even though the ending never seems to change.
“So I was with my seven-year-old daughter at McDonald’s and I saw a young couple who looked like they were on a date, and I thought to myself, ‘who would ever go on a date at McDonald’s, what a trashy thing to do.’ Then I remembered, ‘ohh I did that.’ I took my first homecoming date to McDonald’s on the night of the homecoming dance. And I thought, that would be a funny essay.”
The easiest way I found to describe what the book turned into was the story of all the girls I had crushes on in high school. And there were a lot of them. All of them knew some of my feelings for them, but no one knew all of them. So that was what I wrote about—those painfully awkward and embarrassing emotions that live within any self-conscious adolescent trying to figure out who they are and what they feel. The book became a confessional of sorts, and I was really proud of how it turned out.
But I figured I probably needed to give a heads-up to some people before it came out.
I was now married with three kids and most of these old flames were now married or at least in some serious relationship of their own—and with a far more suitable match than I likely would have made. But regardless, I noticed how easy it was to feel some of those feelings again. There was almost an arbitrary nature to it. Each one of these women had a quality that had attracted me to them in the first place, and it wasn’t hard to remember what it was. It was slightly different with each girl, but when I listened to one of them get interviewed by Ari Shapiro on NPR’s Fresh Air about this amazing nonprofit for refugee education she worked for, all it took was the sound of her voice. I could see her. Not just be reminded of her, I was there with her. I don’t know if I could have conjured up a memory of what her voice sounded like before that moment, but once I heard it, I was back in my high school bedroom. Talking to her on the phone. Pleading with God not to let her dad find out that she was still awake. We were never meant to be together, I knew that even back then, but the emotion I felt for her—whatever it was—was real. And it was still there. Whatever it was.
So I sent her a message on Facebook Messenger. The only form of communication I still had to reach her.
Then I sent an email to the girl I invited on a ski trip.
And I sent a LinkedIn message to the girl who worked with me at a frozen yogurt shop.
And I sought out the husband of the girl I asked out on MSN messenger and got their home mailing address.
And I sent another Facebook message to my homecoming date. The one I took to McDonald’s.
All the messages started out with the same first sentence: “so I wrote a book about high school and you’re in it. Sort of a lot.”
From there I wrote something a bit more personal but ended each note asking for their address so I could mail them a copy of the book before it was released. I heard back from one of them within an hour. Again, I was transported. I had once asked this girl out via e-mail, it had taken her several days to get back to me that time, but on this occasion, I could tell she replied as soon as she saw the message. And it was really, really great to hear from her.
It took a little longer, but I heard from all but one. I tried that girl several more times, enough to where I’m pretty sure she saw the message at some point, but maybe not. I did have a dream about her the other night. In it she told me she thought the book was funny.
But I got a hold of everyone else and mailed them a copy of the book. And a letter. I told them some things I had never admitted to. And I warned them that in the book they now had, there would be many more things I had never said before.
And then I moved on. The book came out. People seemed to like it. A man I admire told me I “did a really brave thing.” I had former classmates ask me who the pseudonyms for each character were, but a lot of them could figure it out without my help. As much as I left unsaid during those years, I wasn’t really fooling anyone.
And then I heard back from a few of those letters.
One girl wrote me a letter back. Like an actual letter. She was pretty upset, but I understood why. I wrote her back. I told her sorry, but also clarified it was going to be one of those unsatisfying apologies where I say I’m sorry for how it made her feel but not for what I did. Because I stand by what I did. I was glad I said what I said.
Another girl sent me an e-mail. She told me she was surprised by what she read. She said that when I told her she was in it “sort of a lot” she was taken off guard by how much that “sort of a lot” was. She knew we had some sort of thing going on during high school, but admittedly it meant a lot less to her than apparently it did to me. At least not in a romantic sense. She thought we were just really close friends, and she felt a little sad to lose that version of me who meant so much to her. She really liked the version of me that she remembered, a version who didn’t obsess over her for years and clinged to her every word, desperately wanting to find their personal worth solely in her opinion of me. That wasn’t the person she thought she was friends with. And she really, really liked the person she was friends with. And I understood. I told her I understood. And I did.
Another girl loved the book, including the parts she was in. And she appreciated even when she was “called out” by me. And we started chatting a bit on Instagram afterward. Including on the day of her wedding, while she was getting her hair done. I got a chance to tell her how happy I was for her. How highly I thought of her. And how I hope she finds nothing but more happiness. I didn’t think it was a coincidence that we spoke on the day of her wedding. It felt fitting. I thought I might have married her at one point, but I married someone else. And so did she. And now we’re both happy. And both happy for each other.
But there were a few people who didn’t say anything. Nothing good, nothing bad—but I didn’t ask anyone to say anything. I wanted to say something, but it wasn’t mandatory that they responded. A lot of them probably felt weird about the whole thing and didn’t know what to say. Sometimes nothing needs to be said.
…
On the morning of my book release party, I was nothing but anxiety.
It would be a lie to say I was overwhelmed by the turnout. Frankly, I thought there would be more people. I thought I would sell more books. But I was overwhelmed by the individuals who came. By my first boss who drove over three hours from Kansas City just to see me and buy a book with more curse words in the introduction than he had said in in his entire adult life. By my 6th grade drama teacher who re-gifted a Barbie that I had painted to look like a cyborg—and given to her as a going away present when I last saw her over twenty years ago. By the friends, family, work colleagues, and former bandmates who didn’t need any pleading or coaxing to show up. Who just came because they wanted to be there. Because they were excited about this book that I wrote. Because they were in my corner.
I was thick in discussions with my old boss, I hadn’t caught up with him since he retired and I was eager for an update. But I had to ask him to give me a second. Someone had just walked in who I hadn’t seen for years. A beautiful young girl, with her husband and her two kids in tow. She looked a little unsure if she was in the right place, but one thing was clear. She wasn’t there to have me buy her a hamburger. But she was there to see her very first homecoming date.
