If you pass on the name tag, maybe pin your latest book jacket to your shirt.
Scanning the room, it was like the high-school cafeteria all over again, and I had no one to sit with.
I felt painfully self-conscious when I was standing still.
I told myself, you’re a shark, you’re fine as long as you keep moving.
As I weaved through the tables, I held my head high, peering around as if I might be looking for a friend, all the while trying to catch someone’s eye for an opening.
But it wasn’t working. Everyone had their cliques!
The book industry is comprised of a lot of nice, normal people who work in offices, like the editors, agents, publicists, cover artists, booksellers, etc., who interact with each other often, plus the authors, who are hermit weirdos.
Ninety-nine percent of my professional life is conducted alone, behind a computer screen, usually eating something that drops crumbs on my lap.
I’ve published eight books over as many years, and I can count the number of colleagues I regularly interact with on one hand.
If book parties are high school, authors are Chess Club.
By the hors d’oeuvres, I zeroed in on a group of particularly smiley women, definitely not the mean girls’ table.
They said they worked for one of the big publishing houses, and I told them I was just finishing my first novel, and lo and behold, they asked me about my book.
I launched into my elevator pitch, excitedly thinking, oh my God, I’m doing it, I’m networking, I’m advancing my career this very minute.
The woman seemed into it, I thought we were really clicking, until she asked me, “What are the grades?”
“I’m sorry?” I carried a 4.0 in high school …
“The book, what reading level is it?”
“Oh no, my book is definitely adult. Well, not, adult-adult, not like porn.” I laughed nervously.
“We work in the children’s division.”
“Oh…” my voice raised an octave, “that’s nice.”
Welp, five minutes down, one hour and fifty-five minutes to go.
I was too intimidated to approach groups of four or more people. But I would hover around the smaller groups, and, if I sensed a lull, I tried to compliment my way into the conversation.
“Wow, I love your dress. Hi, I’m Francesca.”
It’s like a platonic, woman-to-woman pickup line.
I oohed and ahhed over so many outfits and accessories, my next career move should be on the Home Shopping Network.
I spotted a woman with the most beautiful curly hair, a pile of chestnut ringlets.
“You have to tell me what hair products you use, because your hair looks amazing.”
She lit up and we started talking.
“Okay, I’m buying all this stuff,” I said. “Thanks for the tips, we curly heads gotta stick together.”
She smiled, but her brow furrowed. “But you don’t have curly hair.”
My blowout! The essential part of my please-take-me-seriously disguise. I’d completely forgotten. I explained that I don’t really look like this, I just tried to change everything about myself for this event.
She laughed. I don’t remember what her job was, or if there was any purpose to our conversation, but we were buds for the rest of the party.
Next time I have to go to one of these networky things, I won’t come as a spy, or a shark, or a smooth-talking salesman. I’ll come as myself.
With a name tag.
Netflixxed
Lisa
I have never lived unplugged.
But I’m trying it now.
Let me explain.
I love TV, and I tend to keep it on all day long while I’m writing.
TV is my friend.
And TV is the perfect kind of friend on deadline, because it makes no requests like conversation, lunch, or a movie, but is content to play in the background of my life, an innocuous sound track of truck commercials, Real Housewives dilemmas, and Dr. Phil.
At my house, the doctor is always in.
Though I still miss Oprah.
She was my goddess.
I watch her channel too, but it’s so good that my emotions usually get engaged, which is a no-no during first draft.
Iyanla, fix my book!
And so for a while, the perfect solution was a cable news channel. I thought it would keep me up to date on important things, but as the election got closer, I thought there were a lot of pundits who didn’t know anything, wildly careless statements, rehashed speculation, and coverage better suited for the trotters at a low-rent racetrack than the presidential election of the United States of America.
The same thing happened with social media, like Twitter and Facebook. No matter which candidate you liked, I don’t think any of us liked the media coverage. And it continued even after the election, which was when I finally decided to pull the plug.
Well, not completely.
I’m not insane.
Because when I got my new remotes, I happened to notice that Netflix was offered on my television.
Wow!
What a country!
I had only rarely watched Netflix before, mainly for television shows I had missed in real time, but suddenly there it was, staring me in the face.
A:-) in a pink block, with my name underneath: lisa
How cute is that?
So I clicked and went through the torturous log-in procedure, where you spell your long Italian-American name into a bewildering seek-and-find of letters and numbers.
It’s not a login, it’s an IQ test.
And once you pass that, the menu isn’t much easier. I had a hard time trying to find movies and TV shows, and more than once I had to resort to another seek-and-find.
Netflix, help a sister out.
But after a while, I got the hang of it, mainly because I started with the comforting SUGGESTED FOR YOU shows.
I must admit, I like this idea.
I usually make all my decisions on my own, and though I know how lucky I am in that, I also understand why a corporate CEO will go to a dominatrix for sex.
Once in a while, it’s nice to let someone else decide.
Especially if they make good decisions.
And they pay attention to your safe word.
Mine is Bradley Cooper.
So I started following the Netflix suggestions and I began to fall in love. Not just with the shows, but with Netflix. It understands me better than any man I’ve ever married or divorced, and not only that, it listens to me. It notices what I like and gives me more of it, as if it really cares.
Netflix, marry me?
I cannot be the first woman who’s felt this way. We’re such easy creatures, we females. Maybe there’s an algorithm in our ovaries.
What do women want?
More of what we like and less of what we don’t.
If Netflix can do it, why can’t men?
So for the past week while I write, I’ve had on the soothing background music of every single crime drama ever produced.
In the world.
The American ones are awesome, like Bloodline, and I also love the ones out of the UK, like Happy Valley and The Fall. Though I admit I had to put in the subtitles to deal with the British, who clearly speak English way better than we do. And also have a completely different vocabulary of curse words.
Bollocks!
It sounds like buttocks, but it’s not.