The Day After, Part Three

My publisher - who, of course, as you all know by now, is MaryChris Bradley of Buddhapuss Ink - and I, we talk a lot. We talk about small things like the weather and the yearning for a muffin, a new movie, and we talk about the big things, like publishing dates, book covers, reading tours and what to have for lunch and where when we meet this summer. Sometimes we talk first thing in the day (HER day), to check if the other is doing ok, to toss a "good morning" at each other before we settle down to a day's work.
Just like last Sunday. Here is how it went.

Publisher: "Good morning. If I tell you something very very very nice, will you promise to NOT talk about it?"
Me: "Uhm, sure."
Publisher: "You won an IPPY Award!!!!"
Pause.
Me: "What's an IPPY?"
A looooong pause at the other end, and clearly audible breathing. Calming breathing, too. I could actually hear her count to ten.
Then: "YOU WON AN IPPY AWARD AND YOU CAN'T TALK ABOUT IT UNTIL IT'S ANNOUNCED OFFICIALLY BUT I THOUGHT I'D TELL YOU BECAUSE I JUST WANTED TO READ MY EMAIL AND THERE WAS THE MAIL FROM THE IPPY PEOPLE!"

Really, she said it like that. In one long phrase, without catching her breath. I swear!
I went to google "IPPY Awards" while she was busy not fainting at my stupidity.
We talked a bit more after that, virtually holding each other's hands and dancing through the room, she calling me an "award winning thing" and I telling her she was the going to be running a BIG publishing house before she knew it, and naming her "Miss Six".
We both wished we could hug each other for real right then, but, well, distance and the Atlantic and all that.
My family, as always, greeted these news with their usual stoic "Aha..." and went on with whatever they were doing. They are like that. I mean, MEN. ("Is it something I can eat? No? Then please carry on!")

So here I was, with these enormous news, with this huge glittering marble of news, and I had to keep it under my tongue, lodged between my molars. It rolled around in my mouth, tapped insistently against my teeth, but I managed to keep it there for the four days it had to stay this well-kept secret.
Well, almost. I told my Mom. She was even more clueless than I had been, so she didn't even know where to take that information, and all was well.

Tuesday morning, 2 am my time, the winning lists were released. That meant it was 8pm Monday night for the publisher. So... I called her.
Me: "CAN I SAY IT NOW, CAN I SAY IT NOW???"
Publisher: "Not yet. Let me get the press release out first. I'll do it first thing tomorrow."
Sigh. That was a restless night.
There I was, the award winning author, and there was nothing for me to do but stare at the dawning sky and wait for New York City to wake up, to lie there in my bed and marvel at what was happening to me.

Three years ago, I decided to write a book. My first one ever, too.
Just over a year ago, I signed that first book deal with Buddhapuss.
This January, "The Distant Shore" was published, and hit the bestseller lists within hours. It sold out within hours! At the same time, before "Distant Shore" was even released, the publisher sent me two new book deals. They believed that much in me! And now, only a few months later, I can return that faith by winning this award for my publisher.

Yesterday, the "day after", I woke up in a funk. Mopey. It broke my heart that I won't be able to go to the award ceremony and pick up my medal, enjoy that moment of glory, but it's not to be. There's just no way it can be done.
Also, I had what the publisher calls "Impostor Syndrome".
Why ME? Of all those who entered that award, why was my book picked to win a medal? There are so many out there who work and write and work and submit and promote, and who've been at it for so much longer. They should be getting awards, not me.
Publisher brushed it away, called me silly (she likes to do that), and told me to get back to work.

Which I'm doing. Back to writing it is for me, since I promised to finish the trilogy before my summer travels.
Clothes shopping it is for the publisher, since she will go to pick up my medal for me at the awards ceremony. NO black, I told her, DON'T wear black like all those NY publishers, stand out, wear RED.
After all, we have reason to celebrate.
Here's the proof:

IPPY Award 2012 Winners List




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Talking To Jon Stone

                                                                                    (Painting: Eric G. Thompson)








There is nothing incidental about an interview with Jon Stone, songwriter and performer. Even the room where I get to meet him seems carefully set up, the chairs placed in just the right angle to catch the light, allow my illustrious guest to stay in command. His manager enters before him. Sal Rosenberg has been working with Mr. Stone for more than twenty-five years now, from the beginnings of his career here in New York all the way to world fame. He greets me with a friendly shake of his hand, offers coffee, and then stands aside to make way for the star.


Surprisingly, Jon Stone does not look diminished close up like so many others. There is less glamor, it's true, but he still seems larger than life, imposing, in control, and he is one handsome man. At forty-six, he is one of those guys who would make you turn your head and bump into doors if you met them somewhere on the street, tall, dark, and with a smile to fry your brain.
He also makes it very easy to start a conversation by chatting about the weather and the coffee, about the restaurant he and his band visited the night before.


"Our last thing together for a while," Jon says. "The tour is over, now we get to relax."
Very neatly, with one statement, he has completely unraveled my well-laid interview plans. His legs stretched out, coffee cup balanced on his knee, he waits for me to speak. There's an amused twinkle in his dark eyes, and I swear  I can see the corners of his mouth twitching.


"There is a rumor that this was your last tour."


A moment's thought, then a nod. "Yes, I think that's so. It has been a fun ride, but it's time to move on. I want to do something totally different, find out if I can do more than just write songs and perform them. Last year my wife and I wrote a movie soundtrack, and now we're going to stage the musical we created. Right here in New York, too. The auditions start in two months."


"You will do the auditions yourself?"


Again, that mischievous grin. "Oh yes, I'd not want to miss that for the world. My wife, she can't wait. She's really excited about working on the show."
He watches while I take my notes, patiently sipping his coffee. Sal is visibly bored, he's pushing sugar cubes around on the saucer of his cup.


"You have reached nearly every pinnacle in the music world," I begin, and stop again.
That man has the audacity to SMIRK at me!
"Yes?" Drawled out, full of laughter, as if he knows exactly that I'm about to wilt.
"And now you're going to stage your own musical, too. What is it that is driving you? You could well stop working and enjoy your success and wealth and lead a pleasant life."


Very suddenly, every trace of humor is gone.
"Driving me, " Jon repeats softly, "Driving me. There is something driving me, it's true." He sits up straight and puts down his coffee cup. "When I signed my first record deal I was delirious with joy. I couldn't believe my luck. For two days, I walked on clouds. And then..." A glance passes between him and Sal. "And then I felt it was not enough. I hired a vocal coach, a fitness trainer. Sal and I started looking for a band, and I wanted people who would be good to work with for a long time, who would walk this path with me. Friends, a musical family. But it was not enough."
This is startling.
"Not enough?" I ask.
"No." Jon stretches out his hand, and Sal puts a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in it. "It was a step in the right direction, but it was not where I wanted to stop." The smoke drifts between us, bluish and obscuring.
"I got my first gold record, my first platinum, and still there was this drive to prove something, to prove to myself that I was worthy of something." He pauses. "I've often wondered if this is something all creative people feel, the need to be more than just a normal human, leave a mark on this world, do something that makes a difference."
His gaze wanders toward the door and he falls silent.
"So this new project..." I prompt him, and he shakes himself out of his reverie. Again I get one of these dazzling smiles. No wonder he has so many female fans all over the world.
"Yeah, I can't wait! Working with my wife is the best thing that's ever happened to me. She's writing a book now, a novel, would you believe it." His voice grows soft talking about her, dark and velvety like molten chocolate. Listening to him gives me shivers. He isn't Jon Stone for nothing.
"She is so talented, a real artist, a wonderful poet."
Oh, now that makes me want to snicker. Here is the famous rock star, and he's raving about his wife like a teenager. Not sure his fans would like that.
Sal taps his watch, and Jon nods. "Time for me to go. My wife is waiting, I promised to take her out for lunch today. One more question."
"Your wife." Uh oh, this may be the wrong  direction. His brows draw together. "She is the heiress to the Carlsson Hotel emporium, right?"
His hand comes up to stop me. "Yes, yes, but she has decided not to work in the family business." With a sigh, Jon rises from the couch. "She is my wife, and she's my writer. There's no time for all that, and I'd hate for her to be away that much." The chin comes up. "We have many plans, and they don't include the Carlsson estate. We'll end this now."
Suddenly, the air in the room seems a lot cooler. I know I've hit a wall, and the interview is over. They leave, Sal and Jon, talking to each other, their minds already somewhere else, somewhere in their own world, and I'm left behind with cold coffee and an untouched plate of cake.