Post-Publication Heartache. . . and Recovery

It’s been a long time since I posted Episode 13, so if you missed it or want to refresh where we are in the story, please click here.

A double, then triple-whammy of bad news challenged my commitment to my book and made me question my writing purpose.

Many authors deflate emotionally after their books are published. This is normal, the literary equivalent of a mild post-partum depression. After all the tireless work invested, the anticipation, and the excitement, the success of the book is simply out of your control. Carpool Tunnel Syndrome’s launch had been mighty respectable and I had a lot to be proud of. But in short order, I faced two personal crises that underscored this reality.

My mother had been unwell for many weeks and I became increasingly worried. While under a doctor’s care she continued to worsen, and I was becoming frantic. By the time she was admitted to the emergency room a few months later and comprehensive tests were finally done, it was too late. Her cancer had metastasized so thoroughly that no one could even tell its point of origin. Her spectacularly incompetent doctor had missed all the classic symptoms. All he could say was, “It’s a good time to gather the family around and look at family pictures together.” Truly, if looks could have killed he would have been dead on that hospital floor.

I was enraged at the doctor, but I also blamed myself for not having intervened much earlier. I was wrapped up with my family and yes, with my book. It is something I have had to live with ever since.

Mere months after its promising debut, Lisa was killing my book.

At the same time—because crises like to spontaneously replicate–that unease I always had about my unusual and untested publishing arrangement with Lisa proved to be prophetic. Her marriage was unraveling in an ugly and volatile situation. She warned me that she didn’t see how she could continue carrying out her agreed-upon role of managing book sales, distribution, accounting, and other administrative tasks. My job was pursuing marketing and special sales opportunities. I also shipped books to the distributor for every order, and spent a great deal of time standing in line at the post office, balancing boxes in my arms.

I hoped and prayed she wouldn’t bail. It’s not as if my book was the latest Oprah pick, selling by the tens of thousands. How much administrative work could there have been? But soon after, Lisa lowered the boom–she was shutting down her publishing company and declaring both titles she had just published out of print. I begged her not to do this, offering to handle any and all work involved in keeping my title alive. Once a publisher declared a book out of print, all sales from within the major industry inventory system would cease. The ISBN number, which can only be associated with one published version of a book, would be defunct. Mere months after its promising debut, Lisa was killing my book.

I was reeling from this crushing double whammy. I was utterly distraught over my mother’s diagnosis, unable to imagine my life without her in it. Yet I was also very angry at Lisa, even as I sympathized over her crumbling family situation. I reminded myself daily that even if I had to publish my book all over again, my marriage (thank God) was rock solid and my family life intact. Nothing mattered more than that—except for my mother having incurable cancer.

I began to cry a lot. During walks together in the late afternoon or early evening, my husband would play therapist, listening to me regale him with my publishing woes, which he already knew in great detail, while trying to help me figure out how to deal with Lisa and save my book. It was selling in small numbers, but selling steadily nonetheless. I felt wronged, aggrieved, and foolish for not having listened to my intuition in the first place. Could I even find another publisher to re-release it when its main sales strength had already waned? I had no choice but to search. I knew I was not suited to the administrative work involved in setting up my own publishing company, so at least I listened to that intuition.

My mother had been proud of me for having published my book, and I was grateful that she lived to see it and shep nachas, take great pleasure, as we say in Yiddish. Naturally, I had dedicated the book to her. This is how the dedication read:

“To my mother, Liebe Rosenfeld, who taught me from an early age that I could achieve whatever I set out to do. Her love, encouragement and strength continue to nourish me. . .

“And in memory of my mother-in-law, Laura Gruen, who passed away while I was writing this book. Her warmth and laughter are sorely missed.”

All I could do was to spend as much time with my mother as I could, and while she still felt reasonably well, she met me at a Chanukah boutique at a large synagogue where I had bought a table. Yes, this was after the unmitigated disaster of my having bought that table at the outdoor fair where we had a freak rainstorm in May and my only book sale resulted from abject begging. But THIS event, oh, this would be much different!

The women charged by me like warriors. I only offered reading matter. They were after the good stuff inside: Pashmina scarves. Handmade jewelry. Handbags of the softest pebbled leather.

I was assured that this would be a great place to sell my book. Hundreds of women with flush checking accounts and an addiction to spending would storm the battlements to shop till they dropped. They had even given me a table right at outside the hall, just to the side of the entrance door. Everybody would see me! Nobody could miss me! In another example of blind hope triumphing over cruel experience, I loaded my car with cases and cases of books. Who among these hundreds of Jewish women wouldn’t want my book for Chanukah? Jews are known to be the people of the book, but it should be “books.” Go to a Jewish house and see how many books are on the shelves. Naturally, these women would want one for themselves, and a few for their sisters, aunts, daughters, and friends!

I was well dressed, well made-up, and excited. Mom sat on a chair just a few feet away so that it didn’t look like I had brought my mom along to my lemonade stand. (This was her idea, not mine.) The women began surging in like a tidal wave as the doors opened. I had prepared a few greetings that I hoped would captivate shoppers.

“Hi there! Would you love to take home the gift of laughter?”

“Hi! Do your kids ever actually listen to what you say, the first time?” (I thought that would really be a showstopper.)

“Do you believe the government should pay for abdominal liposuction for America’s mothers?” (I didn’t actually say this. But might it have helped?)

The women charged by me like warriors. I only offered reading matter. They were after the good stuff inside: Pashmina scarves. Handmade jewelry. Handbags of the softest pebbled leather. Boutique clothing. This was a wealthy congregation and these shoppers were dropping thousands of greenbacks by the hour–inside the hall.

I greeted one woman I knew casually with a big smile. She had kids! I got her to actually pick up a book (halfway to a sale is when it’s in the customer’s hands, right?). She looked at it and said to me with a dour look, “I don’t have a sense of humor.”

This boutique was not quite the utter humiliation of the outdoor festival, and it cured me from ever, ever, EVER signing up for any sort of boutique or fair again. Even Jews didn’t buy books at these events.

I glanced at my mom, who had a pained look on her face. I was forty years old and my poor mother was watching me fail publicly at something where I had so wanted to shine. One of the things that had made her a great mom was that she never tried to protect me from life’s skirmishes. She knew I was a scrapper and had to learn to get up after getting knocked down. This was the last time she would be with me at a professional event, and I couldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me succeed. I felt worse for her than for me.

An early Chanukah miracle was that this boutique was not quite the utter humiliation of the outdoor festival. One case of books was noticeably lighter when I started loading the car up again after standing on my feet for seven hours. It also cured me from ever, ever, EVER signing up for any sort of boutique or fair again. I finally had learned that unless the fair was targeted to a bookish crowd, even Jews didn’t buy books at these events.

By the end of the summer, my mother had passed away. Lisa and I had resolved our dispute through a mediator, and I was shopping for a new publisher. I still had my big speaking event for Tuesday evening, September 11 at the Jewish Federation, and I was jazzed for that event.

But that morning, when my radio went on at 6:45 to the NPR station, I realized there would be no speaking event that night. I had difficulty absorbing what the reporters and hosts were broadcasting. The Twin Towers were collapsing in fire, and two other commercial planes had also been hijacked and crashed: one into the west side of the Pentagon; the other, United Airlines flight 93, into a field near Shanksville, Pennsylvania after a few incredibly brave passengers fought to regain control of the aircraft and divert it from its intended target.

The reporters seemed to be speaking just a half beat slower than usual, an indication of their own shock. I didn’t say anything to the children but got them ready for school as usual. Only when I drove up and saw the principal standing outside telling parents there would be no school today did the gravity of the situation begin to sink in. Of course there wouldn’t be school today. Despite our being clear across the country from the attacks, how could I have thought anything would be normal that day?

Our nation was grieving, but humor and comedy would return–and soon–because it had to. Humor isn’t a luxury, it’s a survival tool.

That night, huddled at home like the rest of the nation and listening to the news, people began to wonder aloud about when and where further attacks would take place. With L.A. the center of the entertainment industry and home to hundreds of thousands of Jews, our city would make an enticing target for Muslim terrorists.

Jeff and I had long anticipated that the day might come when it would become dangerous for us to be identifiably Jewish in public here in the United States, which, anti-Semitism notwithstanding, had been good to us. Were these attacks now the tipping point? Jews in Israel already lived with the anxiety of waiting for the next Intifada or violent riot to explode. While I worried and prayed for the safety of my people in Israel, that day, murderous attacks were no longer “over there.” Terrorism had hit home.

Almost immediately, articles began questioning whether anything could be funny anymore. Many comedy clubs closed temporarily. One article announced, “Humor Goes into Hiding.” The moment was raw, and our nation was grieving, but of course humor and comedy would return—and soon–because it had to. Humor isn’t a luxury, it’s a survival tool. It releases anxieties from shared fears and concerns. It lets us laugh at the absurd, and even to laugh at evil. We need this.

Despite this strong belief, I fretted that perhaps my humor writing was self-absorbed or trivial. We were living in an age of terrorism, and I also was an experienced feature writer on somber topics as well. Should I now focus my writing exclusively on serious topics? I asked my trusted and wise rabbi his opinion.

“Absolutely not,” he said. “We need to laugh now more than ever. Your work is important.”

Affirmations that he was correct began trickling in. First was an email from a woman who had read my book excerpt in Woman’s Day while in a doctor’s waiting room. “I want you to know you saved my life today,” I read in total disbelief. “I was so depressed by my medical condition that I wasn’t sure I wanted to keep fighting. You made me laugh, and it made all the difference.”

I was staggered. Her declaration that my light humor column had “saved her life” was a wild overstatement, but that’s how she felt about it. That was all that mattered. Then a casual friend in the market sidled over to me and said in a hushed tone, “I am so glad to know I am not the only one with an eleven-year-old who still eats with his hands!” She really was relieved!

I never again doubted that writing for laughs was in its own way, serious business.