Rachel Simon's Blog

Today, May 4, 2011, my new novel, The Story of Beautiful Girl, hits the shelves. The journey to publication has been a thrilling adventure which I’ve chronicled in this blog for the last year.

I’m posting a photo card below to thank you for joining me on this journey. It includes pictures you know from my posts and people you know from my books. It also has a few fun extras, like the cover of a book that influenced me before I even began the first draft, and artwork that will appear in my upcoming talks – and that depicts a key moment in the first chapter.

After you click on the big arrow in this photo card, you won’t need more than 5-10 seconds to view it – unless you drag your mouse over the card, at which point you’ll see a magnifying glass that will allow you to enlarge the pictures. Then, I can assure you, you’ll want to spend a little more time looking at everything.

I wasn’t able to include a few of the latest images: an ad in this week’s New Yorker (the 5/9/11 issue, page 4), and an ad in this coming Sunday’s New York Times Book Review (the 5/8/11 edition).

But I have been able to add lots of fun new treats to my website, including a clip of the first chapter from the audiobook, and a link to the new Beautiful Girl Fan page on Facebook.

Also, you can now order rather than pre-order the book by going here. Better yet, just head out to your local bookstore, where the booksellers will be very happy to see you.

Hope you enjoy this photo card – and, now that it’s finally available, The Story of Beautiful Girl.

This digital collage created with Smilebox

I was walking briskly down 6th Ave. in Seattle early this morning, on my way to my first public appearance for my upcoming novel, when I hit a perplexing intersection. From the map I’d received at the front desk at the Vintage Park Hotel, I knew I was supposed to stay on 6th Ave. until it crossed with Thomas. I also knew that the usually straight 6th Ave. bent a few times. And now, standing at the first of those bends, I was so confused by the odd angles at which the streets met and the way the signs bore little resemblance to the direction of the streets they were identifying, I stopped dead in my tracks.

Fortunately, the light was red, and in Seattle, unlike in the Northeast, where I’m from, pedestrians don’t just sashay across streets whenever the traffic diminishes. One waits at red lights, and as I was waiting, completely unsure of how to proceed once the light turned green, I glanced at a tall, bearded man who was approaching the intersection.

“Excuse me,” I asked. “Which way do I go to stay on 6th Ave.?”

He smiled, apparently understanding my confusion. Behind his salt-and-pepper whiskers he had a face that was equal parts amused and sad. At that moment the light turned green. “Just go this way,” he said, stepping into the intersection beside me.

“As you walking down 6th?”

“For a little while.”

We crossed the tangle of roads, and he said, “You’re from New York.” It was more of a statement than a question.

“Well, no. I live in Delaware. I was born in north Jersey.”

He said, “I’m from Wilmington.”

“How about that,” I said. “That’s where I live now.”

“Ah,” he said. “There are no coincidences. Why are you in town?”

I explained that I was a writer and that my publisher was sending me around the country on a pre-sale book tour, so I could have a series of private meetings with booksellers to talk to them about my book. I added that I’d set up as many extra events as I could possibly schedule with people in the disability community in each city, and I was on my way to one of them now, a reading and informal discussion at The Arc of King County.

He asked to see my book, which I showed him as we crossed the next street. Then he smiled yet again, though this time somewhat wistfully, and said, “I’m a writer, too. And today is the anniversary of the one book I published.” It was with a major publisher, and was about the death of his wife from cancer. I understood then where the sadness in his face originated. “But you know what it’s like,” he said, indicating my being the sister of a woman with a disability. “You just keep going and make the most of what you have. That’s all you can do.”

Then he stopped and said he was turning here. I asked his name – Lon Elmer, he said. He made sure I knew where I was going – “toward the Space Needle, though don’t waste your time going there.” We wished each other well, and continued on our separate ways, and, although I didn’t wholeheartedly embrace his statement about coincidences, I did marvel at how perfectly this encounter fit the Seattle leg of this trip.

It began shortly after a cab ride to the Portland airport, where Evan, my publicist at Grand Central Publishing, and I were scheduled to catch a plane to Seattle. We got to the gate, settled into our seats – and learned that the flight had been canceled. Had I been traveling alone, I would simply have asked to take a later flight. But Evan, having access to the home office in New York and his extremely efficient assistant, said, “Let’s rent a car.” And then he added the words I always use myself whenever I hit some traveling snafu: “It’ll be an adventure.” Arrangements were made, and soon we were climbing into a gigantic vehicle, putting our Seattle destination into the GPS, and heading north to Seattle.

I’ve spent a lot of time in cars driving between speaking engagements, and I always enjoy the long, meandering conversations that can ensue. So I made the most of this unexpected opportunity, as did Evan, and we had a fun, lively, interesting, entertaining conversation for the next three hours – about life, love, and publishing. And incredibly, this all played out on one of the sunniest and warmest days that Northwest had had in ages. We could see far and wide, and when Mt. Rainier came into view, its snow-capped top was completely unobstructed by clouds.

We reached our hotel in downtown Seattle at 3 PM, which gave us three hours to catch our breath before our dinner with booksellers. Wiser writers than I might have rested, but how could I not take advantage of the opportunity? After all, it was a clear, warm day in Seattle, a city I’ve visited only twice before, and each time just for a day or two. More importantly, my wonderful friend Pam Carter, a teacher and writer who was my geology lab partner in college, lives in Seattle, and when she learned the day before that I was going to be in town – and that her schedule would be free – she said, “Let’s get together!”

So I called, and twenty minutes later, Pam was at my hotel door. We were both so excited – about her recent writing successes, about the fact that I was in town for such a rare and thrilling publishing experience, and about the magical good fortune of our being able to have two hours together – that she said, “Can we just hug each other and scream?” “Yes!” I said, and we threw our arms around each other, and screamed with joy.

Then we zipped outside to get in a brief walk on such a beautiful day. She informed me that the strange building across the street from my hotel was the internationally famous Seattle Public Library, which was designed by one of the most prominent living architects, Rem Koolhaas. I took a quick photo of her there, and promised myself I had to get inside the building, even though I would barely have the time the next day. I certainly didn’t have the time now; Pam wanted to walk me to Elliott Bay, several blocks downhill from my hotel.

We went out on a dock and talked about writing and revision, and poetry and plays, and how to deepen a character, and how to decide when a work is actually done. We talked too about grief, and the role it plays in our lives, and the lives of people we write about.

After a cup of tea – yes, in a Starbucks (they are literally on every corner in that part of town) – we sadly said goodbye, and five minutes later, I was walking into a private room in Tulio Ristorante, the hotel restaurant which had been reserved for my next bookseller dinner.

As in Portland, the sales rep had taken great care to create an inviting atmosphere. She’d displayed copies of my galley in a wall unit, alongside bottles of wine. She’d printed a beautiful menu with The Story of Beautiful Girl across the top. And she held my hand and said, “I just finished your book and I loved it,” and her eyes glistened with tears.

Then the booksellers arrived – from Elliott Bay Books, the Third Place, and the University Bookstore. I had realized after the dinner in Portland that I wanted to know a lot more about the booksellers’ stores, and lives, so as I chatted with the Seattle booksellers over finger food, I got to know each person much more specifically than I had in Portland. I regretted that I hadn’t thought about this until my second dinner, but was glad it hadn’t taken me until my eighth. And I learned that one had just studied scuba diving for two weeks. Another had spent three summers cooking meals for a hostel in Alaska. Another had been a teacher, for, it turned out, students with disabilities. And one had asked to attend the dinner because she was a big fan of my last book, The House On Teacher’s Lane.

By the time we sat down to eat, I felt relaxed. Indeed, I hadn’t realized how self-conscious I’d felt in Portland until I felt so much more at ease in Seattle. Was this the result of Portland being my first dinner on the tour, Seattle the second? Was it the result of having had a fabulous day with Pam and Evan? Or was I just feeling less like someone who had to be On, and more like a person who was simply enjoying the evening?

Again, I spoke about the book, and the booksellers asked questions. Again, questions were phrased carefully so the many who’d finished the book didn’t spoil anything for the few who hadn’t. This time, I also felt more comfortable referring to my sister Beth, quoting her frequently. Because she’s so cheerful and spirited, these moments added a lot of levity to the discussion – and they also made me feel all the more at home.

By the time the evening drew to a close, the room was so full of warm feelings that goodbyes were sealed with hugs.

And that would have been it for Seattle…were I someone else.

But as readers of the first post about my pre-sale tour know (and as they read in the first post from Portland), I’d reached out to people in the disability community to see if anyone wanted to meet up with me. And in Seattle, the person who responded was Sylvia Fuerstenburg, the Executive Director of The Arc of King County. She asked if I’d come to their offices the morning after my bookseller dinner to talk about The Story of Beautiful Girl. I said yes, absolutely. To my surprise and pleasure, a friend of mine who lives about an hour away, Raphielle Chynoweth, found out about my being in Seattle. She managed to get the day off from work so she could attend the event with me.

This was the event I was walking to when I encountered the writer who helped me traverse the intersection of bent roads.

I’d hadn’t prepared what I’d say to the room of people who showed up for my discussion. But it seemed I hadn’t needed to; I’d been getting enough practice at my bookseller dinners, and anyway, the people in the room already knew individuals like my sister, and Beautiful Girl, and the love of her life, Homan. In fact, they knew those individuals so well, some of them waited until after I was done speaking to show me a photo of a woman, Cathy, who’d lived a life very similar to Beautiful Girl’s. She had passed away unexpectedly only a week ago – just at the time when Sylvia Fuerstenberg heard from me. And I understood, as one person in particular welled up, that my book gave her something – possibly hope or strength, possibly an affirmation of her love – that meant a great deal to her at this sad time.

Then Raphielle and I went back to my hotel. I asked if she might have any interest in going to the Seattle Public Library – and she said, “Yes!” She’d been wanting to see if for the last month, and this was her chance.

So we ran over to the Seattle Public Library. There we wandered beneath sloped ceilings, up yellow escalators, along slanted floors. It was artistic and dreamy and complicated, and once we lost our way and weren’t sure how to get out. But we were with each other, and so we had faith we’d find our way.

She brought me to the airport after lunch. And after we’d said our goodbyes, and I’d made my way through security, I came upon a glorious work of glass art. I thought about the glass installation I saw in the Philadelphia Airport when I left for this trip a few days ago, and how it seemed, in some way, like a wonderful omen. And now I was getting another.

Happy with this thought, I got onto the plane for my flight to my next dinner, in San Francisco, exhausted but too pleased to care. As I settled into writing this blog post, I happened to glance at the person beside me. He was a man about my age, reading a novel by Jonathan Letham. I made a casual comment about always wanting to read Letham, and he made a casual comment about being in the book business.

Impossible, I thought.

“What do you do?” I said.

“I’m a sales rep,” he replied.

I told him why I was on this airplane, and when he asked who my sales rep in San Francisco was, he knew him – and all the booksellers I’d be meeting. “You’re in good hands with those people.”

Coincidence? Certainly. Serendipity? Absolutely. Does it mean anything? I don’t know.

But this I do know.

I thought, when I’d gotten ready for this pre-sale tour, that I’d be on a busy trip that was all about business. But it turns out that it’s also been about something else.

Sometimes you find just the person you need at just the right time. And when they give you something you need – an adventure, a dreamy walk, a screaming hug, a path that transcends all that’s bent and confusing – or you give it to them, for just that moment, the world seems brighter, and you, no matter how long or hard your grief, feel a little better. It’s like being in Seattle in the middle of the winter – and waking up to a beautifully sunny day.

This video about book cover design aired on Dec. 19, 2010, on CBS Sunday Morning. The reporter was present at the offices of Grand Central Publishing when the book cover meeting for my upcoming novel, The Story of Beautiful Girl, was held over the summer of 2010. To my delight, the wonderfully eye-catching cover they decided on in that meeting – a cover I absolutely love – is featured from the 1:07 to the 1:20 mark in your time counter. As a reminder, the novel, along with the audio, e-book, and large print versions, hits the shelves on May 4, 2011, and is already available for pre-order. See this link for a reader’s guide and ordering information.

The editor of my upcoming novel, The Story of Beautiful Girl, told me a few months ago that some of her colleagues loved the book so much, they wanted me to come to New York so they could meet me. This was wonderful news, and also surprising, since the book isn’t due out until May 2011 and the production process is only in its beginning stages.

The meeting, which happened this past Wednesday, was scheduled for 3 PM, but my thoughtful editor set things up so I wouldn’t have to show up at the offices of Grand Central Publishing ten minutes beforehand and get escorted directly to the conference room. Instead, she set up the prelude of lunch at a very nice restaurant nearby. She included the publicist who’ll be shepherding my book into the world, Evan Boorstyn, and my agent, who shared the good news that the book rights had just been sold to the United Kingdom.

When the four of us first sat down at lunch, I was surprised to find myself a little nervous. It had been several months since I’d had a publishing lunch and I needed to get back into practice. But the main reason was that it was clear that Grand Central Publishing was incredibly enthusiastic about my novel; the 3:00 meeting was going to be attended not by a handful of people, but by many of the major executives in the house.

Lunch was served, and at first I uncharacteristically lost my appetite, as I simply felt as if this were happening to someone else. My editor briefed me on how the meeting would proceed, letting me know that she wanted me to speak about my experiences as a bookseller at Barnes & Noble and about the writing of the book. The whole thing, she said, should last ten to fifteen minutes. Fortunately, I then started telling everyone at the table about the people in the disability community to whom I’d already spoken about the book. And the more I spoke about the world in which I resided – the world of service providers, direct support professionals, self-advocates, the sibling community, etc. – the more I lost my sense of awkwardness.

So with my confidence coming back, we all walked the block to the publisher’s building: a tall, granite-and-glass tower with a cavernous, spare, austerely dark atrium. The glass-backed elevators, which look out onto the atrium, have no buttons to press for your destination floor; you just have to know to program them prior to boarding.

My editor’s assistant brought me to the conference room. A few people were already inside so I waited in the hallway. Some executives came up to me as I stood outside the door and talked about their love of the book, and as they did, I could see in their faces that they were deeply moved. This was an amazing moment for me, because it was so similar to the private, very emotional exchanges I have with people on book signing lines after my talks for Riding The Bus With My Sister. And so I reacted just as I do then: with a surge of warmth and gratitude, a holding of hands, and a sense that I too could show my emotions freely.

And suddenly, out there in the hallway, I realized that if I thought of this as a talk rather than a meeting of executives, I’d feel totally at ease.

By the time the meeting began, moments later, the room had filled. I began by handing out a gift I’d brought, a box of chocolates made only in Delaware (thank you for the suggestion, Marilyn Paige!). As it turned out, this gave me the opportunity to relate how, while walking through downtown Wilmington to reach the candy store two days before, I’d been ambushed by ABC news and asked to comment on Christine O’Donnell’s witchcraft. Yes, a very, very short clip of my response appeared about a minute and thirty-five seconds into a story on Diane Sawyer’s show Monday night, but more importantly, the box of Govatos chocolates allowed the meeting to begin with laughter and sweets.

I then talked, responded to my editor’s prompts, and responded to questions, for almost forty minutes. I talked about the historical person whose heartbreaking story helped inspire the book. I talked about how being a sibling of a person with a disability gave me the background to write the book from multiple points of view. I talked about the different spiritual reactions that each person in the book has to their part of the story. Of course, I also talked about my experiences on the road giving talks for Riding The Bus With My Sister, and the people I’ve met whose struggles and triumphs made me feel this book was important. But my focus was on the characters in and writing of The Story of Beautiful Girl. And as I continued from one question to the next, looking out at the people in the room, I saw their faces reflecting the deep emotions I’d felt when I’d sat alone in my chair, writing this story.

After I wrapped up the talk, people came up to me in small groups and talked about how much they looked forward to doing their particular job (in sales, marketing, publicity, etc.) to help generate an audience. Things started to feel very surreal at this point, given the intensity of the enthusiasm, the high hopes they have for the book’s reception by readers, and, most importantly, the increasingly strong possibility that the disability-related issues in the book will get heard loud and clear by so many people unfamiliar with them.

Afterward, I made my way to the train in a lovely daze which lasted until the next morning. Then my sister called, using a cell phone she borrowed from one of her beloved bus drivers, and in her usual speeding voice, told me about the latest goings-on: her own recent meeting, which was with her service provider; her boyfriend’s search for a new place to live; and the change in the seasons and how she was not going to wear a jacket yet, no matter who else around her thought it was cold. My spirit immediately drifted back to my regular life.

But it was regular life with a thrill running through it. I don’t know how high this elevator is going, and I sure don’t know how to program it. I just trust that it’s taking me to a place where hands will be held, emotions will be shared, and people like my characters – and my sister – will help me feel completely at home.

When I was a kid, I got tired of the one question clueless adults always seemed to ask little kids: “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Perhaps I’d have felt differently if I’d been born into a world where women had the range of opportunities available now. But in the mid-1960s, when I was entering elementary school, and got pelted with this question entirely too often, the options for girls appeared to be: teacher, nurse, mommy, ballerina. I knew these were the right answers, yet I couldn’t bring myself to say them.

So one day, while my mother insisted that I lie beside her on the sofa while she napped, I came up with an answer that I could live with. I would become a writer.

This response didn’t only put that irritating question to rest, it also gave me a goal. Yes, I would be a writer. From then on, I just worked toward that goal, and nothing ever since has had nearly as much appeal to me.

At the time, though, I didn’t know that writers might have choices, too. Certainly I knew about newspapers, magazines, television, and commercials, though I’m sure I knew nothing about the distinctions between reporter, commentator, advice columnist, feature writer, script writer, copy writer, editor, and all the other possibilities that interest people with writerly inclinations.

The only kind of writing that even crossed my mind was book writing. Perhaps this was because we went to the library every few days, and, in fact, my mother was studying for a Masters in Library Science. Perhaps it was because, while there were newspapers and magazines strewn about the house, they were far outnumbered by books. Or perhaps it was because something in me just knew that the long form matched something in my spirit.

Once the idea took hold, it never left.

As I grew into my teens, I did try poetry and plays, but I always returned to book writing. I wrote several novels, or, to be more accurate, novellas. Even short stories seemed more appealing when I pulled several together to make a collection. I simply preferred to settle into my ideas and stay with them for months at a time.

I’m not sure why. I just enjoyed the slow, steady pace of long works.

The years passed. I became an adult and I published several books. I also tried my hand at shorter forms, and for a while I wrote commentary for The Philadelphia Inquirer. I enjoyed the quick bursts of ideas and energy that those pieces required, and they did keep me going between books, but I couldn’t wait to get back. It was like the difference between speed dating and marriage. The novelty and rapidity of the former brought sparkle to the few hours I needed for each piece. But the contemplative comforts of the latter brought new depths to my soul.

Then came the blog.

It was a new kind of short form. It didn’t have to be commentary – or reporting, or advice, or anything in particular. The only requirement was brevity. Which is a tricky proposition for someone who favors length.

I resisted starting a blog for a long time. In fact, it was so long that by the time friends, acquaintances, and publishers had convinced me to start one, the form had almost been left in the dust by an even shorter form, Twitter. Oddly, I took to the miniature quality of Tweets more easily than the comparatively gargantuan blogs. But I needed to have a blog, people said. And, despite feeling constrained, I found that if I wrote them as if they were personal essays, I loved producing them – even if some ended up being longer than people expect for a blog.

“I really liked your last blog,” came a typical email from a relative who will go unnamed, but whose birthdays I’ve acknowledged every year I’ve been alive. “But I read it when I’m at work, and I just can’t put in that kind of time. Can’t you write shorter?”

“I’ll try,” I wrote back. And I did. But the next entry would be even longer.

“I’m just doomed to be a book writer,” I’d bemoan to my husband Hal.

“So what?”

“But there are so many people – like my [intentionally left blank] who want me to write more succinctly than I seem able to do.”

“Do it the way you want.”

“And also, to do them justice, they’re taking me hours. Well, actually days.”

“I know. I see it happening.”

“And I don’t know that I can keep taking that time.”

“So take a break,” he said. “Don’t keep up with your blog. Think of it as a writer’s vacation.”

Coincidentally, this conversation occurred right at the start of this summer. I’d just begun to sink into a new long writing project, and didn’t want to interrupt it to answer emails, much less craft a meaningful blog.

Before I knew it, a month had passed.

Two months.

I did a lot of travel. Hal and I had some unexpected adventures.

Three months.

Finally I decided that for the time being, I would shift my blog from being modeled on the personal essay to being more like a photo essay. So this entry is both a confession of my struggle to adhere to the requirements of this form – and an introduction to the next several posts, which will will take you through my summer in the form of brief photo narratives.

So Unnamed Relative and the many friends who’ve asked why I haven’t posted anything, you can consider this switch being for you.

But it is also for the little girl I was back that day when my mother was asleep and I was trying to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up. At the time, that little girl read lots of books. They all had words – but they also all had pictures.

And here were some of my favorites.