A Hotel Room of One’s Own.

Last week, Amazon began shipping my book hither and yon (well, mostly yon). To people. I had been saving all my anxiety for August 10th, my actual pub date, and was unprepared when called upon ahead of schedule. (My fretting was still at the cleaners! My swivet was unironed! My lather was in no condition to be worked into!) But I managed—interrupting my jig of glee to wonder darkly whether it was too late to send some sort of mass email to…the world, informing them that it wasn’t my best work, that at least I learned the valuable lesson that six months is not long enough when it comes to book writin’ (I just came over all folksy there at the end, didn’t I?).
What if I’ve disappointed people I respect? I’d think, tormented. There are people reading my book right this very second, just ripe for disappointment!
But then the excitement was back: There are PEOPLE reading MY BOOK right this very SECOND! CAPS LOCK, EXCLAMATION POINT!

Anyhow, it’s available, if you are interested. I hope you like it. Every time someone says they do, an angel gets his wings I feel overcome. And if you like it, maybe you could review it on Amazon, or something? Don’t be shy! Now that it’s available to the general public, I feel certain the “don’t quit your day job” reviews are about to start pouring in. (Joke’s on them! I don’t have a day job! Oh, hell.)

Speaking of being shy: the upside of missing my flight this morning (after waking at five I arrived at the airport to find security lines so long I was told I was already too late 45 minutes before takeoff) was that I was spared having to be interviewed over the phone while still at LaGuardia, as planned. Instead, because my new flight was in the air at the appointed time, I got to reschedule—and just finished moments ago, safe in my hotel room. Interviews make me nervous under the best of circumstances, and answering questions in a teeming, echo-y airport terminal is…not them. My plan had been to get myself detained by customs so that I’d have a nice, quiet interrogation room all to myself, but I am relieved that this wasn’t necessary. I’m not really groomed for a cavity search, if you know what I mean.

Because of the flight snafu, most of my day was shot to hell. I was going to tramp around the whole damn city enjoying the hell out of myself, but I am sleepy and think I will settle for dinner and a cocktail in the bar downstairs. Tomorrow I will tramp around enjoying the hell out of myself in the morning, and in the evening the jittery machinery of BlogHer lurches into action. This year I’m not even nervous, if only because my excitement is bigger than my anxiety, and anyway my anxiety is busy with other things, like wondering what pictures they chose for an upcoming article, and more specifically whether the photographer was listening when I helpfully remarked that I liked that one, the one with only the single chin—or about the LIVE TELEVISION INTERVIEW I have to do, LIVE, next week on my way to another airport, and whether they could just shoot my shoes the whole time, and maybe have soothing musical interludes after each question to give me time to respond.

Oh, you are in for a treat, you poor bastards reading along. Me! On a book tour! It’s practically a book of its own. Possible titles I’m considering:
“Fear and More Fear in a Variety of Locations”
“Travels with Klonopin”
“Make Way For Agoraphobes”

Speaking of which, if you are going to be at BlogHer, please note that I will be signing books in the BlogHer bookstore on Saturday from 12:40 to 1:15. Come visit me! And if you can’t (WHY CAN’T YOU?) then at least come up and say hello if/when you see me wandering the corridors. (Here is my field guide from last year.)

A few weeks ago Simone’s Early Intervention therapists accompanied us to the Indoor Large Motor Play Area (complete with ballpit, which sent someone into paroxysms of ecstasy), and at one point a class entered, a class full of presumably developmentally quirky children of varying ages, all screaming and carrying on. I have my suspicions, in fact, that their volume alone was what qualified them for state services.
Anyhow, the OT remarked upon how well Simone was handling the onslaught. She didn’t appear to notice the commotion, gamely ignoring a foot that almost connected with her head as a ponytailed five-year-old boy dove screaming past her into the depths of the pit. No, Simone sat unruffled, fondly inventorying her precious spheres.
“She doesn’t seem bothered at all!” the OT marveled, and then she gave me a look.

I, you see, had both arms crossed taut and protectively across my chest, my right hand scratching compulsively at my left forearm, my brain flopping against its confines, wriggling and screaming GET OUT NOW! LEAVE THIS PLACE!

Had they bothered with such things when I was a youth, I would almost certainly have been diagnosed with some sort of sensory wonkiness, and every once in a while I will mention a fondly remembered childhood eccentricity and someone will stare at me in horror, or I’ll read a post by a parent of a spectrum-y child and think “Oh! Stimming! Is that what it’s called, that thing I do?” I have ADD, and an anxiety disorder with obsessive/compulsive tendencies. My mind is not able to prioritize, and experiences many stimuli simultaneously in a way that is extraordinarily overwhelming. It’s why I cannot go to certain movies in the theater. And more to the point, it is why in the setting of a large party or similar, I may seem a little distracted or unable to remember your blog (until later—I always remember later, and then I curse myself) or just plain uncomfortable. Please don’t be offended if this is so. I do well in small groups and around people I know, and I think this BlogHer will be vastly easier than last because I have already made friends and feel less like I am repeating my one traumatic, abortive trip to summer camp.

One-on-one I am almost TOO comfortable, as evidenced by the following partial list of topics covered during my recent taxi ride:

-Driver’s twin 13-year-old sons, who both play soccer, are identical (I saw pictures) and were born two weeks early
-Driver’s 17-year-old son, who is hanging out too much with girls and needs to lose some weight (he used to play soccer, but quit) (Driver’s stepfather played professionally for Colombia) (Driver played himself, then gave it up and got up to 260 pounds before a friend convinced him to take it up again seven years ago)
-The importance of Sport in keeping Youths out of Trouble (I was not much for Sport, and…well.)
-Metabolism, how it changes as we age
-New York City, liveliness of, lack of sleeping

I have lost my train of thought, so I will leave you with this, my favorite part of the final book cover:

I think a variation of that ought to go on my tombstone.