Sarah Pekkanen's Blog - Posts Tagged "the-opposite-of-me"
The best place for book lovers...
Last spring, I visited the most glorious place on Earth. If you're a book-lover, it doesn't get any better than this: a gigantic publishing convention smack in the middle of New York City. And here's the kicker -- everywhere you go, people give you free books! Books that aren't even published yet! Books that won't hit stores until this summer or even this fall! Authors and publishers smile and urge you on as you scramble to grab as many books as you can with your grubby little hands and load them onto the back of your husband/sherpa!
I need to take a deep breath; I'm getting verklempt.
Anyway, the event is called BookExpo America, and I went there to meet my Dutch publisher, some of my favorite book bloggers, and a few other folks. The free books were just a bonus. Oh, and did I mention that at some booths, they gave away candy? There were also massage stations. Seriously. It's as though the entire, multi-million-dollar event was tailor-made for me. There was no Brad Pitt sighting - really, the Expo's only flaw -- but Steven Tyler of Aerosmith and Clarence Clemons of the E Street Band were in the house. Who knew they had books to promote? My friend who got close to Steven reports that he has a completely unlined face, wrinkly neck - like his wrinkles all packed up and migrated south for the winter and have yet to make the round trip back - and an astonishingly creative and bizarrely random brain.
Also, there was a woman who appeared to be orange-ish (tanning bed mishap?) strutting around in a tiny bikini and holding a guitar. I think she was promoting a book about learning to play the guitar, but no one seemed to notice the book. And given that I never saw her actually play the guitar, I'm not sure she read it, either. SpongeBob Squarepants himself ambled by and handed me a pile of stickers to give to my kids. This was all juxtaposed with bestselling authors like Joyce Carol Oates, Mary Higgins Clark and Karin Slaughter milling around and signing free copies of their upcoming novels. God, it was fabulous. My husband Glenn -- aka The Sherpa -- and I took turns wearing Dylan in a Baby Bjorn as we spent hours walking around the Javitz Center and gaping. Have you been there? Definitely the biggest indoor space I've ever encountered. It was dizzying.
Baby Dylan was a champ. He crunched on a few books, dozed a bit, and tried to steal bites of the cake I'd scored from a booth that was promoting a book about how to make cakes (see! It just gets better and better, doesn't it?) Baby D also posed for a picture with a lovely editor from the Dutch publishing house that bought the rights to The Opposite of Me. It was humbling to see my name listed among the authors this great house in Holland translates and publishes - Steven King, Alexander McCall Smith, and Danielle Steele, to name just a few.
The night before the event kicked into high gear, my husband Glenn and baby Dylan and I went to the Javitz Center to register. We got our badges and decided to stroll around for a bit so I'd know where to go for my meetings the next morning. I really do tend to run late for everything - even childbirth - and I was trying to put forth the appearance of being somewhat professional. So we wandered through the cavernous building and found our way up to the International Rights Center, where I was meeting my foreign agent (she also brought chocolate to the meeting. Love her!) Then we walked back down another floor to where all the publishers had spaces decorated with posters and banners and bookshelves featuring their upcoming releases. It was strangely quiet in the huge building - just a few workmen were driving around forklifts with crates of books here and there - and the air seemed thick and rich with the promise of the next day's frenzy. I found the area reserved for Simon & Schuster (my publisher, Atria, is part of S&S) and wandered in, feeling like I was crossing the threshold into another world. Glenn and Dylan and I were the only people there.
I spun around, taking it all in, and I couldn't help it: my eyes filled with tears. Then Glenn snapped pictures of me standing there with a huge goofy grin on my face, and a few of me frowning importantly as I pretended to take a business call. I lifted Dylan high into the air for a final triumphant picture under the Simon & Schuster banner (that kid is getting heavy - no more chewing on books for him)! I still can't quite believe that all those hours with my laptop - squeezed in while the kids were at school, or early in the morning while the dog dozed on my feet - added up to this: Although The Opposite of Me won't hit bookstores until March of next year, the title on my badge read "Author."
I'm saving that badge forever.
I need to take a deep breath; I'm getting verklempt.
Anyway, the event is called BookExpo America, and I went there to meet my Dutch publisher, some of my favorite book bloggers, and a few other folks. The free books were just a bonus. Oh, and did I mention that at some booths, they gave away candy? There were also massage stations. Seriously. It's as though the entire, multi-million-dollar event was tailor-made for me. There was no Brad Pitt sighting - really, the Expo's only flaw -- but Steven Tyler of Aerosmith and Clarence Clemons of the E Street Band were in the house. Who knew they had books to promote? My friend who got close to Steven reports that he has a completely unlined face, wrinkly neck - like his wrinkles all packed up and migrated south for the winter and have yet to make the round trip back - and an astonishingly creative and bizarrely random brain.
Also, there was a woman who appeared to be orange-ish (tanning bed mishap?) strutting around in a tiny bikini and holding a guitar. I think she was promoting a book about learning to play the guitar, but no one seemed to notice the book. And given that I never saw her actually play the guitar, I'm not sure she read it, either. SpongeBob Squarepants himself ambled by and handed me a pile of stickers to give to my kids. This was all juxtaposed with bestselling authors like Joyce Carol Oates, Mary Higgins Clark and Karin Slaughter milling around and signing free copies of their upcoming novels. God, it was fabulous. My husband Glenn -- aka The Sherpa -- and I took turns wearing Dylan in a Baby Bjorn as we spent hours walking around the Javitz Center and gaping. Have you been there? Definitely the biggest indoor space I've ever encountered. It was dizzying.
Baby Dylan was a champ. He crunched on a few books, dozed a bit, and tried to steal bites of the cake I'd scored from a booth that was promoting a book about how to make cakes (see! It just gets better and better, doesn't it?) Baby D also posed for a picture with a lovely editor from the Dutch publishing house that bought the rights to The Opposite of Me. It was humbling to see my name listed among the authors this great house in Holland translates and publishes - Steven King, Alexander McCall Smith, and Danielle Steele, to name just a few.
The night before the event kicked into high gear, my husband Glenn and baby Dylan and I went to the Javitz Center to register. We got our badges and decided to stroll around for a bit so I'd know where to go for my meetings the next morning. I really do tend to run late for everything - even childbirth - and I was trying to put forth the appearance of being somewhat professional. So we wandered through the cavernous building and found our way up to the International Rights Center, where I was meeting my foreign agent (she also brought chocolate to the meeting. Love her!) Then we walked back down another floor to where all the publishers had spaces decorated with posters and banners and bookshelves featuring their upcoming releases. It was strangely quiet in the huge building - just a few workmen were driving around forklifts with crates of books here and there - and the air seemed thick and rich with the promise of the next day's frenzy. I found the area reserved for Simon & Schuster (my publisher, Atria, is part of S&S) and wandered in, feeling like I was crossing the threshold into another world. Glenn and Dylan and I were the only people there.
I spun around, taking it all in, and I couldn't help it: my eyes filled with tears. Then Glenn snapped pictures of me standing there with a huge goofy grin on my face, and a few of me frowning importantly as I pretended to take a business call. I lifted Dylan high into the air for a final triumphant picture under the Simon & Schuster banner (that kid is getting heavy - no more chewing on books for him)! I still can't quite believe that all those hours with my laptop - squeezed in while the kids were at school, or early in the morning while the dog dozed on my feet - added up to this: Although The Opposite of Me won't hit bookstores until March of next year, the title on my badge read "Author."
I'm saving that badge forever.
Taking my author photo... don't worry, Giselle - your day job is safe
I feel sorry for fashion models. Sure, those overpaid, rock star-dating freaks of nature don't usually conjure sympathy (despite their sob stories about being called --- gasp - "Giraffe legs" in junior high school). But two weeks ago, I had my author photo taken, and while I'm still not convinced supermodels should get the big bucks AND Leo DiCaprio, I don't think it's a completely cushy job any longer.
The photographer came over one afternoon during a narrow sliver of time when I'd organized a baby-sitter for my baby and a Wii extravaganza for my older kids. I was showered (a minor triumph), mascara'd, and though I hadn't managed to squeeze in a haircut or a trip to buy new Spanx, all things considered, I was feeling pretty triumphant about my grooming.
So there we were, me and the photographer, in my backyard, ready to take the picture that would proclaim to readers: See how friendly (but not too friendly, certainly not in a stalkerish way!) and smart (not too smart, though! No threats to you Mensa members here!) this author is? Isn't her novel just leaping into your hands and compelling you to start reading it?
The problem was, it was hot outside. Brutally hot. And I was wearing a sweater (even I knew better than to trot out my usual summer uniform of slightly stained Old Navy t-shirts).
"Perch on this chair," the photographer suggested.
I obligingly perched, smiled, and sweated while the camera clicked. After a few minutes, my thigh muscles complained about perching on the edge of a chair and suggested we all go inside for a little restorative chocolate treat.
"You don't look comfortable," the photographer said. "Maybe a different outfit?"
I raced inside, changed, came back outside, and posed again.
"Hmm..." Hilary the photographer said. "I'm not sure that shirt is the right color for you."
Since I know and trust Hilary - she shoots my photo for a magazine column I write - I dashed upstairs again to change. I tore through my closet, which was stuffed with shorts and t-shirts, maternity wear, and a few very outdated business suits. Where were all my clothes? My cute, trendy, flattering clothes? Did I really dress like this? The horror!
"Mom," one of my kids whined, "can we have popcorn?"
"I'm having a photo shoot," I said importantly. "You know, for my book." The kid looked at me blankly.
"The Opposite of Me?" I said. "Due out in March? At bookstores everywhere? Didn't Mommy teach you to say that whenever possible?"
"He bit me!" came an outraged wail.
"Stop fighting and I'll take you to the pool in ten minutes," I lied to my children, whose sense of time is seriously warped from scenarios just like this one.
"I've got to go," the babysitter said apologetically. "I have another job to get to."
"Let's put the baby on a blanket outside," I said desperately. "He can watch the photo shoot."
"Did you powder your nose? You really should," the photographer asked, clearly feeling this was no time for subtlety.
I powdered, brushed my hair, threw back my shoulders, and posed again.
"THARM alert!" The photographer shouted.
(A "Tharm" happens when you position your arm in such a way that it appears to be bigger than a typical arm -- more like a thigh. Like the Ebola virus and men with bushy toupees, it is to be avoided at all costs).
I shifted, sweated, and posed. The baby rolled off the blanket into the grass. The older kids made popcorn themselves and doused it with a pound of butter. Was the baby rolling onto a bee? Why were the older kids being so quiet inside? And why didn't I have cuter clothes? Wasn't it bad enough that I drove a minivan?
"Smile!"
God, it was exhausting. I'm still waiting for Leo DiCaprio to ring my doorbell and whisk me off to a private island to recuperate. Sadly, the only person who has shown up is a pimply teenager trying to sell me glossy magazines that feature supermodels (who I'm pretty sure have no "tharm" issues).
Anyway, the photo's up on my profile. And I'm taking a nap.
back to top
The photographer came over one afternoon during a narrow sliver of time when I'd organized a baby-sitter for my baby and a Wii extravaganza for my older kids. I was showered (a minor triumph), mascara'd, and though I hadn't managed to squeeze in a haircut or a trip to buy new Spanx, all things considered, I was feeling pretty triumphant about my grooming.
So there we were, me and the photographer, in my backyard, ready to take the picture that would proclaim to readers: See how friendly (but not too friendly, certainly not in a stalkerish way!) and smart (not too smart, though! No threats to you Mensa members here!) this author is? Isn't her novel just leaping into your hands and compelling you to start reading it?
The problem was, it was hot outside. Brutally hot. And I was wearing a sweater (even I knew better than to trot out my usual summer uniform of slightly stained Old Navy t-shirts).
"Perch on this chair," the photographer suggested.
I obligingly perched, smiled, and sweated while the camera clicked. After a few minutes, my thigh muscles complained about perching on the edge of a chair and suggested we all go inside for a little restorative chocolate treat.
"You don't look comfortable," the photographer said. "Maybe a different outfit?"
I raced inside, changed, came back outside, and posed again.
"Hmm..." Hilary the photographer said. "I'm not sure that shirt is the right color for you."
Since I know and trust Hilary - she shoots my photo for a magazine column I write - I dashed upstairs again to change. I tore through my closet, which was stuffed with shorts and t-shirts, maternity wear, and a few very outdated business suits. Where were all my clothes? My cute, trendy, flattering clothes? Did I really dress like this? The horror!
"Mom," one of my kids whined, "can we have popcorn?"
"I'm having a photo shoot," I said importantly. "You know, for my book." The kid looked at me blankly.
"The Opposite of Me?" I said. "Due out in March? At bookstores everywhere? Didn't Mommy teach you to say that whenever possible?"
"He bit me!" came an outraged wail.
"Stop fighting and I'll take you to the pool in ten minutes," I lied to my children, whose sense of time is seriously warped from scenarios just like this one.
"I've got to go," the babysitter said apologetically. "I have another job to get to."
"Let's put the baby on a blanket outside," I said desperately. "He can watch the photo shoot."
"Did you powder your nose? You really should," the photographer asked, clearly feeling this was no time for subtlety.
I powdered, brushed my hair, threw back my shoulders, and posed again.
"THARM alert!" The photographer shouted.
(A "Tharm" happens when you position your arm in such a way that it appears to be bigger than a typical arm -- more like a thigh. Like the Ebola virus and men with bushy toupees, it is to be avoided at all costs).
I shifted, sweated, and posed. The baby rolled off the blanket into the grass. The older kids made popcorn themselves and doused it with a pound of butter. Was the baby rolling onto a bee? Why were the older kids being so quiet inside? And why didn't I have cuter clothes? Wasn't it bad enough that I drove a minivan?
"Smile!"
God, it was exhausting. I'm still waiting for Leo DiCaprio to ring my doorbell and whisk me off to a private island to recuperate. Sadly, the only person who has shown up is a pimply teenager trying to sell me glossy magazines that feature supermodels (who I'm pretty sure have no "tharm" issues).
Anyway, the photo's up on my profile. And I'm taking a nap.
back to top
