Sure, New York is difficult… but then again so am I

Or, I used to be. Hello, Lovelies…

Man, this news cycle’s a killer.

I think I officially ran out of spoons yesterday. I had to stay in my PJs today and comfort-binge the Hallmark Channel just to recover from the dumb patriarchy.

Don’t even get me started on the GOP-Brett Kavanaugh hypocrisy. It’s simply too maddening. Don’t people like Lindsey Graham and Mitch McConnell realize that if they were prospective jurors, they’d be dismissed for their prejudicial views? How do they NOT know this? But… Too many other positive, exciting things are happening!

My partners and I are shooting the teaser for a new neurodiversity-enviro thriller for Lionsgate Television. We have to move lightning fast to make our deadline, but we’ve worked on this one for a million years and so to see it actually becoming real has me holding my face and making ultra-high-pitched, joyous screaming noises that scare both the neighbors and dogs.

I’m launching a podcast with one of the coolest women on the planet… Jessica Keenan Smith from Living Well With Epilepsy. Yes, our foray into the big scary world of podcasting, (currently titled) Fits & Starts, will explore all the snarky, funny, and poignant sides of dealing with what can be a seriously humorless condition. We’ll be taping LIVE at EPIC Long Island on November 15th @ 7pm, which means there will likely be loads of bloopers. If you’re going to be in the area, come and laugh with us!

My book of ridiculous anecdotes about owning my inner electric goofball in Manhattan is coming out in six short weeks. We just had to shoot all kinds of crazy pics for publicity. I think I completely wore out my face and can no longer actually smile with my mouth.

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This is it for me…  Stay rad and safe, Lovelies – xoxo – gg

PS – Don’t you just ADORE that it’s finally lightly quilted vest weather?

 

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Fires, Dream Logic, and Weeding with Parker Posey…

Hi there, Lovelies,

How the hell are you? Here’s a photo from the fires (taken by the exquisite Claire Kimple). Such a powerful, quiet reminder of the ‘tude very much needed right now.

I’m sure it’s all the scorched earth… but I keep having these wildly visceral time travel dreams where I’m plunked down throughout life at my different old homes. The last one was in Vermont at a house I’d really hesitated buying. In the dream, I’m there in full-body-sensory-Technicolor-smell-o-vision. When I land, it’s always very Dr. Who and hapless as I’m typically in the yard one or two houses over. It’s usually snowing and I have to clomp back over to our house in my jams where I’m suddenly having this very David Mamet-style conversation with the new residents about having lived there eons ago. I hesitated over buying this particular house because our kids were still dinky and it was too close to the road for my anxious-mom taste. In the dream, the new people have redone the kitchen all wrong—excoriating the very heart of the house—the butler’s pantry and the dumbwaiter. And I’m there shaking my head my head at the tremendous loss when all at once, I’m physically ripped out of the dream muscle by muscle only to wake up back in NYC with my whole body clenched and sweaty. Somehow, it all feels very much like Kelly Link dream logic + Quilt Theory. (You know, from physics and the multiverse?)

Things I’ve loved this week…

  • It’s college drop off time, which comes with all manner of anticipation, grief and feeling just plain lucky. I happened upon this hilarious podcast adventure, and thought maybe this next act is The Parker Posey Phase of My Life?
  • When I want to remember how much I love writing by hand, Laura van den Berg, author of The Third Hotel reminds me.
  • When I need solid fashion advice I check in with Grace at The Stripe.
  • When I’m at work and want to stop feeling like Ingrid Bergman from Gaslight.
  • When I want to repeat myself (like the broken record that I am) about how women in STEM can be such a kickass setting for a riveting psychological thriller, I think of only of Megan Abbott’s Give Me Your Hand.
  • When I need to recall that the word “Hobo” comes from the phrase “homeward bound” and that they had their own mythologized code.
  • Why New Yorkers (and many other humans of the world) hate slow walkers.
  • RIP Neil Simon, because whenever I need a lift from our overwhelming world I always watch Seems Like Old Times.

Ok, back to school everyone… xoxo – gg

PS – Best shot from Seems Like Old Times

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When the Thing on the Inside of Your Head is Now Suddenly on the Outside

And in your hand!!!

Hello, Lovelies, Pardon the intermission. California is still burning, but I very much want to finish this story…

To recap: it is a dark and stormy morning the opening day of BookExpo where my first book was being featured. Somehow all the galleys have gone missing, then been found in a trash compactor room on the Upper West Side by a mysterious woman who has tracked me down in a city of 8.53 million people via my daft little website, and now she’s walking up to me in the lobby of her office. She looks just like Nancy Drew—but with hot-nerd glasses. She even has Nancy’s hair-flippy-thing that I always try to do when I’m blowing out my crazy bird’s nest (except I just end up looking frizzy, like Cher from the Witches of Eastwick.)

She’s smiling as she opens a farmer’s market bag topped full of my little book. I flip to the dedication page, immediately wanting to nosedive into all the ink and paper and cry. I never thought SPAZ (the original title) would get this far. I wasn’t sure I had the… discipline. So, I’m wobbly and I don’t know how to thank this woman. It’s too early for drinking. I realize I should be Instagramming and twitscaping all the promotional moments that you’re supposed to do as a first-time author. I should be completely jumping for joy, but instead, I’m frozen as I stand there thinking, “Oh, my fucking God, what if she’s actually read the damn thing? She must know what an absolute kook-a-doo I am, what with my ridiculous bionic face, my psychedelic seizures, and yodeling for speech therapy? Holy cats! I’m going to have a seizure simply from signing my book about seizures!”

I think Alain de Botton said it best: “If we are not regularly deeply embarrassed by who we are, the journey to self-knowledge hasn’t begun.” I am suddenly deeply embarrassed and thanking this perfect stranger when out tumble the words: “Would you maybe… like one?”

She nods eagerly as I search my bag frantic for a pen. I find myself consciously having to steady my hand as I sign the galley. Am I even doing this right? I whisper to her, “This is the first book I’ve ever signed.” Her eyes widen to saucers.

Moments later, I’m schlepping past the lions of The New York Public Library toward the conference. The sky is still so dark and thunderous. Just as I reach Bryant Park, the fairy lights blink to life in the trees as if by some odd magic, and I realize right then, after all this time… I am finally a writer.

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Hold fast and stay rad, Lovelies. xoxo – gg

And Then I Spied Her…

Continuing on from yesterday…

She was a total badass with a smirk. It was a riot of thunder and lightning as I schlepped from Grand Central to our appointed public meeting spot.

Just who was this mystery woman? This patron saint of lost galleys? Obviously, she was conscientious and proactive. But would she be judgy? What if she’d already read the book and thought I was a complete kook-a-doo? Would she simply drop and dash?

I feel like the unboxing of your first book is a big-ass deal that should come with a certain amount of pomp & circumstance. When the thing that’s been inside your head for years finally exists outside of it in the actual world, you just want to commemorate the f*ck out of itI’d planned to live tweet my unboxing with our badass doorwoman, Vilma. I also thought Ed could film me skipping down Broadway in a musical version. Now, because of the USPS, schedules, and racing to BookExpo, I was missing out on all that joy. The whole thing would need to be re-enacted like a true crime series, that much was clear.

I texted her as I entered the dimly-lit Art Deco lobby and checked my rapidly frizzing hair for the zillionth time. Then, out of the corner of my eye, emerging from the last elevator on the left, I spied her…

TBC’d tomorrow… last, coolest, part. Stay rad, Lovelies. xoxo – gg

 

Of All The Trash Compactor Rooms in the City, She Had to Walk into This One…

Okay, what’s the term for squealing and holding your face for five minutes straight after reading an email from a complete stranger who has tracked you down by way of your very tiny blog to tell you that… in a city of 8.53 million people, she and her super-thoughtful boyfriend have found a box of galleys of your very first book in the trash compactor room of their building? The stories you toiled over… That somehow had gotten lost in the mail… And suddenly your publisher doesn’t have any left. And it happens to be the first day of BookExpo? Does it qualify as an epic moment? I think it does. Whatever, it’s my truth and I’m standing in it.

You’d expect an entire girlhood spent devouring Nancy Drew would have prepared me for repeated head injuries, multiple chloroform-kidnappings, and clandestine meetings to do with lost papers… but Sarah R. actually giving a f*ck and rescuing my little book meant so much. I cannot thank her enough!

We’d arranged to rendezvous near Grand Central. It almost like felt a blind date or episode of Search Party. Who was this mystery woman? What should I wear to the drop? Should I try to look more like a writer? What does that even mean? I was so nervous! I kept checking my hair. It was a dark and stormy day out and I had yet to even hold a copy of my book…

TBC’d tomorrow! Stay rad, Lovelies – xoxo – gg

 

 

 

The Big Sleep…

Don’t you just love this picture of Joan Didion? She looks so vulnerable—like she just woke up from a nap.

Hi there, Lovelies. It’s 79 and gorgeous along the Hudson where I have been leaning out… way out over the last 6 weeks. Another shout from the cool, dark little corner of New York where the fan on my desk whirs away and I ponder over how to organize a new thriller tentatively titled MUSE WITCH BEAST. Again, all kudos and love to Jami Attenberg’s #1000wordsofsummer for fueling my creative sleep.

There’s a lot of connective tissue that remains to be woven across the bones of the monstrous creature but if I’ve learned anything at all from writing SPAZ (or Gotham Girl Interrupted as it’s now titled) it’s that the book you set out to write is rarely the book that gets written.

One minute you’re penning a heady little yarn about creativity, electricity, and the brain, the next you’re wading through the swampy musings of what it means to be the loudest mute lady in NYC, and now I’ve ended up with this very long thank you note to the people who’ve looked after me all these years of dealing with epilepsy. One thing I’ve noticed (and I don’t think I’m imagining it) is that as you edge closer and closer toward your release date, the more squirrelly people around you become. They’re entirely more careful about what they say in your presence. Their voices go up an octave, sharpening in this nervous, whistling-past-the-graveyard kind of way. It’s as if they are preparing to be completely horrified by some revelation, embarrassment, or cringe-worthy detail you may have included about them. Some go radio-silent altogether. It’s surreal.

There’s this awful story/rumor that came across my feed during final editing about a memoirist who wrote a tell-all of her marriage. Apparently, her husband read it and immediately committed suicide. The prospect of any reader feeling driven toward such tragic action by anything I might jot down completely terrifies me. We’re all unreliable narrators (even of our own stories) and what if we inadvertently trigger someone or everyone? Should there be some kind of warning label like at the beginning of Incredibles 2? It keeps me up at night. The thing I woke up to however during the writing process is that while my own style of comedy often vacillates between ridiculous self-deference and subversive snark, the target is always just me. I think I’d always rather have everyone else coming off clever and effing hilarious.

I want to ask other comedians and writers about this… I especially want to ask Ottessa Moshfegh if people she knows recognize themselves in her books, or is it all some kind of wild fictitious channeling? I am reading her latest about a white girl with a trust fund who self-medicates to the point of a near-continuous blackout in the hopes of changing her life in her sleep. Who knew self-destruction could be so entertaining? There are many days I would like to nap my way to a better existence.

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Her voice is intoxicating—with zero fear of the grotesque. She also portrays privilege in a manner that makes it hard to look away.

Alas, no big sleep for any of us yet…  Get outside today, Lovelies – XOXO – GG

How New York Breaks Your Heart…

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And face (in sixteen places)… could be another title for my tiny-little-potato-of-a-book. Yes, I buried the lede in my last post. It’s coming out this fall and I actually have a sneak peek available here!

An official playlist and silly trailer are in the offing. In the meantime, if you’re in the mood for a snarky, sweary, hilarious rant from The New Yorker‘s own Kimberly Harrington, give yourself, your mother, and all the other mothers you know Amateur Hour: Motherhood in Essays and Swear Words

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If you’re in the mood for something visually stunning and uber-New-Yorky, try Bill Hayes’s photography collection: How New York Breaks Your Heart. I can never look away from what he manages to always see.

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One day, all our kids will run off to New York. Back to panhandling words. Have a meaningful day, Lovelies – xoxo – gg