She's real, she's here, and she's beautiful

My book in my hands at last! Come and take an early look.

Jul 30, 2024

This was the moment every writer dreams of.

Every writer, maybe, except for me.

Truth is, in all the years I worked on my memoir — writing, rewriting, pitching, hoping, agonizing — I never dared look this far ahead.

Would I first lay eyes on my book in a bookstore window? Would it be the star of the show, winking confidently at passersby? Would it be lined up among other titles, vying to be the flavor of the moment?

Would I first lay hands on it on a bookstore shelf? Would my fingertips trail along the smooth wooden edge, like the blind heroine of a romantic film, tragic but brave, drifting past each cover until they rested on my own? Would there be an electric spark of recognition, some magic connection?

She’s here, I would say, voice quavering, tears brimming to the cinematic swell of an invisible orchestra, she’s here at last. (This book is most definitely a She.)

Getting the book written and published meant plodding, head down, one foot in front of another, one day at a time. Eyes fixed on what was right before me, on the chunk I needed to complete this hour, this day, and the one just after that.

I’d never visualized nor manifested; I had no vision board, no imagined scenario as my North Star. So I had no idea what it would be like when, this week, I saw and held my book in my hands for the very first time.

Neither did I know that for my book to reach me in this form, I first had to let her go.

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By her, I mean the book, of course.

Oh, don’t look at me like that.

History is littered with my peeps (writers, artists, creatives and nutjobs) speaking with their creations. Haven’t you ever had a conversation with something you’ve created? I highly recommend it. You might be surprised by what it has to say.

I barely recognized her when she turned up for our first adult tete-a-tete, sometime in February this year. I say adult, because my book and I have been in conversation for years, from the day she asked to be born.

She was a fragile creature, dependent on me for her existence. Like all newborns, her language was undeveloped: nudges, urgings, instincts. Learning how to listen better was my job: show up, slow down, eliminate distractions, tune out the world. The more closely I paid attention, the more clear and articulate she grew.

Soon, she could get entire sentences through, even if her timing needed work. Can you please come to me with this at some other time than 3:30 a.m.? I groaned after one too many nocturnal blurts, setting boundaries with my drunk dialing muse.

Like all parents, I was fiercely protective and more than a little obsessed. Her existence compelled me to act in her best interest, to reconfigure my personality and priorities, to rearrange my time and energy around her.

She needed me, and I needed her.

Four years passed in this way. (Who knows how book years, like dog or cat years, translate into human time?) Much happened: we found people, people found her.

Entrusting her to other hands like a mother commending her child to their first day of school, I found that I could breathe again, conceive of a life that was my own again.

When we came face to face once more, after we had both lived a little, I was taken aback.

She was a teenager! A sparkling, headstrong teenager, with real firework energy, as I had when I was sizzling and exploding everywhere. I recognized myself in her, for I had put so much of myself in her, made her as funny, confident, tender, joyful, honest and beautiful as I could.

But I had also identified so deeply with her for so many years. We were as enmeshed as any mother and child could be. And that wasn’t good for either of us. She had to make her own way now, and so did I. Who am I without you? I wondered, but that was a question for me, not her.

Instead I said: You’ve given me so much. More than I could have ever hoped for. What do you want?

Let me go, she replied.

I gulped down a sudden, visceral sadness. I didn’t want to be a helicopter parent, a control freak hovering over every detail of her journey into the world. So why was it so hard to let go?

I’ll come back, she said. And when I do, I’ll be more of myself than I already am. We’ll go places and do things and meet so many people. We’ll have so much fun together!

Promise? I said, sniffling.

I promise, she said.

Five months later, on the very afternoon I decided I was well enough to rejoin humanity and make plans for coffee on a sunny terrace, the postman rang as I was scrambling down the stairs and out the front door, forever late.

I swung open the door and as the postman thrust the box into my arms, I thought: Really, NOW? I can’t bring this with me! I can’t unbox my proofs with Eliane next to the bike lane on Haarlemmerplein! Fuck, I’m going to be late again!

I lugged the box containing the physical manifestation of years of hard work, blood, sweat and tears up the stairs, dumped it on the dining table, and actually said out loud: I’m so sorry! I promise I’ll open you as soon as I get back.

It turns out I wasn’t late at all. You never arrive anywhere before I do, Eliane marveled, gliding up to me on her yellow bike. It really took them three operations to get you working properly, huh?

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In the age of Tiktok and Reels, where emotionally heightened moments are filmed and condensed into 20-second offerings to the Holy Trinity of Algorithm, Reach and Engagement, of course when I got home I couldn’t just open the damn box.

It had to be an Unboxing. I had to make Content!

Succumbing to retail therapy in the darkest hours of my convalescence, I had purchased a ring light on a tripod for this very purpose. Not only did I feel as though I’d gone over to the dark side, setting up the whole kit to capture golden hour in my living room made me feel about as fresh and with the times as a barrel-aged barnacle.

Where is my photographer boyfriend now? I muttered (answer: actually shooting for a paying client), fiddling with knobs, heads and screws as my natural light intensified into a withering glare. I hoped the sweat now pouring off me would register on camera as a dewy, Gen-Z-approved ‘glass skin’ glow.

After a highly charged pause with my husband coming home from work, and a hug break with my kid who walked into frame, wearing an Oops face, I did it! I had to lie down for three business days afterwards, but I actually filmed an Unboxing! I made Content!

What do you mean, this is my life now?

Clearing away the wadded-up paper that had cushioned her journey, I lifted my book out of the box.

Of course I was prepared for what she would look like; I’d approved the cover myself. But no digital image could have prepared me for the euphoria and disbelief, or the strange and surprising sense of recognition that underpinned the mix.

There you are! I remember thinking. Oh, how you’ve changed!

Of course, I had changed too.

So much had happened since I had last seen her, that everything I’d written had been wiped clean from my mind. Crazy as it sounds, I couldn’t wait to read her again.

That night I curled up in bed with my book, marveling at the transformation of pixels into paper, introspection into ink, emotional labor into physical object.

Its incontrovertible reality was thrilling, but also scary. Everything I had done, said, thought and felt would now exist in the world forever. There was no going back.

But this was what I wanted, wasn’t it? To leave behind something that would last?

It’s a question I ask myself periodically. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? What the greatest commitments and passions of my life have in common is that the answer—even in the hairiest, most dire and confronting moments—is always yes.

Breathing in her new-book smell, her glowing swirl of colors gazing up at me, and enjoying her satisfying weight in my hands, I knew there could be no other answer.

So what happens now?

A limited number of these first copies, called proofs (also ARCs or advance reader copies) are making their way into the hands of ‘influential readers’ who can help generate early buzz for the book.

To celebrate, I’m giving away one very early, limited-edition proof. Yes, you can be among the first to read Ask Me How It Works: Love in an Open Marriage, way before it comes out in May 2025 from Viking!

To win, tell me: Who do you think should have an early copy of Ask Me How It Works?

Think personalities, podcasters, journalists, influencers, book clubs, or retailers who’d love the book, feature it, stock it, shout about it from the rooftops. Remember, EARLY BUZZ is the goal!

It could be someone you admire, follow, or even know personally. Maybe you're a relationship podcast junkie, know a great indie bookstore, or are 100% convinced your favourite Substacker would love my book. Hell, maybe Esther Perel is your aunt and you're seeing her at a family reunion this summer.

To join, like this post, comment ‘Ask ME how it works!’ below and hit reply to send me your tip VIA EMAIL ONLY.

The best tip gets a signed proof of Ask Me How It Works from me!

Letters by Deepa

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