Thursday was such a spectacular day that I have to share it with you. I took the drive to Sydney to meet the staff at Simon & Schuster Australia, who are publishing Vivian Rising here in my new home this February. It’s my first launch here and I feel like a virgin at this business. So far it’s a dream. You will just die when you see their cover. It’s gorgeous, just like the people there that I have the amazing luck to work with…they even gave me one of those divine pigeons for the cover. How did they know how much I love that pigeon? And what kind of a sign was this divine rainbow (pictured) that formed in my path as I left their office?
At the S&S AUS offices we had a meet-and-greet, and I shared the story of Vivian Rising’s inspiration and the discussed the formative powers of family and love that shape us—themes which continue to inform my writing and attract my fascination. They had all read or were reading Vivian and there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. I can’t remember such a fulfilling interaction with readers. We talked at length about that need we all have sometimes to revisit a favorite movie, like Steel Magnolias, or a favorite sad book, and have a good cry. Why is it, we wondered, are we drawn to do this behavior? And why does it feel so damned satisfying? I don’t know. But it’s one of life’s gems.
I came home with this idea swirling around my head, and three little bags of “driving lollies” (that’s Aussie for candy) swimming around my belly, only to get another email from another reader whose tears Vivian had inspired out of their hiding spots. It’s an epidemic of crying women, and I’ve started it! And I’m not apologizing. In fact, I feel good about it. This was my hope for the book—to encourage readers to go over their own experiences of loss, in the context of how they’ve grown from the grieving process and to indulge in a rich memory romp with those they’ve lost, in the supremely satisfying way I got to as I wrote Vivian Rising. Whether we like it or not change strikes us, and it inevitably brings the gift of growth, still it’s up to us whether we learn from it, and find the strength to move forward. And it is that challenge that this novel dares us to step up to, even if we might feel sad about it—maybe especially if we do.
I certainly get the heart tug to lose myself in that languid melancholy sometimes; I revisit specific novels, like Anywhere But Here and White Oleander and the short story collection, Birds of America to chase this same rich feeling. I emerge puffy, but better for it. I’d love to hear your thoughts, and which books or movies do it for you…
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