All of my life, I have inexplicably loved the date January 17th. For no reasonably apparent reason. I’ve just always liked the color of it, the look of it, the feel of it, the sound of it. Yes, 17 itself has been my most favored and fortunate number since I was a kid — again, for no reason other than when I see it or say it aloud, I feel and hear a very audible click in my brain. And, yes, it is the awesome Miss Betty’s White’s birthday and yes, there are some fascinating, historic, esoteric, skullduggerous activities that went down in a certain small village in the South of France of which I am obsessed and in which the date January 17th plays a significant part — but I didn’t know about all that nonsense until I was in my 20s, long after my love affair with 17 began. So, I guess what I am trying to communicate to you is that my whole preoccupation with January 17th is rooted in nothing tangible. And, yet, it is a calendar date which has always felt somehow solid and silvery and fated to me. Drenched in potential.
Par for the course, this January 17th, was monumental. A day I will never forget. Through the grace and largesse of an old friend who is also a writer, a most amazing thing has happened to me. Nothing short of the realization of a dream — a dream I have had since I was a sensitive, odd, observant little girl growing up in Fresno, California…in a place and in a family where being a sensitive, odd, observant little girl most certainly assured my fate as an infernal, eternal outsider. My doom there in that place was sealed and, even as a little girl, I knew it. So, I set off on a great quest out into the vast, endless world, looking for my place and for my pipples — and I found them…and they found me. AND HOW.
Anyway, my unimaginably good news is that thanks to my old friend and colleague, Maia Rossini, sending a most generous and unexpected email on my behalf, I am now represented by one of the most fancy, passionate, brilliant literary agents on the planet. On Thursday said fancy, passionate, brilliant literary agent read my work and on Friday, January 17th, said fancy, passionate, brilliant literary agent picked up the phone and called my fatass from New York City…and whilst I was standing, incredulous, 3,000 miles away in my kitchen in Altadena, California — sporting an ancient green Target schmata with frolicking pink elephants, white cotton granny panties, and an unwarshed bagina — she offered this infernal, eternal outsider a most welcome and astonishing place at The Table.
Needless to say, I am thrilled beyond belief and grateful beyond measure for the spirit of art, grace, hilarity, sisterhood, and generosity that radiates out from Miss Maia Rossini and infects the world with its awesomosity. Rest assured, I shan’t forget this, Maia. EVER. Thank you.
And to all those who cynically insist, ad nauseum, that women or writers or particularly WOMEN WRITERS never help each other professionally?
I am here to patently tell you that they do. And I am here to tell you that, if and when I am in a position to do the same, just like Maia Rossini, I WILL.
COUNT ON IT.
So, anyway, it took me all that to say simply THIS:
To those of you who have shown me and my work SO much treasured and helpful support by believing in me and ruthlessly emailing and commenting and messaging me, demanding a book from my fatass…
IT’S COMING, MUTHAFUCKAS.
I am aware that this really is just the first step in a long, complicated, arduous process — but, in this moment, I am SO HAPPY and just wanted to share that with my friends. So, thank you all for indulging me and celebrating with me. Truly.
I feel just like a fancy, big-city working girl twirling around in my peacoat and throwing my beret high into the air in joy and jubilation. Not just because all of this bookstuff opportunity is really and truly happening to a scandalous Old Trollop like me — but even more so because I have such loyal, true, and amazingly generous friends who have my back fat NO MATTER WHAT. And that, to me, is THE GREATEST GIFT OF ALL.
I really am the Luckiest Slut.
Now, if you’ll excuse my scandalous fatass…I have to retrieve my beret from the filthy gutter and write a motherloving book.
She’s gonna make it after all.