Birthing Well Dressed Lies, uploading a podcast and then going viral.

Or will they swipe right and like it?

On Sale, September 27

My sophomore effort, Well Dressed Lies will be published in a matter of days! This time, the Claflin sisters are in Britain along with Henry James, and some other Americans abroad. All in all, they’re Victorians behaving badly with forbidden love in the Gilded Age.

With my book’s publication, there’s a torrent of joy and terror. I imagine conversations which are either well intentioned or will never take place. “Yes, it took a ton of work to write,” I imagine myself answering, whippet thin, in a Pringle cashmere, holding a glass of amber colored liquor. What I don’t say in the dream is that it took even more faith.

It’s thousands of words for god’s sake. And think about it. The value of words strung together can be enough to either

a) become so lauded, that it’s considered to be the greatest of its genre, OF ALL TIME EVER (see Airmail’s coverage on Frank Sinatra Has A Cold, wherein my dad, Harold, has an instrumental, albeit peripheral part in that story).

Below is Gay Talese being interviewed by David Brancaccio about that experience. It’s also a primer on prismatic reportage from a master of the form.

or

b) your words generate a few measured and somewhat positive reviews (see my respectable albeit modest Amazon listing for Naked Truth or Equality)

or

c) The reception is nothing at all, really. The reward must be found from having done it. That’s it.

Society mandates we toot our own horns. Because if we don’t do it, who can we expect to do it for us?

No one wants to read about struggling in the underbelly of an effort.

Except perhaps, those who’ve spent countless hours there themselves.

With the publication of Naked Truth, everything was everywhere. Being a maximalist by nature, I heartily subscribe to throwing loads of spaghetti at the wall, as experience has taught me that, eventually, something will stick. When building things in the play room, I like turning the box of Legos upside down. I also like the volume at eleven.

When I have a good cry, I prefer the jagged howling kind, wherein my nose runs and my mouth looks wretched.

If it’s large, larger than life, there can be no confusion: this is a book! This is a drama! or tragedy or what have you….

Something about muted, understated, dare I say it, minimalistic actions, have the elegance of speaking in whispers, murmuring in code. These are attributes of someone I aspire to be, once I’ve come to terms with actually being myself.

To that end, I’m starting a podcast, called Angry Dead Women, where we’ll discuss historical females, navigating all things digital, and writing, as well as the power of reinvention. I’d hoped to start broadcasting in August… Now, I’ll do so next month…. Here’s a clip featuring my co-host, Sam Costanzo.

Finally, I recently had the beguiling, altogether surreal experience of going viral, thanks to a piece I wrote on Medium. It’s called My Fond Farewell to Viagra….

Thomas Rowlandson, Metropolitan Museum of Art

Thanks for reading… and I hope you swipe right!