My writing friend is a good influence. Somehow she encourages philosophical prattle and slight irreverence in me whenever we get together. The other day we met to discuss petty, yet important, dramas and strains in our lives.
“I just realized that no matter how bad, sad, or frustrated I feel, I’m not the only one feeling this way. That’s sort of a bummer,” I whispered as we sat at the end of the mystery section in the library. “Why can’t it just be about me? Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen, not even Jesus,” I half sang.
I believe Jesus is quite aware of my woes. Just as I am aware of the woes of others. This is what I mean about her influence. She made selfish, whining words roll off my tongue. It was liberating. Maybe that was her intention.
”Write that down” she exclaimed excitedly. And of course I did because that’s what we do.
The day’s discussion got pretty deep as we discussed writing goals. She intimated she was aiming towards a large manuscript. “My point is I want to have a point,” I confessed.
“Write that down” she directed.
I don’t know if I made up that sentiment about making a point, or read it on a poster in the early 80s.
That happens. Phrases that resonate are like discovering buried treasure when all you’re doing is lazily digging your fingers in the sand. “Enjoy your next trip around the sun” popped up on social media one year. That’s brilliant. Who came up with it? Euclid?
”I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired” my buddy Mike said after we taught skiing all day in a blizzard. I had never heard anything so original, so grumpy, so perfect. It was like he channelled the old grousing crabs who sit in the box seat at the theater on the Muppet Show.
It became my go to response when I knew my crankiness and frustration was out of proportion to the situation at hand. It would be great printed on a rubber bracelet as a reminder to snap out of it.
Research shows that activist Fannie Lou Hamer originally used the phrase in a more serious way. Bromley ski school had nothing on the Jim Crow South.
Later on the drive back to town I said, with a bit of alarm, ”Wow it’s hard to see. These snowflakes are huge”. The blizzard hadn’t let up. “Well, don’t try to hit them” Mike said calmly.
With that advice, my grip on the steering wheel softened and my body began to relax.
Just because you’re driving in a blizzard doesn’t mean you need to hit the flakes. Wait. Did we just make up a slogan for an inspirational accent pillow?
As a wedding gift, a childhood friend gave me a glittery blue bumper sticker that had bold white letters saying “One day at a time”.
What an incredible bit of advice. It could be an inspirational cross stitch done by Mrs. Walton or Ma on the Little House on the Prairie. The message was clear, life is filled with challenges, keep calm.
I was only 30 so the AA connection didn’t register.
I proudly stuck it on to our tractor but now wonder how many people driving by over the years wondered which one of us was in recovery.
That marriage didn’t last, but the sentiment did.
That’s the wonderful thing about seemingly trite phrases. Pretty much everyone gets them; however, our interpretations may be different. When we make fun of them, we are actually doing ourselves a favor. It transmits a message from the brain to the nervous system that says “Chill out man, you aren’t alone, there’s a special place in heaven for you.”
It’s official. I got scammed. “How?” You might ask. “Aren’t you the one always warning others and believing yourself to be so tech savvy?”
I fell for the oldest trick in the book, flattery.
Hi Alexandra, Virtuous Sinner Made in Vermont is an irresistibly honest and wonderfully human memoir. Your voice wry, grounded, and full of grace makes the messiest parts of life feel like shared wisdom. From dairy farms to ski slopes, concussions to enlightenment, you’ve managed to turn experience into something both meaningful and delightfully entertaining.
The words were an aphrodisiac. Fortunately, my feet were still on the ground, despite my swelling head, so I prudently checked the few references.
Being as smart as I am, I didn’t click the links but did do some internet research. One of the more prolific authors has been writing crime novels for over 30 years with Harper Collins. Her picture shows a pleasant looking woman holding an adorable yorkie. Both have lived in the UK all their lives. The chance that she used a marketing firm in St. Petersburg, FL with no website is highly unlikely.
I had vague feelings of discomfort, but that didn’t stop the feelings of euphoria.
I can say without hesitation: Virtuous Sinner Made in Vermont is the kind of memoir people don’t just read, they carry with them. Its blend of unvarnished honesty, Vermont charm, and dry wit is rare and it deserves to be discovered…to design a campaign that reflects your tone and truth, I like to start by reading the manuscript. This gives me the foundation to build a strategy that feels as authentic and layered as your story itself.
The lure of the New York Times Best Seller List was intoxicating. Despite EJ’s lack of an online presence (with the exception of some stylish jeans of the same name) and the fact that she intimated that she had already read the book, I wanted to believe in her/it/myself.
This really was a dream come true. It never entered my mind that it was too good to be true. Someone saw the value of my words and would do all the stuff that I had no desire to do, to get the word out. That’s what people do.
If you’re hoping to connect Virtuous Sinner with more readers who will laugh, nod, and maybe even heal a little through your story, I’d love to help you build a campaign that reflects your one-of-a-kind voice.
I was becoming addicted to the praise and recognition. So, later that day I sent in a PDF.
Thank you so much for sending over your book and for the trust that comes with sharing such a personal and beautifully written piece. I’ve started reading Virtuous Sinner, and your voice immediately struck me: warm, candid, and effortlessly wry. It’s the kind of memoir that doesn’t just tell a story it invites readers in to recognize their own.
What’s the worst that can happen? It’s like giving away a free book right? I actually made things pretty easy for a theft of intellectual property. A friend said this happens in the cookbook world all the time. A book written here can get hijacked (or get giddily handed over). After a few cosmetic changes and a new author, someone in Croatia or Australia has a best seller on their hands.
In a way, I’m honored that a well versed person or AI thingy took the time to contact me directly. How cool is that? Unfortunately it means the stats for book sales for Alexandra Langstaff will remain static but the ones for Langdexter Scammith will fly through the roof. That author will end up with a big chunk of change and probably land a movie deal.
There’s a lesson here. I know it and you know it. There’s no need to rub it in.
The night before flying out to an 8 day writer’s retreat in California, I fell and hurt my arm. I knew it wasn’t your normal get-run-into-by-the-dog fall, nor was it like fighting with weeds and falling over backward. This really fucking hurt.
It hurt so much that I didn’t think about any kind of pain killer, not even the 5 year old, travel size container of Advil in my beauty bag.
(I did look up whether or not one should fly with a hematoma. However, I don’t recommend doing that until you are about to board.)
Because of my arm, I had no choice but to pull out clothes, to lighten my carry on, in the airport parking garage before flying out. Not only was I unable to lift the bag into an overhead bin, I could barely wheel it with my good arm that was already saddled by my 20 pound personal item.
That really stung because I spent 3 weeks trying on outfits. I’m a master packer. Fortunately, to tie all my outfits together, I had a stretchy scarf in different shades of blue. I fashioned it into a sling and it blended well with the lengthening bruise on my arm.
I was physically uncomfortable most of the time away, but mentally, I loved every second.
I don’t think I’ve ever spent so much time using my right hand and pretty much nothing else. It just wrote and wrote and wrote.
The rest of my body was in a conundrum, “Shouldn’t we be hiking, breathing in that red wood air, practicing yoga, helping to stack chairs, or drinking box wine? What’s going on?”
“Take this opportunity to take a break” my heart and mind said, as they flexed and posed for each other.
And it did.
Back home, after losing my luggage due to a tight red eye connection and seeing mom, I went to the Urgent Care Center in town. X rays showed a fracture on the humeral tuberosity.
They set me up with an orthopedist appointment and gave me a shot in my good arm.
That shot was the mother of all injections. It took two hours before it stopped throbbing. But man did it work. My hurt arm was so painless that I wondered if I had been faking all along.
The next day, the orthopedist concurred with the reading.
“Considering it’s had almost 2 weeks healing time, we will x ray again in 2 more weeks and then start rehab. I can’t believe all you had was 10 advil, the first weeks can be really painful.”
“Are you saying I’m really tough because I didn’t have much pain medication? I want to tell my mom.”
“Yes, you are really tough.” She flashed me a no-nonsense grin.
I knew it.
Banana Slug-slowest animal on the planet next to me.
I have a tendency to believe that if I’m intrigued, interested, or inspired by a person, and want them to be my friend, s/he will feel the same. I can count on one hand the number of times that has worked out.
I can count on two hands the times it hasn’t.
Those instances have been massively embarrassing and emotionally discouraging, however, as with most situations in my life, the worst stories end up being ones that make my friends double over in laughter. Then again, most of my friends are kind and prefer to learn from my mistakes.
This past September, Peter and I heard David Sedaris,the prolific American humorist, speak at the Paramount in Rutland, Vt.
I wrote him a fan letter in March of 2020, one of the 1500 or so he gets a month. I was inspired to write because I felt he wrote like me, and I told him so. I was intrigued that he never had to establish a social platform in order to get published and interested to know if he thought that was still possible in this day and age.
It’s not too difficult to read between the lines. Dear David, I know everyone wants to be your friend, but we have so much in common as you will see in my blog.You may even wish to save me from jumping through hoops and find me a publisher.
Six months later I received a postcard from him. He had read one of my blogs and wrote, “I think a beginner chainsaw class for women is a great idea. After 15 years someone just asked me to write a book so I don’t have much advice.”
To be clear, that blog entry wasn’t one of my best. In fact, there wasn’t much funny about it except for a photo with me in my PJ’s making a smoothie wearing a hard hat and ear protection. That’s only funny if you know it was the only time I donned any of the safety equipment, much less looked at my chainsaw, since the class ended a year ago.
The evening in September was going to be my chance to show him, or remind him, who I really was, a smart, talented, pleasant, witty, and likeable person. Someone he would be honored to call his friend and protege.
I’d been carrying his postcard with me for almost a year, but due to my constant switching of pocketbooks, I couldn’t find it that night. I pretended not to be distraught as I planned my outfit.
What was I going to do anyway? Wave it in front of his face as he signed a copy of his book screaming ‘YOU WROTE ME!’”
Really.
I’m much too cool for that.
Because I couldn’t find the postcard, and I couldn’t bring him my book, Virtuous Sinner (of course I sent him a copy a few months back) I needed something to make an impression.
So I penned a list of “Five Interesting Coincidental Similarities Between David Sedaris and Alexandra Langstaff” and put it on a piece of matting board suitable for framing.
There were about 20 people in line ahead of me after the show waiting for David to leave the stage and get set up at a table, with a protective plastic barrier with his pens and markers.
The oversized card was a good idea because I used it as a fan. (Note to self, scarves should only be worn outdoors in blizzards, not as the perfect accessory to tie an outfit together in a crowded theater lobby.)
The people in front were all couples. I was alone because Peter was leaning against a wall pretending to be part of security in his black fedora and tweed jacket.
That was just as well because I had no ability to speak. My legs had gone to jelly and my heart was beating so that I could not only feel it, but I could hear it, sending the blood coursing through my carotid artery. I was slightly worried that I would explode.
As the line shortened, one of the real security guards brought David two plates. Obviously the man needs to have choices of what to eat.
How humiliating for the people in front of me, I thought, I’m so glad I’m back here. Is he going to talk with his mouth full or focus on his food rather than his fans? I hope he’s a fast eater.
As I grew closer and Peter continued to act like the Secret Service, my brain, obviously unappreciated, left the building and went back to the car in the Walmart parking lot, where we had sushi before the show. It was evident that my wits had left me as my turn came. Up to the table I walked with a slight limp, my legs had gone numb, and the first thing I did was to point to one of his plates and say, “That looks horrible.”
Needless to say, he was slightly taken aback as was Peter, who had left his post to accompany me, unaware that I was about to implode.
“We’re so sorry to interrupt your meal” Peter apologized.
Wait, this is a book signing, we aren’t asking for a selfie at a diner for god’s sake, I thought wildly.
“Uh, do you accept gifts?” I whispered.
“Sure, what is it?” he asked while taking a small forkful of something that looked delicious. Some jokes fall flat.
“It’s a list of five interesting coincidental similarities between David Sedaris and Alexandra Langstaff.”
Notice I didn’t say between “you and me” but used our full names as if being formal was a sign of reverence and respect.
“Uh, it’s sterilized”, I added as I passed it under the barrier.
“What do you mean?” he questioned.
“Uh…I mean it’s sanitary, no cooties or anything.” I mumbled.
What if he asked me to prove it?
“Read me some of it”, he asked while drawing falling leaves next to his signature.
“Uh, David Sedaris once saw a dead wallaby on the side of the road. Alexandra Langstaff once saw a dead kangaroo on the side of the road, holding a can of Foster’s.”
How to ruin someone’s appetite and put a damper on the conversation.
It was clear that I was untethered, so Peter said, “You sent her a postcard!”
Rather than be grateful for his interjection, I wanted to elbow him in the ribs. This was like going up to a famous author in a grocery store and gushing, “We’ve read all your books”. How crass, how gauche, how… helpful.
Peter broke the ice. We had a conversation starter.
“If I wrote to you, you must have written to me. What did your letter say?” David asked beaming.
Because my brain, in defeat, had gone back to the car earlier, I drew a blank.
Think! Think! Say something original and clever.
“Uh, I asked you about the publishing business.”
NOOOOOOOO!
Time is running out. Why is my head so empty?
“Uh, the picture on the postcard you sent me was of Mr. Smith’s runaway horse and my maiden name is Smith!”, I jabbered.
I felt a wave of relief. Maybe my mind was returning. Maybe I just needed to warm up.
“Well thank you for coming, I love meeting people I’ve written back to,” David said as he slid my book towards me.
“And thank you so much for your words”, I blurted rapidly as the Secret Service agent, Peter, escorted me away from the table. “You read my blog and agreed that a chainsaw class for beginners was a good idea” I announced over my shoulder.
I know the 30 people still in line were glad to see me go.
On the 45 minute drive home, I replayed the embarrassing and discouraging experience over and over. So much for being at home in the world. What happened to the confident, sparkling, easy to speak with, refreshing burst of energy person that anyone in their right mind would want to exchange phone numbers with?
I was pretty sure that Peter was to blame for me making a fool out of myself in front of an author I was interested in, intrigued and inspired by.
Poor guy, it’s taken me weeks to get over it.
Namaste: want to read the 3 other similarities ? Send a message my way.
I thought I had a book in me ready to print until this past week at the Institute for a Whole Bunch of Cool Things in Rhinebeck, NY. About 35 of us sat with the book we were born to write on our laptops, in spiral notebooks and binders.
There are educators, entrepreneurs, parents, preachers, therapists, teachers, life coaches, life savers, strivers, survivors, even a couple of lawyers.
People from every walk of life, with all kinds of stories, baggage, dreams, and hopes gathered together in an attempt to help transform lives.
How often does this happen?
Wait, what am I saying? This happens in the yoga studio all the time. Classes are filled with individuals on journeys hoping to change themselves and ideally the world at large.
Maybe change isn’t the right word. Understand? Expose? Enjoy? Accept?
How hard could it be to write a book to assist in this transformation?
Sure is a lot harder than I thought.
I found out I don’t know much about putting a book together. Don’t get me wrong, I understand basic rules of grammar and sentence structure but; developing a hook, crafting a book proposal, establishing a platform, these are all things that are so jumbled together now that I can barely remember my middle name.
It gets worse with this simple question:
“What is your book about in three sentences?” Now I’m f*cked.
It turns out I don’t know much about anything these days, much less what I’m writing about. I’m not sure I can explain the difference between yoga and yodeling.
The only way I can describe my new vegetative state is by the phrase “Word Salad”, a somewhat disorganized string ofincoherent ideas.
I pride myself on tossing together some pretty good salads but there is little chance Panera will put them on the menu.
Before anyone thinks I’m upset, in a funk, depressed or miserable, fear not.
Three years ago, I’d have been so discouraged I’d have skipped the tenth vegetarian buffet at the workshop and gone out for a burger and a Bud.
This time I stayed put.
This is where I am in my writing career, right here, right now.
Breath in. Breath out.
People spend years putting together recipes for restaurants and cook books. They know kitchen tricks that a lot of us don’t. It’s their profession, bailiwick, forté.
Just because I want to join in their professional circles doesn’t necessarily mean it will happen when I want it to happen.
We have to know what we don’t know first. Then we get back to work, measuring, mixing, adding, whisking, beating and learning.
Acceptance of where we are right now, is the bowl holding all of the ingredients. Let the feelings of inadequacy or disappointment hang around until the meal is over and then toss what’s left into the compost.
Learn from the aromas and flavors around us. Good or bad, they don’t linger long.
Namaste- it’s okay, time to play, it’s not a bad day, thoughts ricochet, come what may, just might end up with a book someday!
Alexandra Langstaff 