The Goddess Effect Act III, part two

On validation

Happy Friday. This week, Publisher’s Marketplace announced that I’m writing another book, which served as the kick in the rear I needed to get going.

Slow going, so far. We’ve got 500 words and a wall of notes that looks something like this:

It’s like if Claire Danes in Homeland was obsessed with the L.V.M.H. portfolio instead of national security.

I’ve got about three months to get a first draft done which should be doable given that what I turn in need not — indeed, shan’t not — be perfect. I’ve come up with characters. I’ve got a rough idea of what happens. Most importantly, I’m excited to write again, and I hope that enthusiasm translates to the page.

Are you writing a book, or hoping to? Would you like my unlicensed advice? I’d be happy to offer it. Post a question in the comments (or DM/email me) and I’ll respond in a future newsletter.

Onto what we promised up the top: the next installment of

The Goddess Effect, Act III

Reading the below chapter now, taking in how much Anita craves a stamp of approval from Emilia and Gonzo, I’m reminded of how much I craved validation when I wrote it. I had just turned 35. The women in my world — those that I knew off screen and those I did not — were getting pregnant, getting television deals, getting second and third book contracts, and I felt like I was lagging behind, pitching story after story, with little to show for my worth besides my latest byline.

Certainly, I was worth more than that, but I didn’t feel that way then. Like the click-bait at the bottom of a Daily Mail article, I was convinced that This One Thing — the “thing” was selling a novel — would change my life. Suddenly, I would garner Sally Rooney levels of respect. Like Lena Dunham in Girls, or really, Lena Dunham in real life, I would be hailed as A Voice of A Generation.

Fixating on a “thing” that’s slightly out of my reach has been a lifelong habit. First it was a college, then it was an internship (or several internships), then it was a job, then another job … you get the picture. Only after publishing The Goddess Effect did I realize that there is no one “thing” that changes your world. There are myriad little things, and you often don’t even realize what’s happening as the needle moves. At least, that’s been my experience.

In the chapter below, Anita makes reference to a wrong inflicted upon her by Max, which is pretty much the exchange that takes place on page 182 of The Goddess Effect. Max tells Anita that she’d be stupid not to take a meeting with Gonzo given that it’s the reason she moved to L.A. and as a woman of color, she’d be going in with an advantage. Anita storms off, loathe to be categorized and mansplained. One day, I’ll tell you about the real life exchange that inspired the fictional one. Talk about a doozy.

If you’re catching up, click here to read Act III, part one.

19

The gray Prius that rolled into Gonzo’s parking lot was blasting M.I.A.’s “Paper Planes” at a volume so high, an elderly woman hunched over a crate of grapefruits outside the grocery store next door looked up to scowl, intent on seeing the derelict disturbing an otherwise pleasant morning in Venice. “Of course,” she muttered to herself, as a lithe brown woman slammed the car door. Anita clocked her glare and sneered.

This time, she had swapped her blazer for a gleaming black leather jacket with zippers at the cuffs, a gift to herself from Maxfield’s in Malibu, acknowledgement of a job well done even though it cost more than the job might pay. Her jeans were torn at the knees (by design), her white t-shirt was wrinkled (out of a general unwillingness to iron). In a grand reversal of roles that had taken place in Anita’s mind, Emilia now had to impress her, because since blowing up the sham that was Venus Von Turnen and the Goddess Effect, recruiters from the New York Times, CNN, and Buzzfeed had called, asking if she’d like to meet with their L.A. bureaus. Gonzo remained her outlet of choice, but Emilia didn’t need to know that. 

It was dizzying, how fast the mighty could fall. The clip of Venus throwing her mug of tea to the ground, screaming, viciously, “You don’t get it, you don’t get how hard it is to be me,” had gone viral, made its way to the late night shows, was already a meme that people in the know copied and pasted into text messages. Anita’s interview, which lasted eight minutes before Venus attempted to swat her phone into the fire and was dragged away by Annabelle [Ed. note: another Goddess Effect lackey]  — where were her aphorisms when she needed them? — had been dissected by all the blogs that mattered, and Anita was almost universally praised for her calm, even tone. She would never admit it, but it had been one of the easiest interviews of her career. All it took was the most basic of questions to elicit a break down: “Why did you do it, Venus?” 

The D.E.A. had seized all the Super Sand on the market (at least, whatever wasn’t already stockpiled in spacious pantries, cavernous S.U.V. trunks, and chic gym bags) and taken Venus in for questioning. All Goddess Effect locations had the same sign, a white piece of paper printed with pale gray script, taped up to their locked doors: “Please excuse our leave of absence as we stand by our founding Goddess in her time of need.” For Anita, there were only two casualties: Stacy hadn’t contacted her since the confrontation, had gotten up and walked away from the fire pit after Anita finished playing the recording, tears welling in her eyes. She hadn’t known Stacy long, but they had bonded in Ojai. She liked that they could listen to pop songs and workout and watch reality TV and not spend hours talking about intersectionality and the role of women of color in fourth wave feminism, which was the route conversations with Constance, Riley, and Christina generally took. She also kind of missed Venus’s plank series. 

But there were so many positives to focus on, and besides, now that she was on the path to becoming a marquee television personality, she wouldn’t have time for girlfriends, would probably be on a plane half the year. Maybe a magazine would interview her about what she kept in her carry on, or how she stayed fit on the road. She longed to be portrayed that way, as a busy woman of intelligence, means, and endearing quirks, like packing homemade granola bars even though she’d never made granola, let alone packed it into anything. 

She was coming up with answers to fictitious interview questions (“How do you ground yourself when you’re traveling for work?”) as she cleared Gonzo’s first level of security. She looked up from signing her name in a log book to see Karen, the human resources assistant, beaming at her. “There’s our star!” Karen reached through the metal detector to hug Anita. “Guys, she’s fine,” Karen said pointedly to the security guards, who shrugged, just doing their jobs. She whisked Anita through the door and walked briskly down the hall. “You are literally all anyone is talking about around here.”

“I’m flattered,” said Anita, and really, she was. It was one thing to play a star in your head, another to be treated like one, and despite the internal amp up session that followed her from the parking lot into the building, she blushed and moved to deflect. “How are you? How’s your day?” 

“Fuck my day,” said Karen, “I want to know more about Venus. Did she really try to cut you with a shard of her mug? That’s what the Daily Mail is saying.” 

“You know you can’t believe a thing you read in the Daily Mail.”

“I don’t know,” Karen said in a sing song way, “they get all the best post-baby bikini body pics … anyway, there are some people here who’d like to see you.” They’d reached the pit, and Karen threw her arm back grandly, like a girl in a car commercial.