Chapter 1 Podcast Episode #1 Define Success on Your Own Terms
Success isn’t just shiny titles and braggy bios. If your soul’s doing the Macarena in a cubicle, it might be time for a rethink.
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Craft a life that feels like a smoothie on the beach, not just a LinkedIn flex. Because let’s be real—a corner office ain’t it if your heart’s dreaming
of sandy toes, coconut drinks, and exactly zero Zoom links. ????????
Forget society’s scorecard—build a life that gives your insides a standing ovation. ???
Molly Sanpolo stood waiting on the crowded corner of Bleecker and Mercer, near New York University, watching her cousin, who
was also her closest friend, read a summary of the first episode of the podcast she planned to start. “So? What do you think?”
she asked.
Guinevere—whom she’d called Gwin since they were two because Guinevere was such a mouthful and at that point she couldn’t pronounce it—looked up from her phone, a baffled expression on her face. “‘If your soul’s doing the Macarena . . . ’? This doesn’t sound like you.”
Molly pushed her sunglasses higher on her nose. “What do you mean?”
They started walking north toward Houston Street, as they’d done on many other occasions since Gwin started working at the
university. “I mean . . . did you write this? Because it doesn’t sound like you,” she repeated more emphatically.
Students wearing earbuds and toting backpacks jostled around them. So did people walking a dog or pushing a stroller toward
Washington Square. “Why does that matter?” Molly asked. “I’m an Instagrammer and self-help guru who writes books that guide
people toward living a more fulfilled life. That’s what needs to be authentic. This is just . . . marketing material.”
“One book,” Gwin clarified.
Molly glanced over at her. “What’d you say?”
“You’ve got one book out.”
Gwin had been nagging her to write another. Publishing again was her stated goal. Problem was she’d been struggling to get
started. “True, but Hashtag Happy: How to Live Your Best Life in a Filtered World has sold over a million copies. An encore after that kind of success isn’t easy.”
“Quit overthinking it. You can do it.”
“I know. And I will,” she said, but she wasn’t nearly as confident as she sounded. She was afraid she had nothing new to say—had
been completely blocked. “I’ve just . . . been busy.”
Again, Gwin gave her the side-eye. “With . . . ?”
“Posting content. Instagram’s a lot of work!”
“Then slow down a little, let some of that go, if you have to.”
“I can’t! I have to keep my followers happy, or they’ll scroll past me. And I’m going to need plenty of support when I finally
do get my new book out.”
Gwin’s glossy black hair fell in waves, framing her smooth olive complexion. She anchored several locks behind one ear. “Everything’s about social media these days.”
“Younger generations prefer bite-size content.” Molly was starting to think she might be better at delivering it, too. Her
following was getting large enough to monetize without ever writing another book. So there was that.
Although . . . who knew how long it would last in a world with bright, shiny objects (i.e. the newest thing) and fleeting
interest?
Besides, social media content felt trivial. And the comment section could be brutal. She could get a hundred kind, encouraging
messages, but it was the single mean one that lodged in her chest, triggering her imposter syndrome, which was probably the
cause of her professional paralysis. No matter what she put up, someone would criticize it—pointing out that she didn’t have
a psych degree, questioning her right to give advice or trying to poach her followers.
All of which, she supposed, was to be expected. This was social media, after all. You didn’t step into the ring and then complain
about getting punched. But expected didn’t make it any easier.
“I’m well aware,” Gwin groused. “Thanks to the endless scroll, people are training themselves to have the attention span of
gnats.”
“At least I can reach readers directly. But I have to be clever, or they’ll drift away.”
“So that’s why you went with the Macarena thing?”
Molly dodged a dog walker untangling leashes. “Oscar suggested I use humor, and I think it’s a good approach.”
“Oscar isn’t the one who got you where you are today.”
Although Molly knew Gwin would deny it, she suspected her cousin didn’t like the man she was dating, and her slightly disparaging
tone confirmed it. But what was there not to like? Oscar was everything a woman could want—he was handsome, charming, wealthy,
witty and fun loving.
Maybe he could be slightly materialistic, and he had crazy expensive taste, but he’d been orphaned as a toddler and grown up in a children’s home.
Molly believed he was trying to compensate for those difficult years now that he was an adult and finally had control over his life.
“That’s true, but I trust his opinion,” she said. “He’s incredibly successful.”
“So he’s told us,” she muttered, her words barely audible.
Catching her arm, Molly pulled her to a stop. “What was that?”
“If he’s so successful, why haven’t we seen his big Fifth Avenue penthouse, Mol?”
Molly blinked. “I’ve seen it.” The art alone in his place was worth millions—not to mention the view. “You know we’re only
living in my loft while he renovates. Then we’ll get married, sell my place and move uptown.”
“It’s already been . . . a year?”
It’d been longer than that, but Molly didn’t clarify. “That kind of project takes time. He’s run into one hassle after another.
Delayed shipments from overseas, botched work that had to be ripped out. It hasn’t gone smoothly. And we don’t mind staying
right where we are. We love my loft.”
“You should. It’s not like you’re living in a hovel. That place cost two and a half million dollars!”
“NoHo’s expensive.”
“Ain’t that the truth. Why do you think I’m still living in a third-story walk-up with my stepbrother? There’s no way I could
afford a mortgage the size of yours, not on a starting professor’s salary.”
“I like the apartment. It has character. Sometimes, I sort of miss it.”
“Want to trade places?” Gwin asked wryly.
“I’ll trade my mortgage for your rent!” Molly offered.
Gwin gripped her wrist. “Please tell me Oscar’s still paying his half.”
“Of course! If he wasn’t, I couldn’t afford to live there, either.
I’ve spent a fortune on promotion the past couple of years.
What with the ads, and the down payment on the loft, I have very little savings left.
That’s why I have to write another book—and soon.
Although, the podcast should help, if I can get the right sponsors. ”
Gwin started walking again, silent.
“Look, I know you’ve had a bad day.” Molly fell in step beside her. “But Oscar’s the man of my dreams. Can’t you be happy
for me? He treats me like a queen.”
Gwin opened her mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it.
“What?” Molly prompted.
“Nothing. Back to the podcast . . . I don’t think you should veer away from what is distinctly you.”
The walk sign turned green as soon as they reached it, so they started across the street along with the traffic flowing toward
NoHo. “But I’m not funny!”
“I think you’re funny.”
“We’re related. You’re contractually obligated to think I’m funny.” She yanked Gwin out of the path of a delivery cyclist
who cut in front of them, trailing the scent of yeast and pepperoni. “Anyway, all the content will be mine. As for the other
stuff, I’m a busy person—AI saves time.”
Gwin shot her a disgruntled look. “As an English professor who sees her students abuse such tools all the time, I hate to
hear that.”
“You’re acting like it’s cheating!”
“It is cheating!”
“I’m not turning it in for a grade! I’m using it to make me more productive. AI is going to advance with or without me. I
intend to get what value out of it I can.”
“And I intend to remain deeply rooted in what’s real,” she said. “I’m afraid it won’t be long before the whole human race won’t be able to tell the difference.”
Molly hitched her computer bag higher on her shoulder as they passed a busker playing saxophone. “That should be the least
of your worries. Computers will kill us all before that. Haven’t you seen Terminator?”
Gwin frowned at her sarcasm and spoke louder, to be heard over the music. “Could happen.”
They passed beneath one of many trees lining the street, into the relief of shade, only to come almost immediately back into
bright sun. It was the second of August. Summer was in full swing, and they were experiencing some of the hottest temperatures
on record. “Just tell me what you think of the content of the summary. Does it do its job?”
Pausing under the next tree, Gwin took out her phone and reread what Molly had sent. “Depends on what you’re going for.”
“You know what I’m going for. I want to entice people to tune in.”
“It’s catchy,” Gwin admitted, pocketing her phone. “But except for the ‘Macarena’ part, which is sort of dated, it sounds
young for someone who just turned forty.”
Molly paused to retie the bow over one shoulder that helped hold up her cotton sundress. “My followers are young. I don’t
have to reveal my age.”
“It’s not just that. It’s . . . trying too hard,” she finally decided.
“Ouch!” Molly couldn’t help feeling wounded. While sitting at her favorite coffee shop on campus today, working while waiting
for Gwin to finish teaching Freshman English so they could walk home together, she’d spent hours going through her past Instagram
posts, deciding which subjects to tackle, coming up with bullet points and appropriate headings, editing and reworking what
ChatGPT spit back at her for the summaries.