Chapter 1 #2
“I’m so fucking sure,” I mumble, scoffing at the sheer audacity. All at once, every bad review since the start of the book’s publicity campaign comes rushing back to me in a montage of newsclips, many of them engineered by the man who’s dared to sully my inbox.
Woodsworth Press’s director of publicity, Ryan Grant.
When my agent, Nadia, and I were first meeting with publishers two years ago, many industry professionals were champing at the bit, lauding my as-yet-unwritten book as the next Big Thing. Most members of the team at Woodsworth felt this way. All except one—Ryan Grant.
To say Ryan was markedly disinterested in that first meeting would be an understatement.
Sure, the weight of his unwavering gaze practically thickened the air when we first entered the boardroom, but his imperious posture, his bone structure, and the deep timbre of his voice were giving stern daddy.
Not to mention the man looked like his smiling muscles had never been exercised a day in their lives—despite the rest of his body more than making up for that.
By the time we sat down with the full team to go through my book proposal, I could practically see the skepticism dripping from the man.
“So, it’s not a memoir?” Ryan asked, leafing through the pages my agent had provided.
“No,” Nadia said in her signature cool, husky voice. “It’s more of a how-to.”
“But do you use your own experiences as a framework?” he asked, his attention on me.
“I’ll be using stories from people I’ve interviewed over the years,” I said, “but the overall structure is more of a guide to becoming your own inner champion when you’re not getting encouragement from external inputs like family.”
A single dark brow rose. “But you’re the brand. Readers will be disappointed not to see you in the pages.”
“I’m giving voice to something my community has long been hungry for—validation, encouragement. That’s what people connect to.” For good measure, I added, “I wouldn’t be nearly as interesting subject matter.”
Ryan held my gaze for a long moment, jade-green eyes twinkling in the light from the floor-to-ceiling windows. “That so?” he murmured. Then something shuttered over his expression, a deep frown overtaking it as he closed the booklet. As if to say, I’ve read enough.
It took everything in me not to scoff out loud.
It’s not like I never talk about myself publicly—of course I do.
People know my parents moved here from Armenia when I was a toddler, they know Maral and I grew up together in Boston.
They know I was a top student, class valedictorian, went to Harvard Med School.
And they know I decided to leave in the middle of my residency to pursue So Proud of You full-time.
They’ve never needed to know the why of any of it, and the show’s gone gangbusters.
Focusing on the guests has always been my MO—listeners enjoy seeing themselves reflected in other people’s experiences.
“We love your idea.” This came from Laura, the cheerful blond editor who took control of the ship before it could crash against the cliff face. “We’ve been big fans ever since that first viral video that put you on the map.”
“Your YouTube channel got me through senior year at college,” said Meredith, a publicist with a sweet sprinkling of freckles across her face. “And I actually think the fact that the whole thing started as a humble ode to your cousin means it’s always felt super personal.”
“We think we’d be the perfect partners to help broadcast your message to a wide readership,” Laura said before launching a flashy slide deck full of marketing campaign ideas, cover mock-ups, and publicity plans.
They were pulling out all the stops to try to woo me, but their publicity director’s doubtful reaction still rankled.
When we reached a slide featuring the team’s recent successes, Laura’s and Meredith’s boasting motivational management tomes and celebrity cookbooks, I saw that, by contrast, Ryan’s list featured a veritable who’s who of scholarly superstars.
Historians and political biographers and Pulitzer Prize–winning journalists.
I had to fight not to roll my eyes. No wonder he was trying to poke holes in my idea—clearly it wasn’t highbrow enough for his tastes.
Someone like Ryan, with his career history of promoting Important Works, wouldn’t get the self-help genre.
Because someone who’d probably heard how smart and talented and capable and handsome he is every day of his life would never connect with a book about finding your inner champion when you’ve never had an external one.
Didn’t matter, though. One naysayer doesn’t spoil the bunch, and I loved the rest of the team.
So, after a heated auction among various publishers, in the end I signed with Woodsworth (didn’t hurt that they paid me a mint).
I figured I’d be working primarily with Laura and Meredith anyway, but little did I know that Ryan would still be part of the picture.
“Stop looking at reviews,” Maral says now, emerging from the den.
I startle. “I’m actually not!”
She points at my phone. “Your mom?” she asks, her tone low, knowing.
“No, happily it’s been a whole two hours since her last directive.”
“Did she acknowledge your book release, at least?”
I shake my head, trying to keep my tone even. “I don’t think she knows it’s today.”
“Of course not,” Mar says under her breath. Then, “So who inspired that face?” The look of consternation she mimes is more like constipation.
I clear my expression. “Remember that Woodsworth publicist who set up the interview with Talon magazine?”
Maral gasps. “The Storm Cloud?” she asks, referencing our nickname for Ryan. “He of shitty Kirkus review fame?”
“Among his several other missed swings,” I say. “He just emailed to…congratulate me on my achievement?” My voice is laden with suspicion. I read aloud, “ ‘Your book is going to touch a lot of people.’ ”
Distrust gleams in her eyes. “Huh.”
“Weird, right?”
“Definitely weird. I thought you demanded he be taken off the campaign?”
“I didn’t demand,” I say. “I asked. Politely.”
“Right. Park your steamroller, did you?”
“Anyway.” I wave my phone at her. “You don’t think this is a bad omen, do you?”
“Of course not,” she says.
But I’m not convinced. We call him “the Storm Cloud” for a reason. I love the entire team that helped bring my book to fruition, but Ryan is the exception. Laura insisted he’d be a boon for media outreach, given that his strong connections could get hits that would, in her words, move the needle.
I wanted to trust that she was right—that his deprecation in that first meeting and his aloofness in our every interaction thereafter wouldn’t carry over into his media outreach—but Ryan’s efforts might as well have thrown a lit match on a pile of butane-soaked advance copies.
Almost without fail, the media hits he secured panned my work.
Some in grander fashion than others. (The disdainful Talon feature, a real standout, released on a weekend when I was visiting Mom in Boston—a one-two punch I could have lived without.) Each hit was followed by a dip in preorders and abandoned coverage in other media publications.
In six months, I wore out two pairs of running shoes from twice-daily circuits around Central Park in the effort to distract myself from the sense of doom.
Luckily, Meredith’s outreach balanced out his bungled attempts—the reviews she garnered were raves, and she even landed me a Reese’s Book Club pick for the month, especially remarkable given the narrative angle is a departure from their usual nonfiction choices—and righted the train before it had the chance to derail.
Minus the handful of bad reviews that continue to trickle in, which is normal for any book, buzz has been generally strong in the months since I (politely) insisted Ryan be taken off the campaign so he could stop jinxing its chance at success.
“Maybe the publishing staff are mandated to send congratulatory emails on release day?” Maral offers.
“He’s the only one in my inbox.”
“He’s also the only one not coming to the launch, though.” Maral holds my herringbone blazer aloft, and I slip my arms into it. “At least you won’t have to see him.”
“True. Good vibes only tonight.” The last thing I want is him cursing the event with his presence. The farther away he stays from my book, the better. “Let’s go crush this thing.”
The bookstore is packed. I’m not surprised to find it bustling at five forty-five p.m. on a Tuesday—I’ve stopped in to the Strand at all hours on any given day of the week myself.
There is no peace like browsing books, a strong black coffee in hand.
Except maybe walking through my picturesque Upper West Side neighborhood during a snowfall, coffee in hand.
Or running through Central Park at the crack of dawn, framed by beautiful towering skyscrapers, the promise of coffee close on the horizon.
Maybe coffee is the real key to peace.
The Rare Book Room, where events are hosted, is a reprieve compared to the commotion of the store, the scent of aged paper and bindings rich in the air.
We’re about an hour out from the official start of the event, but I had to arrive early to sign some stock for the store and for Woodsworth’s marketing team, who are hosting giveaways on their socials.
The room is a flurry of bookstore staff facing out copies on the shelves flanking the podium, caterers setting up the makeshift bar on a table by the windows, and a handful of junior Woodsworth employees laying out swag.
Near the podium I spot Shanthi typing furiously on her phone while her face remains the picture of placidity—aka her default mode.
“Ana!” squeals Meredith as she wraps me in a hug, her red hair tickling my nose. “Happy pub day!”
Trailing behind her is Alison, the publicity assistant, who holds a phone up to capture my arrival.
“The place looks so glam—nice job, team,” I say, taking in the high-top tables laden with tea lights and tasteful floral centerpieces.
String lights hang from bookshelf after bookshelf of leather-bound books in burgundies and browns and golds.
A dozen rows of chairs stretch out before the podium, and beyond them is a wide standing-room space for overflow.
“A lot of this was the bookstore, but the rest was all Alison,” Meredith says, giving credit where credit is due. One of the many things I love about her.
“Alison, I’ll be adding this to the chart I keep to track the number of ways in which I am forever indebted to you,” I say.
Red spreads across the PA’s face and down her neck.
“Oh my gosh, it’s honestly an honor.” There’s a small tremor in her voice that belies her capability.
She’s done so much for my book over the past year—getting copies out to influencers, arranging blog posts and online media tours, creating shareable advertising content, and so much more—that its sales will be owed in large part to her efforts.
Meredith ushers me to the podium, where Shanthi is tapping the microphone.
She’s arranged a light diffuser a few feet away, which will cast a glow that’s flattering for the camera, if a bit glaring for the in-person audience.
But while the room has space for up to a couple hundred people, the Instagram Live she’ll be hosting of the event could be attended by thousands, if our broadcast of my keynote address at the Multicultural Women’s International Conference last month was any indication.
I do some sound tests, whispering sibilants into the mic as a bookstore employee named Greg fiddles with the volume on the speakers, and Shanthi adjusts the light until she’s satisfied with a shot she gets on her phone.
Her expression doesn’t change as she gives me a thumbs-up, which, for Shanthi, is about as emotive as it gets.
She brings an unmatched level of cool to our team that balances out my inner (and outer) Tasmanian devil.
Alison is handing me books to sign when Nadia arrives in a flurry of color, her bright yellow blouse tucked into fitted emerald-green pants, red lips a bright pop against her fair skin and short black bob. She enters in medias res, as if she started her sentence on the way up the stairs.
“—been such a day, but you are the highlight!” She kisses me on each cheek, Armenian-style, like Maral and I taught her. “I’m so excited to celebrate your shining star.”
My editor, Laura—a queen among women—comes over as well, and we all squee together as her bespectacled wife stands nobly at her side.
The room starts to swell with attendees and media. Alison fetches me a glass of water while Meredith walks me through the run of show, as if I haven’t had it memorized since she emailed it to me last week.
It’s showtime.
Greg from the Strand introduces the event: “We’re honored to present Ana Movilian as she launches her debut book. So Proud of You is based on her wildly popular podcast, which in turn is based on her wildly popular viral videos.”
Then Meredith introduces me: “It has been such a joy to help spread the word about this fabulous book—Ana is not only an immensely talented writer and content creator, but she’s also an absolute gem of a human being whose mere presence lights up a room.
Her confidence is inspiring—there is nothing in this world she can’t do, and she believes the same is true for everyone.
That’s what her message is all about—celebrating others’ amazing capabilities.
This is the messaging we all need right now, and always. ”
My skin warms at her kind words. The room erupts in cheers, sending energy coursing through my veins and a broad smile spreading across my face as I step up to take the podium.
“Thank you, Greg and Meredith, for that generous introduction,” I say.
“And thank you to everyone for coming tonight. My journey to this moment is pretty well known. What started as an innocent pep talk recorded for my beloved cousin, Maral”—I gesture to Mar, who stands with Laura and Meredith near the bar—“as she struggled with educational expectations became my life’s work.
Too many of us face the challenges of our lives without the kind of encouragement we deserve.
And many of us who are first- and second-generation Americans never hear the words that have become my motto, the title of my podcast, and now my book—”
Just then, I see a hint of movement at the back of the still room as someone enters quietly.
For a moment I think I must be seeing things, because he wouldn’t possibly show up to my launch, would he?
After throwing wrenches in the publicity wheel and my (oh, who are we kidding) demanding he be taken off the campaign—right?
But there he stands, stern daddy in full effect.
Ryan Grant.