Page 32 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

Even though it feels like a lifetime away, we click between tabs for my kids’ school calendar, the family calendar, and the camp calendar for next year.

The goal? Find days when the kids are either on break (and can travel with me) or firmly safe somewhere else, like camp, so that I don’t need to rely on childcare from others to make it happen.

Lucia is in her late twenties and doesn’t have kids. Her reaction to the logistical nightmare that is my solo-parenting life makes me feel incredibly validated.

“Gracie, I literally don’t know how you manage to do all of this. And write essays. And write your book. How are you not snorting cocaine at every free moment?” she asks.

“How do you know I’m not?” I respond with a straight face, at least for a few seconds.

We both laugh at this because I am the squarest square that’s ever squared. I smoked pot once in college while in Barcelona, got irrationally paranoid, and decided that drugs were definitely not for me. I told her this story over drinks the one time we’ve met in person, and she couldn’t get enough.

The holds we place on my calendar for tour dates only crowd things up more, and I mentally prepare myself for what a wild year it’s going to be. I need to appreciate the relative quiet time between delivering the manuscript and the book being launched into the world.

“Before we get into discussing your interview bookings for the coming few weeks, I want to run an idea by you. Have you considered starting a newsletter? In addition to generating buzz for the book, you could charge for subscriptions and potentially have a steady income stream,” she says.

“I have considered it,” I answer with a deep sigh. “But right now, I can’t imagine committing to writing even more content. Maybe I’ll feel differently in August when I submit the manuscript.”

“It would go a long way to creating an even stronger bond with your readers, your fans,” she pushes.

“It wouldn’t have to be all about grief, either.

It could be about parenting, dating, friendship, and just life stuff.

I recognize The New York Times wouldn’t like you double-dipping content, so if you stuck to different topics, it could be a way to cross-promote your essays between the two platforms.”

Lucia is sharing these ideas with me because she wants to help build my brand. The bigger my brand, the more the book sells, the more I need a personal publicist. We all make money, and everyone wins.

I like the idea because it would allow me to diversify my income streams. Even with a sizable cushion in the bank thanks to life insurance and my book advance, everything still feels tenuous.

The need to churn out content and keep money coming in matters.

I have two kids to raise and another eight years minimum with at least one of them in the house.

“I’ll strongly consider it,” I finally relent. “It’s a great idea, and I know that I should do it. I just want it to be for the right reasons. I promise to brainstorm the second the manuscript is submitted.”

“Perfect. In the meantime, I’ll dig around to see if there are any consultants we could work with to help you put structure around the newsletter concept when you’re ready.”

I thank her and prepare myself to move on to the list of upcoming interviews. After the Cosmo debacle, I insisted that Lucia give me one or two sentences of context into the angle the journalist is likely to take. We go through the list, and everything in the next ten days feels easy and tame.

“One last opportunity, and it’s a doozy,” Lucia says, grabbing my attention immediately. “There’s a reason I saved this for last.”

“I’m intrigued,” I tell her. “Not sure I’ve seen this look on your face before.”

“It’s with Maisy,” she blurts out, her eyes wide. “She’s launching a podcast and wants you as one of her first guests. It sounds like a cool show, and it’s certainly another great opportunity to expand your reach, but…”

There is never anything good or fun or ego building that comes from someone saying “but” like this, drawing out the word as long as possible while they desperately search their brain to find a kind way to say something difficult.

“Just be honest with me,” I say, giving her permission to be direct.

“Your last visit with Maisy wasn’t great—it wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t great. Something about the two of you just doesn’t seem to click. As your publicist, I never want to put you in a situation again where you can’t be successful, and honestly, I can’t decide how I feel about this.”

“Does she think I’m a glutton for punishment or something?” I ask.

“Who knows what she thinks. But let’s be clear on one thing: Maisy doesn’t care if this goes well or badly for you.

She wants to repeat the ‘magic’ of the last interview—a big social media moment that gets the full attention of a particular corner of the internet.

That’s why she wants you back. If you decide to say yes to this, it needs to be for reasons as superficial as Maisy’s: eyeballs, follows, sales.

Period. She expects you to do that exact math—frankly, I need you to do that math. ”

“I have done a lot of practice this summer,” I muse, uncharacteristically speaking before I think, “and there haven’t been any real fumbles.”

I pause. There was one near fumble late last week that I haven’t told Lucia about.

A parenting magazine was doing a standard “guiding your kids through grief” interview.

This was such a slam-dunk topic that I put my phone on speaker and started styling the kitchen island for fun while I chatted with the journalist. Things were going well.

Then in the final minutes, she shifted to a different line of questioning.

Do you feel guilty for using your loss for financial gain? What do you think your kids will think about the book down the road? Will they get a final say on what makes the book? Just like my last visit to Maisy, I got flustered. And fast.

Josh came in from the dining room when he heard things start to go sideways.

Just as my leg twitch was starting, he held up a hastily written message on the back of an envelope.

You don’t have to answer stupid crazy rude questions .

His scribbles across a couple of words made me smile.

I took a deep breath and started giving answers completely unrelated to her questions.

Eventually, she got annoyed and time ran out.

The article posted online yesterday, and it was completely normal.

Crisis averted, thanks to Josh’s quick thinking.

“Do you think I’m ready for something like this again?” I ask her.

“It’s a little soon,” she says, acknowledging the truth of things. “But it is a podcast and not TV. That would certainly take some of the pressure off.”

“What are the rest of the specifics?” I ask, needing the very precise details.

“One hour, in her Nashville studio. You’d be paired up with someone else, so you wouldn’t be completely on your own.

No studio audience or anything, but she is streaming the first five episodes live before pivoting to a traditional prerecorded format.

You’d be live. No do-overs. No editing out bad moments. Live.”

I can’t tell if Lucia is trying to sell me on it or against it.

She seems genuinely conflicted. The last Maisy interview was tough on so many levels.

If I’m honest, getting the nickname “queen of grief” was the most annoying part of the ordeal.

Now everyone calls me that. Even Felicity and Jeannie have latched onto it.

The appearance on her show also generated an astonishing one hundred thousand visits to my website in the days after it aired.

I had fifty thousand more followers on social media and people telling me very directly, “I’m following you because of Maisy!

” I know this is the right thing for my brand.

Plus, my confidence is bolstered again, thanks to the summer of interview practice with Josh and the professionals.

“There’s more, Gracie,” Lucia says tentatively, looking directly into her computer camera.

“Maisy wants to know that you’re willing to, and I quote, ‘go deep.’ She wants to be able to ask you questions and get answers that you haven’t discussed before.

I told them we wouldn’t say yes unless I could get that commitment from you. ”

“What’s your honest professional advice?”

“If you say yes, it needs to be because the outcome—the exposure—is worth whatever might go down during the interview itself,” she says. “That’s my advice. If you’re willing to ‘go deep’ and the outcome is worth it to you, do it. If you’re not one hundred percent sure, don’t do it.”

“Wow—this is a lot to consider,” I say. “I’ll think about it and talk to some trusted friends to get their opinions. How long do I have to decide?”

“Not very. The interview is in four weeks. You need to let me know within two.”

With that, Lucia and I say our goodbyes until the next meeting. I’ll definitely need an answer about Maisy by then.

—

The grind of today has been truly relentless.

I’ve now been at the coffee shop for three hours, and as expected, the late afternoon of writing has been a slog.

I am not built for creativity at this time of day and probably should’ve saved my book shopping spree for now, but desperate times and manuscript deadlines call for grit and perseverance.

There may only be five hundred new words in the document, but at least I can admit that they are solid.

Now that I’m caught up chronologically, I’m weaving back through every chapter to fill in gaps and add stories that I missed on the first pass.

Today, I revisited an important theme: what it means to take care of people in your life and your community.

More specifically, it dives into the unexpected ways you can support people.

The kindness of strangers and strangers who become friends, like Josh, really matters.

I’ve added a few additional paragraphs to a chapter that covers the lead-up to the one-year anniversary of Ben’s death, when an acquaintance from church reached out to ask me to coffee. Marley is a sweet lady in her seventies who lost her husband of fifty years five years prior.

“Everyone in my life built up the one-year anniversary as this big dramatic day and completely overwhelmed me,” she shared with me, sipping her latte. “Everyone who tried to help actually made it all so much worse. I ended up sneaking out of town and taking myself to the beach.”

“I’m already getting one or two texts a day from people asking what my plans are to ‘honor’ and ‘celebrate’ him,” I responded. “It’s so much pressure.”

“I figured as much. I know we only see each other periodically at church, and generally speaking, it’s not my practice to dole out unsolicited advice, but I wanted to give you permission—if you haven’t already given it to yourself—to do what you need to do on the anniversary.

If it’s having a normal workday, do it! If it’s playing hooky and taking your kids somewhere, do it!

If it’s sobbing into a carton of ice cream, that’s fine, too! ”

Marley and I talked about a great many other things that morning, but we never got coffee again.

She waves at church, but her effort to take care of me was in that single moment when I really needed it.

It made me think about the different ways a village of people can impact your life.

She’s the reason I bought those plane tickets and took the kids to Chicago.

She’s the reason we spent the anniversary in the exact right place for us.

Because the truth is, I did need someone to give me permission to do what I wanted to do.

My hope for this chapter in the memoir is to help people better understand what it means to love and support people in times of great distress and, most importantly, how to not center yourself in those situations.

I’m deep inside my own mind when a woman in a cute white sundress and big sunglasses walks up to my table.

“I don’t mean to interrupt, but are you Gracie?” she asks.

I nod and smile, expecting the usual routine.

“I’m Josh’s friend Lara. He texted the group that he finally invited you to join us tonight. I’m a huge fan of yours and I’ve been trying to get him to invite you for weeks!”

“It’s nice to meet you, Lara. I’m flattered by your sweet comments.” I also feel a twinge of disappointment realizing that Josh invited me on behalf of a friend.

“I’m heading over there now,” she tells me. “I can totally drive you, and I’m certain Josh would bring you home if you want?”

“I have stuff I need to drop at home and wouldn’t want to slow you down,” I say.

“It’s really no problem. Friends’ Night Out is super casual. We all just hang outside when the weather is nice and some people swing by for literally five minutes. The effort is what matters.”

This day has been exhausting, but strangely, I feel more excited by the idea of standing up, stretching my legs, and hanging out with new people than I do by the thought of going home and lying on the sofa binge-watching trash TV.

So unlike me. But I’ve been sitting all day, aside from the book run this morning, and my entire social circle this summer has been composed of Josh, Lenny, Brian, and Sunny.

“Okay, I’m in,” I say. I need a night to let loose. “Do you mind if I change my outfit real fast when we stop at my house?”

“Not at all—well, only if I can come in and see everything that Josh has done to the place,” she says with a big smile, waiting patiently while I pack my belongings. I then swing my bag onto my shoulder and we head out of The Drip.