Famous and Alone at the Same Time

People don't know what you need unless you tell them

I showed up alone, lugging my books and struggling to figure out the parking meter, nervous about the sketchy characters walking around downtown Eugene. I had driven over a hundred miles, listening to NPR on the radio, scaring myself about bird flu and the general state of the world.

I walked in, identified myself and was led to a huge room full of empty seats and a few strangers setting out snacks. They told me where to set up my book display.

I thought: What if nobody comes?

In the restroom, I ran a brush through my incorrigible hair and told myself to breathe.

The seats filled. A few poets I knew came to listen, bless their hearts. I was introduced and read my poems. The people laughed, dab at tears, and listened to every syllable. The microphone took my small voice and made it big. I felt powerful.

Afterward, I bathed in applause and accolades as people gathered to buy books and share their personal reactions. The snacks were gone, and I missed dinner, but I didn't care. I fed on success. I would not soon forget the woman who clutched my shoulder and told me how much my poems touched her heart.

But then it was over. People were leaving. I asked directions to the freeway, but no one seemed to know. It couldn’t be that difficult. Just reverse how I got there, right?

Twenty minutes later, thrown off by one-way streets, I was lost in the dark among truck yards and RV factories with a dead phone and an empty stomach.

Sunk? Not my first rodeo. I pulled into a parking lot, plugged in my phone and eked out enough power to get directions. I was only about ten miles off, and my record of getting lost every time I came to this city was unbroken.

At the hotel, which cost more than I earned, I planned to grab something to read and walk to Denny’s, but they had ice cream bars in the gift shop. What the heck. I had earned something special, and I didn’t really want to go out.

The ice cream was stale. The chocolate coating fell off. Nuts littered the desk and the floor. In my mind, I apologized to the housekeeper who would clean this room.

I was not feeling famous anymore.

But I did love having a hotel room to myself. Nobody knew where I was. I could watch TV or not, go to bed when I felt like it, and spread my stuff all over. On this night, I watched Netflex while soaking in a hot bath, put on my pajamas, then settled into the easy chair and opened my journal.

Once I stopped feeling sorry for myself, realizations popped into my head like texts on my phone:

* I could have extended the famous feeling and made it easier on myself if I had opened my mouth and communicated my needs.

* When I booked the gig, I could have made it known that I needed a place to stay overnight. Someone in that crowd must have a guest room. As a bonus, they might have driven me into town, helped me carry my books, and maybe even made me dinner or taken me out to eat. We might have curled up in our pajamas talking about the reading and how great it was.

* I could have simply said at the end, is anyone going out to eat? May I join you?

But as I sank into the super soft bed, it was pretty good. The ice cream bar was enough. The books weren’t that heavy. And the quiet was delicious.

Three days later, I did it again, another long drive, even more boxes to haul, giving a talk instead of a reading, sitting alone at a table for hours selling books, and driving home so tired I wanted to climb into bed and stay there forever. I don’t want to do this anymore, I thought.

But I realized a few more things.

* I could have asked someone to come with me and help, maybe taking them to dinner or buying them some books as payment.

* I could have shared a table with a friend who wouldn’t come by herself.

* I did not HAVE to do it alone.

I’m jealous of writers who have spouses to help them. I’m jealous of famous writers who never go anywhere without an entourage. But maybe that’s just fiction. I have seen very famous writers come and go by themselves. By choice?

This morning, as I unloaded my car, I thought about a friend my age who recently broke her leg and will not be able to walk for months. Another friend can no longer go anywhere alone because she’s losing her sight. A Facebook friend was just diagnosed with ALS. I am grateful that I can do it alone.

There is a lesson in this story: If you're going to need help or if you just don’t want to do it by yourself–whatever IT is–you need to ask. Most people are kind and will be happy to help, but they can’t if they don’t know you need help.

Sometimes you will end up doing things alone. That’s the way it is sometimes when you live alone. But you won’t know if you don’t ask. It’s a hard thing for me to do, harder than driving four hundred miles with only NPR for company, but I’m learning.

It doesn’t hurt to ask.

Photo by Judy Fleagle

---

My thanks to the organizers of the Windfall Reading Series and the Oregon Author Fair for their hard work and for making me feel like a VIP.

---

Welcome to the many new subscribers who have signed up this month. I am so glad you are here. I know you get a lot of emails. Expect to receive new post from me about twice a week. With your help, I will try to make this space worthy of your time.

---

How did I end up alone? My first marriage ended in divorce. My second husband died of Alzheimer’s after we had moved to the Oregon coast, far from family. I never had any kids, only dogs. Now I live by myself in a big house in the woods. You can read our story in my new memoir, No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s, available now at your favorite bookseller. Visit https://www.suelick.com for information on all of my books.