Meet Your Heroes

A lot of the time, it actually turns out just fine.

Hey friends, it’s been a long while since I’ve slid into your inbox. I just got home from Vroman’s Bookstore where I had the genuine pleasure of meeting Leigh Bardugo at the signing for the book she collaborated on with John Picacio, The Invisible Parade.

I don’t spend a whole lot of time fan-girling on this Substack, but you should know that Leigh Bardugo is my favorite author. Favorite enough that I don’t even bother reading the synopsis of books she writes anymore. I just buy. I love her worlds, I love her characters, I love her prose. I aspire to be as good as she is.

I also decided to bring her a copy of my book, a hand written letter, and some little stickers and bookmarks and stuff. I was inspired to do this after a friend of mine met Rick Riordan and did the same thing. The conversation about that essentially went like this (not direct quotes, but vibes):

Me: Please tell me how you gained the power of balls of steel to give your book to one of your literary heroes.

Them: I simply reminded myself that a mediocre white man named Chad would do it no problem and decided that I could, too.

Color me convinced.

Problem is, I am not a mediocre white man named Chad. And I’m very much aware of the fact that it might be unseemly or tacky to give a beloved author a copy of your own book. Chat, when I tell you that my heart was racing for about four hours straight while I drove to Pasadena, listened and chuckled with the Q+A and then waited for my overflow letter to be called to wait for my books to be signed by Leigh FRIGGEN Bardugo, I promise you I am not lying.

My poor husband, who attended with me as moral support, had to deal with me meandering aimlessly around the store because I had so much adrenaline pumping through my veins while I waited that I had to move. Then I got dizzy from walking in circles.

I had visions of hesitancy and disgusted side long glances, terror-inducing intrusive thoughts of her saying “Mm—I’m sorry, I don’t accept gifts from readers,” and tele-novella-level chisme with John Picacio after I left the table of her snickering and rolling her eyes at yet ANOTHER unsolicited book being left with her.

My rejection sensitivity could never.

What happened instead was a brief and generous exchange.

I almost forgot to speak. Almost forgot I wasn’t listening to her Not a Podcast series or staring at her author photo. But then I did remember. I told her what I practiced about eighty-seven times: That she was my favorite author. That I brought her a small gift. That I was an author too, and that my debut novel came out with a small press in January.

And she was so, so kind.

She thanked me, told me I didn’t have to bring her a gift (Leigh, stawpit.) And then asked me how I felt about my debut.

I explained that it sold about 300 some-odd copies and that I was hoping for better but felt pretty okay about it. She encouraged me that it was a great number for a small press and told me to keep. On. Writing. To keep showing up and to make sure people know I exist.

The whole thing was over in about three minutes. I think I blacked out for at least half of that time. Bad enough that my husband had to help me remember what we actually talked about. And to be entirely fair, I didn’t just hand her my book. I did put it in a cute gift bag. She may not even know that my book is in that bag, even now. And she might still be mildly annoyed or disgusted by my presumption.

But as I explained in the letter, I don’t have any expectations that she will read it. I have hope that she will, but to me, it was an opportunity to tell someone I greatly admire that they had a direct impact on my journey as an author. Because at the end of the day, our heroes are just people. People who are further along on their journey than we are but may still go home and stare at the ceiling wondering if they made a fool of themselves during the Q+A, or worry that their readers didn’t have a good time, or think sometimes that their work doesn’t matter.

I don’t know if I’ll ever get a chance to see Leigh again. I genuinely hope that I do, potentially as a colleague one day.

For now, I’m just grateful that an author I treasure so much is just as kind as I hoped she would be. Meet your Heroes, you guys. A lot of the time it works out just fine.