The Book Tour

Chapter 1

Capable women are both overestimated and underestimated all our lives. A truth perhaps universally unacknowledged, but evident in some form or other at our every turn.

Our competence is either weaponized against us—Why should I cook when your meals are so much better than mine, babe? (Okay, words that have never been said to me since I can’t cook to save my life, but the point stands)—or it’s called into question. Because how competent could we really be without a hero swooping in to mansplain our area of expertise to us?

And if we’re successful? Call in the haters. You haven’t earned it or Yeah, but the thing you’re successful at is worthless or Why are podcasters publishing books? Stay in your lane, boo.

Fine, maybe that last one is specific to me.

I’m buzzing with excitement for my book launch tonight when the push notification drops like a bomb on my phone. Among so many innocent ones—congratulations on my publication day, a request from Mom to call the gardener again because her hedges weren’t cut short enough this morning, and various promos from Grubhub and Postmates—comes the full siren blare of LitCrit magazine’s review of my book.

I shouldn’t click through to read it. I promised Maral I wouldn’t read any reviews she didn’t personally send me after triaging first. My beloved cousin regularly saves me from my own clawing curiosity. Or tries to. (To be fair, it’s a full-time job.)

But Mar’s not here. She’s in my kitchen, making us coffee before we begin recording the podcast, while I’m chewing my cuticles over my phone in the den that doubles as our recording studio. And hey, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

It can hurt me, though.

So Proud of You has become a top-charting podcast in recent years. Host Ana Movilian, who originally gained fame via her viral videos, interviews regular people and celebrity guests alike, a la We Can Do Hard Things, but with a focus on first- and second-generation immigrant experiences: their unique pressures, family expectations vs. their own dreams, and so on. Her sunny disposition is a hit with fans, and her brand of wholesome cheerleading includes spouting encouraging words many people never hear at home, which may explain her rabid online following but fails to shed light on why big publishing continues to favor influencers over real writers.

After skimming the next paragraph, which goes on to talk about how nothing is sacred anymore in the nonfiction space, celebrity books stealing shelf space in shops from more warranted offerings, and unnecessary fluff pieces like mine being less valuable than the paper on which they’re printed, I close out of the tab like it’s about to set fire to my phone.

I take a deep breath, willing away the unease that prickles under the surface of my skin. This is nothing new—I expected this. Fans may be excited about the book’s release today, but since I made the deal two years ago there have been literary snobs who can’t help shouting their abject distaste at “another book by some inane influencer” (that quote courtesy of Talon magazine).

They’re lumping me in with a type: the Midwestern mom who gains a following making videos of countertop Tex-Mex concoctions and lands a six-figure cookbook deal, or the affable frat bro traveloguer whose memoir, bloated with pages and pages of photos off his Instagram grid, is shelved next to Eat Pray Love. Never mind that I worked my ass off—just as I do for everything else— writing a book I could be proud of. Never mind that my editor and publisher and most reviewers and tastemakers have lauded its quality. Never mind that the book is an extension of a brand that touches a deep chord for people, offering a sense of support and community they’ve never felt before (to the tune of four million followers across social channels, ahem, but who’s counting).

Good luck shaking ya girl’s confidence, LitCrit. Bad reviews aren’t exactly hot takes—I’ve read my fair share by now. Hell, I’ve spent a lifetime ignoring haters or using them as motivation. No matter how hard a woman works or how earned her success is, some people—including, sometimes, her loved ones—will inevitably dismiss her wins. It’s par for the course, and my skin’s grown thicker than a reptile’s. I practically have a magic wand when it comes to disappearing unwelcome emotions. Poof, they never even existed.

This is not going to spoil my big day.

As Maral’s footsteps approach, I sit up straight, take a deep breath, and throw my shoulders back. Belatedly I realize I’m still clutching my phone and clatter it face down on the table just as she appears, holding two mugs, in the doorway.

She tilts her head disapprovingly. “You weren’t reading reviews, were you?”

“No,” I say, pasting on my winningest smile.

She takes in my bouncing leg under the table. “Ana,” she admonishes.

“You look really pretty today.” Major-league understatement. Even with a scowl on her face, Maral is a sight to behold, her dark waves cascading over one shoulder of the rose-colored dress she’s already donned for the launch tonight.

She raises a dubious brow. “Uh-huh.” Places a mug before me. “Simu Liu is all cued up. You ready to get started? Or do you need a minute?”

I sip the coffee, its dark-roast deliciosity powering through me. I imagine it washing away the prickliness the review left in its wake and flooding me with good vibes only. Poof.

Chin high, I slip on my headphones and adjust the mic. “I was born ready.”