I was at a bridal shower this past weekend when somehow it leaked, odds are via my mom, that I write books. And then all eyes at the table were suddenly on me and the questions started coming and I wanted to pick up the grayish pate patties that no one had touched, probably because they looked like strung-out turkey burgers after a choppy ride to Catalina, and duck behind them. "What do you write?" and "What are you working on?" which maybe sound like simple questions. But when you spend day after day with yourself thinking about your projects from the second the anxiety (it's either the anxiety, or the mutually emotionally abusive family downstairs) wakes you up at sunrise until you finally try to fool yourself by turning off the light at 3 a.m., as if you could turn off your head too, then these questions become considerably more exhausting. For those who aren't in creative professions, it's kind of the equivalent of being asked, "What do you feel are your worst qualities?" and "Choose the best three words to describe yourself" when you're in a job interview.
So I started mumbling something like, "I'm boring; it's all boring," not because I feel that my work is actually boring, but talking about it definitely is. And the women started chiding me, "You don't sell yourself very well!" Considering that I was sitting next to a star pharmaceutical rep, I couldn't help but come up short; picture sitting next to Lance Armstrong and trying to discuss your mad biking skillz. But the women continued to scold me for not trying to send them straight home to improve my Amazon ranking, so I started to consider that while I have no innate sense for how I should promote myself, perhaps I should look to someone in the business who has been doing this much longer and much more successfully than I have.
And lo! That very same evening I was reading the People my mom passed off to me after the shower (we share a subscription despite being many zip codes apart), the issue with a young, fresh-faced Lohan on the cover and a philosophical quest into where it all went wrong on the inside, and amidst a bold pink header there was Danielle Steel. "Now this is a woman who knows how to sell herself," I nodded. I ripped out the ad for her new paperback and sat quietly with it, trying to decode the secrets to her promotional savvy.
First I perceive that I have been dressing all wrong because when I buy outerwear, my main condition is that the jacket has to only just barely be able to secure over my breasts. Otherwise, I feel New Hampshire frumpy. But maybe a lean silhouette is at cross purposes with a large persona because Danielle has fashioned herself a dress coat out of a Fatboy, giving herself the proportions of the gayest Teletubby yet. Angela from Project Runway certainly loved her flourishons, but Danielle one-ups her with a fabric flower sitting on her left shoulder that is, without exaggeration, as big as her head. At the shower I was wearing an unassuming white minidress. Judging from Danielle’s wardrobe-- a misstep. It sinks in that if I let my clothes speak for my work, I might not have to.
And from this photograph I also learn that you should always be pushing your product, even through signs as subtle as body language. See how the title of the book is Coming Out and Danielle is in a doorway with one foot over the threshold, literally coming out of the house? This is the kind of synergy I lack. (What's more, I lack this degree of outfit/shoe synergy.)
In another magazine, and I get a lot of them, I come across Danielle
again, this time selling her perfume. At first I’m thrown by the discrepancy between the two approaches, as it seems everything I’ve learned about pitching myself from the book ad is counteracted by what's being communicated in the fragrance one. Now I should show my shoulders? Wear a fitted bodice? Bring the color not to my wardrobe and shoes, but to auburn Ken Paves extensions I have yet to procure? After some time with the image, though, I begin to see it's not as much of a stylistic departure as it first seemed; the shapes and ideas are just manifested in different proportions. The Jessica McClintock ball gown gives Steel the same triangular form, just on a smaller scale. The billowing drama of the puffer (understatement) coat has been transferred to Steel's "wind"-tussled locks, volume shifted upward. And Danielle still remains on topic with her background, this time featuring pages of her manuscript blowing around her like super-sized confetti. Personally, as a writer, I'd be ultra pissed if my perfume, which is clearly failing as a paperweight, sent my novel-in-progress whirlwinding around my space-- how frustrating to gather and re-paginate!-- but this is why Steel sells millions of copies and I don't. She understands how to push the glamour of the profession, when all I can do is sit at the brunch table, pick at the flower arrangement, rock in my chair uncomfortably, and blink at the people squinting at me, wanting more razzle dazzle flimflam. (On a side note, I turn out my manuscripts in 12 point Courier New, double-spaced with standard margins, and it looks like Danielle's working in a much more ornate format. Even at the production stage, I don't know how to put on a show.)
But, of course, you want to know what "Danielle" smells like. Luckily, there's a sample flap on the back on the ad. And the weirdest thing is, Steel's perfume smells exactly like...
Antonio Banderas.
